No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1)

by Layne Harper

  Doctor Jared looks confused, and Tripp’s raised shoulders and small eyes tell me no one understands our sense of humor.

  “It’s okay,” I reply. “I used that line on him the night we met.” I don’t further elaborate that it was Jared who knocked me down. That would be tacky.

  The doctor turns toward Aaron. “She must be monitored closely. If she gets nauseous, confused, passes out, she must be brought back here immediately.”

  He then spends the next ten minutes telling everyone what I can’t do until the headache goes away. After that, Aaron gets a lesson in wound care.

  “I have to use the restroom,” I declare.

  “Good,” Doctor Jared replies. He produces a cup from his coat pocket and sits it down on the rolling table. “Get a sample. Do you need a nurse?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “No,” Aaron says with tight lips. “I’ll help her.”

  “Assuming the sample is clean, it will probably take an hour for discharge papers, and that’s with me pushing them through. Just hang tight.” He smiles and gives Aaron and Tripp curious glances before he leaves.

  Aaron doesn’t wait for the door to shut. He glares at Tripp, across from the hospital bed. “See? She’s fine. Going home. Thanks for everything. She’ll text when she’s up to it.” He turns to me, and in a much kinder voice, he says, “Ready for me to help you, sweetheart?”

  Tripp ignores him and takes my hand. I look into his concerned dark eyes. “You know you’re welcome at my house. I’m so worried, MK. Please come to my place or your mom’s instead.”

  What I want is just to pee and go home. I want my bed, my shower, my clean pajamas, and my privacy. My skin feels sticky, and I need a bath. I listened to my lecture and know I can’t get my stitches wet for a while, but I can sit in a bathtub.

  “Tripp, you have to go to work tomorrow. My mom has tennis and all her other social commitments. Aaron works from home. It’s really the best choice for me.” I glance at Aaron; his jaw tics. I’m guessing he doesn’t care for my justification as to why his place is the best.

  Fortunately, he doesn’t argue. “You heard her.”

  Aaron scoops me out of bed, and I wrap my arm around his neck. He carries me inside the large bathroom, shutting the door behind us. Pulling the hospital gown to my breast, I realize for the first time I’m not wearing underwear. “Where are my panties?”

  “No idea.” He sits me on the toilet and hands me the cup he stuffed in his jeans pocket. “Pee in this.”

  “Leave,” I command.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ve licked your pussy. Pee in the damn cup so we can blow this pop stand.”

  I should probably fight him. I should demand he gives me privacy, but I don’t. I reach between my spread legs and pee in the cup in front of my rock star. Who says romance is dead?

  He helps me off the toilet and back to the bed. Then he carries my sample to the nurse’s station. I’ll give a damn about this maybe tomorrow or the next day.

  Moments later, my room is filled with the arrival of my mom and dad. I don’t ask if Tripp called them or if Aaron sent Seamus, because I really don’t care. I want my mommy. Being my mother, she pushes Aaron out of the way and crawls in bed next to me. She tells me how concerned she is, and how when Bethany called she had Dad dial the best plastic surgeon in New Orleans to sew up my cut, and how he promises there will not be an ugly scar. Then she shares how Grandmother contacted the nuns at church and that they’ve been saying novenas on my behalf.

  After that she moves on to telling us about the party she and Dad attended last night—the shrimp were awful, way too mealy, but they served crab cakes, which were almost as good as mine.

  Silently, I beg for the hospital to hurry up and discharge me. I love my mom, but right now she’s just a bit too much for me to take.

  When the nurse comes with the wheelchair, Mom kisses me goodbye, and tells Aaron to call if I need anything and thanks Tripp for being such a good friend. I’m not sure my dad said a single word the entire time he was here.

  Everyone but the nurse and Aaron vacate the room.

  She asks, “Do you need help getting dressed?”

  I look at Aaron. He replies, “I’ll take care of it.”

  She shuts the door behind her.

  Aaron walks around the bed and picks up my flowery bag, placing it next to me. “Bella went back to your place and packed this.”

  I unzip it and see my best friend grabbed me my favorite things—yoga pants, sports bra, thick, long-sleeved cotton T-shirt from an LSU bowl game, pretty thong panties, and my fleece-lined boots, one of which probably still has coke remnants in it.

  Swinging my legs to the side of the bed, I feel dizzy for a moment and wonder if I can stand. Thoughts of spending more time here enter my brain, and I will myself to put weight on my feet. Aaron grabs my arm and helps steady me. The longer I’m vertical, the better I feel.

  He reaches around and unties the strings of the hideous gown. Instead of letting it fall to the floor, he pulls it off and places it on the bed. Then he goes about dressing me as he quips, “I’m so much more proficient at taking things off.”

  It makes me smile. I sit back down so he can put my underwear and pants on. Then he shoves my feet into my boots.

  “So, MK, there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” he begins.

  My eyes examine him and determine he looks funny. His face reminds me of my nieces when they have to admit they did something they shouldn’t but they really hope the world ends before they have to spit it out.

  “You see,” he starts again with wide eyes, “some dumb shit leaked to the press I was hospitalized for an overdose.”

  He taps his foot nervously as I just sit there waiting for him to finish. “So my publicist, without checking with me, released a statement I was fine and was here with my girlfriend.”

  “So . . .?" I reply waiting for the bad part.

  “So that’s it,” he says, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I didn’t think you were ready to put labels on us, since you came up with the person bullshit. And since I’ve never been linked to a female there’s about to be a good deal of interest pointed in your direction.”

  I can’t reason through this just yet. I don’t know what it means to be publicly called the girlfriend of someone who has such a spotlight always focused on them. All I know is I just want a bath. “I want to go home.”

  Before I can blink, Aaron has me in the wheelchair, and Zed is carrying my flowery print bag while a nurse pushes me to an elevator.

  As if it’s no big deal, Aaron says, “There’s a wee bit of press out front, so we’re leaving through the laundry elevator.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rock Magazine @RockMagazine

  Rumor that RealJohnnyKnite has been hospitalized in NOLA for a drug overdose. #StoryDeveloping

  Rock Magazine @RockMagazine

  Now reporting that RealJohnnyKnite is at the bedside of NoPinkCaddy. In ICU with severe injury. #StoryDeveloping

  Rock Magazine @RockMagazine

  RealJohnnyKnite rumored to have hit NoPinkCaddy while in a drunken rage severely injuring her. #StoryDeveloping

  “Are you comfortable?” he asks for the hundredth time. When I agreed to accept his hospitality, I forgot Grace was still at his house. Not only do I feel slimy, but I have dried blood in my hair, haven’t brushed my teeth, have a throbbing headache, and have a slicing pain in my face. I also have his sister, who clearly appears to have no idea what to do with me. When we arrived at his house, she had a strained smile on her face, told me she was glad I was okay, and focused again on some papers in front of her.

  “Comfortable?” he asks again.

  “I’m fine,” I reassure him. “I’ll just sleep for a bit. You go work.”

  His bed feels like a cloud. Aaron has some sort of crazy tint on the bedroom windows. He pushes a button, and the room becomes dark. There’s no clock or TV. I can’t read or listen to music—doctor’s ord
ers. My brain has to rest. That also means no NoPinkCaddy. If I think about the missed financial opportunities while I lie here in darkness for too long, I might lose my mind.

  Aaron leans down to kiss me but pauses about two inches before my lips. “You have blood in your hair.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We have to do something about that.” He stands up and walks out of the room. I hear him talking to Grace, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. He walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of something. “This is the shampoo that Grace and Jude use. Hope it’s okay.”

  He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the water running in his soaker tub. I’m going to get clean. I would happily cheer if it wouldn’t make my head throb.

  Aaron emerges from the bathroom and walks to where I’m lying. The ever present V between his eyes tell me he’s worried. “Why didn’t you ask me to clean you?”

  “You’re busy.” I swallow. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  His fists clench, and his shoulders tense. “Goddammit, MK. You’re never a burden. Don’t you understand what I went through? Don’t you know what you mean to me? Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”

  I attempt to smile, but I probably look more like a paralyzed stroke victim. “Would you bathe your sticky, bloody girlfriend?”

  “Of course.” He’s so serious I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

  I try to stand, but he picks me up and carries me as if I’m incapable of walking. I don’t protest and snuggle into his chest. In the bathroom, he places me on the seat of the toilet. “Do you need to go?”

  “As if.” I start. “I may be a filthy mess, but I still have dignity. The hospital was a one-time shot. You can leave the room . . .”

  His exaggerated eye roll looks like an imitation of something his teenage daughter might do. He turns his back as I stand and pull down my yoga pants. Strangely enough, I’m not embarrassed. It feels—normal.

  Aaron shuts the water off as I flush. He removes the rest of my clothing and quickly deposits his next to mine.

  “Can I look in the mirror?” I ask, walking towards the sink.

  He stops me by gently wrapping an arm around my waist. Whispering in my ear, “Don’t look yet, sweetheart. Let me clean you up first.” His words are compassionate and kind, his touch, soft.

  Sliding into the bath before me, he offers his hand. I step over the lip of the tub and carefully slip into the warm liquid, resting against his chest. I’m in between his legs, which are bent. My head is positioned against his pecs, and the water barely covers my nipples.

  He cups his hands, pouring water on my chest. I’m so comfortable I could fall asleep right here.

  “I thought you were dead,” he says in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I took a break from recording and came to find you. You weren’t here, so I used Find My Friends to see where you were. It listed your location as the hospital.” He pauses for a moment. “I fucking freaked, MK. I lost my mind.”

  We lie in silence while he pours more water over me.

  “I didn’t have Bella’s number. I didn’t know why you were at the hospital, and the motherfuckers wouldn’t give me any information. I almost burned the fucking place down.” He pauses again and swallows hard. “Then, finally, Nyall answered your phone. He told me what happened and where you were.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad someone told you I was okay.” The stress in his voice and taut muscles indicate just how frightened he was.

  “Then I fucking walk into your room and see you bandaged, lifeless, and surrounded by Doctor Jared and him. And they wouldn’t leave. They hovered around you. Doctor Jared opened your gown and checked your heart. He could’ve done it through your gown. Tripp kept holding your hand. My fucking hand. He held the hand that should only be held by me.”

  I caress his leg. “I’m here, and I’m fine. Just need a few days to recover. Right?”

  He’s not listening. “They all stood over you. None of them thought I should be there. I could tell by their body language. None of them cared enough to let me know you were hurt. They all thought they knew what’s best for you, but I’m the only one who does.”

  I pause the hand that pours water on me and bring his fingers to my lips. I kiss his palm and nip the pad of his callused thumb. “Yesterday was just a really great day that turned bad. But, it’s an anomaly, right? Like that terrible of a day will probably not happen again—maybe ever.”

  “But other bad things will,” he says solemnly. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. I feel the tension in his stiff joints.

  “Life,” I say. We’re both quiet for a bit. He adds warm water to the tub by hitting the knob with his toes, and I wish for bubbles, but I wouldn’t dare say it out loud. He’d probably beat himself up for not thinking of them.

  “Let’s get you washed,” he says. Shutting off the water, he grabs a sponge and pours lavender body soap on it. My back is scrubbed first and then my arms. He moves to my breasts and manages to clean them without groping. “I think I need to get out of the tub to bathe the rest of you.”

  “Then let’s just stay here a few more minutes.” I turn a bit so I’m better positioned on his chest. I finally vocalize what I’ve been thinking. “Are you worried what my face will look like?”

  “No. Why?” he says, as if I’m crazy. Once again, I can picture Jude with the same indignation in her voice.

  “I haven’t looked in the mirror, but from what I can feel I think the cut’s pretty long.” Underlining meaning: Will you still want me if I have a large red scar on my face?

  “Are you worried about it?” he counters.

  Am I worried about it? Sure. I’m a girl. I want to be pretty. Who doesn’t?

  But I also know my looks don’t define me. I think about Bella. If this had happened to me before my best friend was branded, I probably would’ve been a lot more upset. Now, I understand scars just enhance character.

  “I’m concerned in that I’d prefer not to have a red mark on my face.”

  “But that’s not what you asked. You asked me if I was worried about your appearance. And my question is back to you. Do you think I care?” He shifts behind me so I’m just a tad bit more nestled against him.

  “No,” I reply. “I think my looks are a bonus for you, but they’re not why you’re crazy about me.”

  “That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my bandage. “Now scoot so I can get out.”

  I slide forward as the water sloshes around me. When he stands up and steps over the edge, the water level goes down by inches. Without me asking, he turns the knob, adding more hot.

  Watching him towel off could be classified as poetry in motion. He doesn’t just rest his foot on the edge of the tub and drag a fluffy white towel over it. No. His movements are graceful, almost as if he’s performing a contemporary dance to the sound of running water. It’s like he can hear music in ordinary sounds which the rest of the mortal world is deaf to.

  When he’s finished, he hangs the towel on a hook and kneels on the white bath mat. Shutting off the water, I lean back, putty in his hands as he takes each leg, carefully washing it.

  When he’s finished, he asks, “You want to get your, uh . . .”

  With an attempted smile, I finish for him, “Pussy?”

  “Oh God,” he groans. “Stop it. You know I can’t handle you saying dirty words.”

  “Pussy . . . dick . . .”

  “Got it, MK.” He smirks. “You’re trying to tempt me, and I’m not falling for it. You can call me Doctor Johnny.”

  He helps me stand, and I let him try his hardest to be a gentleman as he washes my girly bits. It’s really quite funny. Glancing at his penis, I watch for any signs he’s turned on. Apparently, he really is in nurse mode because there isn’t even a twitch.

  As he drains the water and begins toweling me off, he gives me the plan for washing my hair. “Okay. I talked to Grace. She sai
d we should bring a chair in here. You should lean back over the tub and I should use cups of water to rinse your hair. What do you think?”

  I shiver. “I’m cold. Can I have your robe?”

  He looks so helpless as he races to grab it off the door. “Sorry,” he apologizes, as if he’s mad at himself for not thinking of everything. He holds the robe open as if it’s a jacket, and I slip into it as he ties the belt securely around my waist.

  “Grace’s plan is a good one. I don’t think I need a chair. I bet I can just sit on the bathmat and lean my head back over the edge.”

  We try this. He helps lower me to the floor and places a rolled towel under my neck. Leaning back is pretty miserable, but once he slides a couple more towels under my head, I think I’ll make it.

  From somewhere, he produces a giant daiquiri cup shaped like a bone, similar to the ones they sell on Bourbon Street. The water starts running.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Born ready,” I quip, using his line, and he smiles.

  He begins the slow, tedious task of washing my hair. Aaron is so gentle that I can imagine him giving Jude the same care. He works the shampoo close to my forehead without getting any near my wound. Then, with the same amount of precision, he rinses the shampoo and gunk out.

  “There.” He smiles, obviously pleased with himself. “Good as new.”

  After drying my hair, he helps me stand. He doesn’t offer conditioner and I don’t dare ask. When I’m better, I’ll apologize to my locks by treating them to a coconut oil mask.

  “Now can I look in the mirror?” I ask.

  We walk together to the dual vanity sinks. “The bruises will fade,” he reminds me. “And the doctor said you may need another surgery to fix the cut.” He grabs my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  My first glance at my appearance is shocking. Ugly purple and blue bruises shade the left side of my face. My cheek is swollen, my eye is black, and even my lips look puffy. I keep calm. My reaction will dictate how he treats me. I want to appear poised and collected. This is temporary. The bruises will fade and hopefully the cut can be hidden with makeup. “Can I remove the bandage?”