Burnt Sugar (ACE Series Book 2)

by Layne Harper

  When he exits the bathroom, I look up to see him standing over me. “How much do we have left?”

  Surveying the store, I reply, “We can split this up over two days as long as we work on it in the morning. Maybe spend another hour and see how much we can get done?”

  His smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “Okay.”

  I don’t have time to analyze what could be wrong with him and go back to making my paisleys beautiful. And I must say that Aaron’s doing a fine job even if he’s not enjoying it. His designs are masculine. I love that in one of the blobs he drew music notes in a great pattern. I might not have gotten my jazz mural I dreamed of, but my music man added something important to him to my space. That’s the kind of things that will make No Pink Caddy different from all the other stores that line this street.

  As I’m sketching interconnected daisy flowers, a terrible sound exits Aaron’s mouth. My head snaps in his direction, and I see him doubled over lying on the floor.

  “Are you okay?” I yell as I place my paint brush back in the tray and race to his side.

  He’s curled up in a tight ball and loud moans echo off the store walls.

  My hand grips his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  He’s shaking, and my heart is beating double time.

  He sits back on his heels. “Take the brush from my hand.” There’s black paint smears all over his white shirt. It looks like a child finger-painted it.

  Grasping the handle, I give it a tug. “Aaron, you’ve got to loosen your grip.”

  Through clinched teeth, he grinds, “I fucking can’t.”

  I spread my legs, leaning over at the waist. I take hold of the stained bristles and give them another pull. It slips from his hand as I tumble backwards, falling on my behind.

  “You okay,” he yells with his strained voice.

  “Fine.” I scamper to my feet and rush back to his side as I pick up a paper napkin to get the paint from my palm. “What do we need to do? Hospital? Ambulance?”

  “Get my phone. Call Doctor Hebert.” His words are slurred as he’s talking through a tightly clenched jaw.

  I reach into his pocket and take out his phone. “Code?”

  “Spell Pink.”

  I type in the number seven, four, six, five and scroll through his contacts until I find Doctor Hebert. Hitting the call button, I wait for the doctor to answer.

  “What’d you do this time?” A jovial male voice answers.

  “Hi. This is Mary Kay Landry. I’m with Aaron Emerson. Umm . . . Johnny Knite. He’s in a lot of pain.” As if on cue, Aaron moans so loud that I’m sure the doctor hears him. “He asked me to call you.”

  “Put me on speaker.” This time his voice sounds controlled and professional.

  I do what he asks.

  Aaron groans, “In New Orleans. Can’t open my hand. It hurts like a motherfucker.”

  “You need to get to an emergency room. I can’t help you.” The doctor tells him. Then he adds, “But I’ll meet you there as a friend.”

  “Thanks,” he gasps as he uses his left hand to end the call. Next, he hits the icon next to Seamus’s name.

  When the man answers, Aaron says, “Car to MK’s shop ASAP. It’s an emergency.”

  I hang up on Seamus and put Aaron’s phone in my bag. Rubbing his back, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  “Been having problems with my hand. It’ll be fine.” The skin around his eyes is pulled so tight that wrinkles spider web from the corners. The deep V on his forehead makes him look ten years older. His complexion is ash grey, and he swallows hard as if he’s trying to keep from being ill.

  Feeling completely helpless, I kiss his shoulder as I pray to God. Please let Aaron be okay. Please take away his pain and help me to deal with whatever this is. Help me find the strength to be an advocate for him. Help me comfort him and help us both be strong. In Jesus’s name, Amen.

  When I spot the black SUV arrive out front, I help Aaron to his feet. He doesn’t walk to the car, it’s more of a hunched-over stagger. I follow behind him locking the front door to the store and crawl into the backseat with my guy.

  On the way to the emergency room, he leans over in the backseat of the SUV holding his right hand and moaning over the sound of the road noise. I scoot next to him and do what I can to comfort him. I tell him that we’re almost at our destination and that everything will be okay.

  I text Bethany to tell her that we’re on our way to the emergency room. God bless my sister. She doesn’t ask why I’m with Aaron or have I lost my mind. She replies that she’s on her way and will meet us there.

  Next, I text Bella. I hate calling in favors, but my floors must be finished by Monday morning.

  Me: Long story . . . On the way to the hospital with Aaron. He hurt his hand. Anyway, can you round up some of the gang and get them to finish the paisleys? I understand if you can’t. I’m asking a lot.

  Two minutes later, she replies . . .

  Bella: Of course. Take care of Aaron. We’re headed up there now. Tripp and Roseanna will be there after they finish dinner. We’ve got this.

  Me: Thank you. I love you more than I can fit in this text.

  I don’t ask him all the questions that are swimming in my head like how long have you been in this kind of pain? Why in God’s name did you paint for hours if you’re having hand trouble? Are you a complete moron? It also crosses my mind that we should let Grace know that her brother is on the way to the hospital. I keep that thought to myself, and determine that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  Seamus pulls into the patient drop-off, and I help Aaron out of the car. Fortunately, we both spy Doctor Hebert about the same time. He rushes to Aaron’s side and helps us into a room. Apparently, it pays to be a celebrity because we completely skip the waiting room, and there just happens to be an open, private room in an ER in New Orleans on a Saturday night.

  A nurse greets us, immediately starting an IV in Aaron’s left arm.

  Doctor Hebert instructs Aaron to show him his hand. He has kept his right fist dug into his belly this whole time so I haven’t seen it either. With much effort, Aaron moves his arm to rest on his thigh. I know that it’s been, at the most, thirty minutes since he collapsed in pain, but his hand looks atrophied as if he lost the use of it long ago. It’s curled to the point that his pointer finger touches the skin just below the palm and the angle of his wrist looks as if he broke it.

  Gasping, I kiss his shoulder blade, as I continue to rub his back.

  “She’s giving you something for the pain and a muscle relaxer. It’s going to take a minute to work though.” Doctor Hebert walks closer and examines Aaron’s hand without touching it. “What were the results of the x-rays and blood work?”

  “Normal,” Aaron replies without removing his gaze from his lap. “Need more testing.”

  “I made a call to a neurologist.”

  At that news, Aaron looks up and states, “This is bad.”

  The doctor nods and turns towards me. “Have you called Grace?”

  Shaking my head, I stroke Aaron’s cheek. “Do you want me to let your sister know what’s going on?”

  He nods and drops his chin.

  I’ve kept Grace’s number in my phone. The thought occurred to me more than once to delete it, but I guess there was always a bit of hope that maybe she’d reach out, and I’d know Aaron was okay. I didn’t want to not answer her call.

  Brushing a kiss on his stubbly jaw, I wrap my arm around him, giving him a side hug. “I’m going to step in the hallway and call Grace. If you need me, yell.”

  He tries to smile, but it looks more like a pained grimace.

  We’re at the end of a long corridor. I go into the stairwell and do some breathing exercises before I dial Grace’s number. She made her feelings regarding me quite clear, and she warned me off her brother. I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to speak to, and the feeling is mutual.

  Inhaling and exhaling one more time, I hit the
call button. After four rings, it goes to her voicemail.

  “Grace, this is MK. I mean Mary Kay Landry. Anyway, Aaron and I are in a hospital in New Orleans. He’s okay, but he’s in extreme pain with his hand. Doctor Hebert is with us, and we’re waiting to see a specialist. Please call back on this number.”

  I’m almost ashamed to admit how happy I am that she didn’t answer. Next, I call my sister just catching her up on Aaron’s condition and letting her know where we are. She’s almost here.

  After letting out a deep breath, I walk back into Aaron’s room. The medicine must be working because his shoulders no longer brush his ears, and he’s leaned back against the stack of pillows.

  Doctor Hebert excuses himself.

  I pull up a chair next to the bed and sit, holding Aaron’s left hand.

  When the door closes, Aaron squeezes my fingers. “What did she say?”

  “I left a voicemail.”

  He swallows and nods.

  “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “Feel fucking high as a kite. It’s like I’m lying here, but I’m really floating above us watching you hold my hand.” His voice slurs a bit. “You’re pretty.”

  “Thank you.” Shifting to the right, I ask, “How long has this been going on?”

  “A bit.”

  I lean down and kiss his forearm. “How long is a bit?”

  “Longer than a few but not as long as some time.”

  Well, this is going nowhere fast. I have a feeling that maybe this is his attempt at humor. He’s answering my questions evasively like I replied to his at dinner on Monday when he asked about Vince. “My sister is on her way.”

  “Did you tell her that I’m not OD’ing?”

  Now he’s slurring like crazy. He sounds like he could be overdosing. “Not when I first texted her but I just talked to her so she’d know what’s going on.”

  “Great. She’s going to think I’m a loser.” He releases my hand and holds up his pointer finger wagging it back and forth. “No rock stars for MK. They forgot to say no to drugs.”

  “Stop it, Aaron,” I warn as I take his palm and press it against mine. “She now knows this isn’t drug related. Plus, she’s not like that. Bethany is a doctor first and sister second.”

  As if on cue, she opens the door and walks in dressed in black slacks and floral pregnancy top. “MK,” she greets me with a feathered kiss on my cheek. “Aaron.”

  He gives her a childlike wave with his left hand.

  “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

  Aaron is pretty much no help, but I tell her again what I know and every once in a while, he contributes a tidbit to the conversation. She agrees that if Aaron is correct and his x-rays and bloodwork are negative that it’s time for a neurologist. She excuses herself to find out which doctor will be seeing him.

  As her hand takes the doorknob, Aaron says, “You can’t name your baby MK.”

  Bethany stops, turns around, and lets the door close.

  My stomach flutters as my heart clenches. I’m mortified that he would mention it to my sister. I love her very much, and I want Aaron to stay out of this.

  “It’s MK’s privilege to name her baby girl Mary K something or another. Not yours.” His eyes are shut as if he’s sleeping. He’s clearly not.

  I squeeze his hand trying to get him to shut up as I contemplate grabbing one of the many pillows behind him and using it to cover his face so he can’t breathe. Murder is not on my mind. Maybe I’ll hold it there just until he passes out. “Remember? We talked about this. I said that I was honored that Bethany is considering carrying on Mary as a family name. It takes a lot of the pressure off me.”

  Aaron opens his eyes and drops my hand, pointing at my sister. “Just don’t do it, okay?” He’s slurring his words so hopefully Bethany will write this conversation off as the ramblings of a guy high on pain medicine.

  She turns to me. Her shoulders are rolled back, and I know my sister well enough to know that she’s furious. “Do you feel the same way?”

  “Can we not discuss this right now? I’m terribly worried about him.” I motion to Aaron as I grimace.

  Bethany leans against the door. “If you have an issue, you need to speak up, MK. We’re thinking of revealing her name next weekend.”

  My high rock star yells, “Alis Volat Propriis with MK’s own wings she flies.”

  Tilting my head, I look at him wondering what he means and silently pleading for the drugs to take effect. Then he adds, “And that goes for naming our baby Mary.”

  I motion for Bethany to leave as I shake my head. Aaron doesn’t need to anger those who are trying to help him.

  She says, “Going to check on his doctor.” Her eyes are wide and back stiff as she walks out of Aaron’s room.

  Admonishing him, I lean over and whisper in his ear, “The way to get people to help you is by not being an asshole. Remember that.”

  He turns his head towards me, opening his eyes revealing dilated pupils. “I want a baby girl named Mary something or another. What about Mary Fred? Then we can call her MF.” Aaron thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever said, and I do my best to find inner strength so I don’t grab the pillow.

  When my phone rings, I’m relieved, which is a completely new revelation, to see Grace’s name on my screen. It gives me an opportunity to ignore Aaron for a moment. “Hello,” I answer.

  Her voice is panicked. “Where are you? I’m in a car on the way to the airport.”

  “We’re at Tulane. He’s doing okay. They gave him pain medicine and muscle relaxers.” I look at him and note that it looks like he might have finally found sleep. “He’s better because they’re working, and we’re waiting to see the neurologist.”

  “Neurologist?” she yells so loudly that I pull the phone from my ear.

  “Yes. He told Doctor Hebert that his tests were all negative. My sister is here also, and she agrees it’s time for a neurologist.”

  “Fuck. What have they said about his show on Monday?”

  I know she’s his right-hand woman as well as his sister, but damn, it annoys me that she’s worried about his concert right now. “We haven’t discussed it.”

  “Okay. Text me every little thing they say. I’m taking the casino’s plane and will hopefully be there in four hours.”

  “Great,” I reply not exactly excited to see her, but realizing that it’s important that Grace be here for her brother.

  When I end the call, Aaron, whom I thought was sleeping, says, “Hurricane Gracie is expected to make landfall in four hours. Everyone take cover.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aaron

  September

  Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies

  @RealJohnnyKnite is at #ClubNowhere in @CelestialPalaceCasino right now.

  Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies

  @RealJohnnyKnite is making out with a blonde. I don’t recognize her from our group.

  My head is so cloudy that I’m not entirely sure where I am, but I know that I’m not pressed against MK as I should be. My eyes are heavy and just want to stay closed, but then I hear her sniffle. She’s somewhere near.

  Rolling on my side, I compel my lids to open so I can see MK’s pretty face. Her hair is disheveled and purple shades the puffy skin under her dark brown irises. Why is she not next to me?

  When I’m able to focus and see past her, I spy my sister leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.

  Oh yeah. I’m in the hospital. The memory of the extreme pain of the muscles contracting last night makes my heart race. In a panic, I flex my hand to make sure it’s there. Feeling it still attached, I let out a deep breath.

  “Hi,” I say to both of them.

  MK brushes her palm over my cheek and smiles her sweet smile. “Good morning, sleepy head.”

  “Am I okay?” I try to sit up, but she places her hand on my chest and grabs a remote control, raising the back of the bed. Loo
king down, I see I’m in a hospital gown, and I have a blanket draped over my legs.

  Grace steps forward and leans against the foot of the hospital bed. “You’re going to be just fine. I’ve found a specialist. He’s the best in the world, and other famous musicians have used him. He’s had lots of success, and he’s willing to meet with you.”

  My eyes cut to MK as the panic returns with such force that I’d swear my insides have been tied into knots. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I need a specialist?”

  Her fingers tickle the short hair on my forearms, leaving heated tracks where she’s touched. “You were a little spacey last night, but your sister had all the medical information from the doctors you’ve seen along your tour. The neurologist thinks, and Doctor Hebert and Bethany agree, that you have something called musician’s dystonia.”

  “The fuck is that?”

  She licks her bottom lip before she replies. “This is how I understand it.” Her soft touch morphs into pressure as she clings to my arm. “After the doctors left, I Googled and read what I could on it. There’s nothing wrong with your hand or fingers. That’s the good news.”

  “That’s awesome.” My stomach unknots in relief. I can play my guitar.

  MK scowls, and my heart plummets into my stomach. “It’s actually something in your brain.” She pauses. All I can think of is the ugly word cancer, and I grip her hand, preparing for the worst. This is my curse. I finally convince MK to give us another chance, and I’m the happiest I’ve been since before we broke up. Now, I’m going to die. “It’s a movement disorder. For some reason your head is sending the wrong messages to your hand and more specifically your middle finger. Musicians get it. They aren’t sure why, but it usually affects the area of the body that does the most repeated motions. It would make sense that it has affected the fingers that you play guitar with.”

  “Not cancer?”