“No can do.”
“I’ll take that.” Em was quick to take her up on it. She was clearly making up for lost time. She had been too busy pining over Garrison and babysitting me to enjoy herself. “She’s alcohol free the next nine months, remember?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mattie apologized. “I completely forgot.”
I waved off her apology. If I could’ve forgotten, I would too. “Where did you get that stuff anyway?” I didn’t think the brand was readily available in every state. Not to mention they were glass bottles.
“Shane sent it to Em,” Mattie answered, her tone thick with implication. She smiled tauntingly at Em. Judging by the gloss of her eyes, she was already buzzing.
“Don’t make something out of nothing,” Em said. “It’s just beer.”
“It’s not just beer,” Mattie argued. “For Shane, it’s like sending a bouquet of flowers.”
“He’s not my type.” Em turned her head and stared at Shane, who was wailing away on his drums. He did look pretty hot up there. For someone who treated his body like a dumping ground for toxic waste, he wasn’t half-bad.
“What type is your type?” Mattie pressed.
“Drug and alcohol free.”
“Drink a few more of those,” I pointed out, “and you might lower your standards.”
Em looked at her beer and then at Shane. His lips curled into a wayward smile. “What the hell—it’s been a long time since I had a good roll in the sack. A one night stand might do me good.”
Mattie’s fist shot into the air. “Whoooooooo hhhooooo!” You’d think Em just gave her the green light to seduce Carter tonight. Knowing Em, it was possible. Who knows what kind of pact the two had drawn while I was on stage.
Em joined her, whipping her hair around, going totally eighties hair-band.
I looked to Marshall. He shrugged, at a loss.
“Down in the front!” someone shouted. “Get the fuck outta the way!” As I peered around Mattie, I recognized the face. It was the psychotic bimbo from the bathroom. I must’ve made a face, because Mattie and Em followed my gaze and turned to look.
“Friend of yours?” Em asked.
“I ran into her in the bathroom backstage,” I shouted over the music. “She made a comment, like I trapped Tate by getting pregnant, so that I could use him as a ladder to fortune and fame.”
“Fuck her,” Mattie scoffed. Raising her hand, she flipped the girl the bird. “Can you see this? Fuck you!” She was definitely drunk. I told her not to drink that wine back on the bus. Mixing alcohol was bad news. She’d wind up trashed, sick, hung over or married.
“Mattie!”
She was already off, going face to face with our heckler when she received a finger in return. “What’s your freakin’ problem?”
“You and your friends,” the girl shot back. “You think you can come in here like you own the place. Get behind the fence like everybody else!”
This only caused Mattie to smirk. “Jealous much?”
“Fuck you! You’re blocking our view!”
“Mattie,” I snapped, “Knock it off. Just ignore her.”
“You,” the girl sneered at me. “You think you’re hot shit, like you have a right to be on that stage! Why don’t you go back to whatever dive you came from! Nobody paid money to see you butcher their songs, you fuckin’ two-bit hack!”
Mattie lunged, but I grabbed her arm, dug my nails in to gather her attention. She yowled and stopped her advance. “Damn, Coop, you going to let her diss you like that?”
“No, not at all,” I told her. “I’m going to have security escort her out.” I said it loud enough for Taylor to hear. Taylor nodded and spoke into his earpiece.
“You fuckin’ cunt!” the girl shouted, looking from me to Taylor. “You’re getting me kicked out!”
Damn skippy.
The girl’s friends crowded at her side, joining in the melee of insults and accusations. The fence bowed forward against their combined weight. It wasn’t supposed to move at all, but it was obviously giving way. Once they realized, things turned into complete and utter chaos.
The next thing I knew, one of the girl’s cohorts grabbed Mattie by the hair. Instinct took over. Call it motherly; I jumped to her defense. I dove forward and jumped into the fray, trying to pry her away from the horde. Fists began flying. I curled my back, defending my midsection. I heard Em shouting to my right.
Marshall, Taylor and several of the venue’s security guards jumped to our defense, but so had the girl’s friends. They weren’t all female, either. Just as many boys had joined in. Most were so drunk or high, they didn’t know their left from right, but they were bruising for a fight.
I received my share of licks, including one to my face that left my ear ringing and one to the back of my skull that made me see stars, but the blow that really, truly hurt, got me square in the throat. I went down like a bag of rocks, clutching my throat and gasping for breath.
There was glass all over the floor from the damn beer bottles. A shard cut into my elbow as I tried to crawl away from everyone’s feet. I caught a shin across my ribs. Once again, I curled into a ball, protecting my middle. Christ, this was not how my night was supposed to go.
A few seconds later, I was blasted with a wave of feedback that had me clutching my head, shielding my ears. Tate’s voice rose above the others. He launched into some diatribe about conduct; that they were at a concert, not a fucking hockey game or something of the sort.
I wanted to make a joke about him getting old.
“Cooper! Cooper!” Marshall exclaimed. Crouching at my side, he looked me over. “Jesus Christ! You’re bleeding all over. Let me see.”
I tried to tell him that it was nothing, I had cut my arm, but all that came out was a wet, bubbly cough. My throat felt raw. My mouth tasted of copper and salt. I knew that was bad, something was wrong. Pulling my hands away, I found them covered and dripping with blood.
It dawned on me, then. Someone had shanked me with a broken bottle.
Tate’s words came back to me, then. “Chicks take it personally when I’m dating, and they tend to take their jealousy out on my date instead of me. It’s like they think some kind of witchery is involved, that I don’t have a mind of my own, and I must be so mesmerized by my date’s magic muff that I’m blinded to everyone else.”
I survived Grant only to die by the hand of one of Tate’s fans. How freakin’ ironic.
“Taylor, we need a paramedic! Now!” Marshall’s voice cracked, sounding understandably panicked. “Coop, I’m going to roll you to your back.”
“Cooper!” Tate shouted in the distance. “Cooper!”
“No. Leave her on her side.” It was Derek. “The blood will roll into her lungs if she’s on her back.” He knelt in front of me, met my eyes. “I need to move your hands for a moment so I can see how badly you’re cut, ok?” His eyes flicked up. “A little light here, please?”
About a million and one cell phones rose in the air.
Reluctantly, I moved my hands. Derek did a brief examination of my throat. He looked mildly relieved. “That’s good, that’s great, kid. No major veins or arteries.” As he spoke, he removed his shirt and pressed it to my throat. “Now, tell me if you can breathe, ok?”
Barely. I coughed again. I felt like I was sucking through a straw.
“Alright. Just hang in there for me. Paramedics are on their way.”
Closing my eyes, I drew in slow, labored breaths, listening to the voices around me. Carter was consoling Tate, who was agitated and pacing. Mattie was crying. I think Jake might’ve yelled at her. Em and Taylor were identifying the instigators for Evan and the security guards. Marshall stood and began sweeping the broken glass away from me with the sole of his boot. Before long, everything started to coalesce and drone into one continuous murmur.
“Cooper,” said Derek, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Stay with me, kid.”
I opened my eyes. They felt heavy. I wasn’t getting e
nough air. I was dying from lack of oxygen. Since I couldn’t talk, I flattened my palm over my stomach, showed him my concern.
“They’re coming, Cooper,” he said, his voice choked. “Just stay with me.”
Despite my will to live, my vision started to fade.
“Cooper…Cooper…Cooper…”
Chapter 22
I woke to an annoying, reoccurring beep, and Tate’s soft snores. My mouth felt thick, dry, tasted of blood, something medicinal, and, frankly, ass. I dragged my tongue across the inside of my teeth to see if I could work up a decent spit, but only succeeded in drawing forth a world of pain. The amount of muscles connecting your tongue and throat were surprisingly substantial. Even more surprising, my voice didn’t seem to work. I hadn’t intended to use it yet, and judging by the degree of pain awakened by only the small effort of moving my tongue, talking was a bad idea, but the involuntary groan of pain that escaped me, surfaced as nothing but a hoarse wheeze.
Tate’s snores cut off. His eyes cracked open. They were uncharacteristically red. His gaze drew upward and settled on my face. In a sharp jerk, he lifted his head from where it rested on the edge of my mattress. “How’re you feeling—don’t answer that—don’t talk at all—I’ll get the nurse.” Jumping up from the chair, he rushed from the room. In the hall outside, I heard a loud crash and the hollow warble of bowls, followed by several feminine exclamations.
A few seconds later, a nurse strode into the room. “He looked like a drunken Weeble Wobble. Sort of tottered to the left. Went right down on the lunch cart. But don’t you worry. He’s fine. The girls are just getting him a change of clothes.” Lifting the clipboard from the end of the bed, she paged through the charts. “We told him to press the call button if ya’ll needed anything, though we usually keep an eye on the patients through the monitors. But that’s men for ya. I guess rock stars are no different.”
Dropping the clipboard back into its holder, she crossed the space and opened the small cabinet nestled in the corner of the room. From it, she extracted a tablet and some paper. She came back to the bed and placed them on my lap, then pulled a thermometer from her pocket.
“Voice rest until further notice,” she instructed, while placing the thermometer to my forehead. “There are swabs on your nightstand. You can use them to wet your mouth, but try not to swallow. We’ll start you with ice chips in another day or two, and clear fluids after that. If you feel nauseated, let me know so that we can give you something for that. It’s common after surgery because of the anesthesia, but it would be better for healing if you didn’t. If you do vomit, don’t be surprised if it’s thick and brown. You’ve probably swallowed some blood due to your injuries. If it’s bright red, I want to know immediately. If you’re in pain, just push this handy dandy button here. It’s patient controlled, but preset to prevent overdosing. Any questions?”
Picking up the pen, I scribbled sloppily on the note pad.
“Do you feel like you need to urinate?”
Obviously.
“Well, honey, you already are. They inserted a catheter before your surgery. I know it’s uncomfortable, but just try to relax. We’ll get you up and out of bed as soon as you’re feeling a little better." She lifted the chart once more, jotted down her observations. “I can guarantee that once you’re fully awake, you’ll be dosing yourself with some of those pain meds. You got banged up pretty good last night.”
I scribbled again on my note pad and held it up.
‘The baby?’
The nurse’s stanch smile faltered for only a fraction of a second, but I saw it. “Oh, uh…let me find your husband. He wanted to be the one to tell you.” She padded out of the room, her stupid white clogs soundless on the linoleum.
Shock slowly gave way to grief. Tears blurred my vision. I hadn’t wanted to get pregnant. Nevertheless, I had accepted it, embraced it, loved it. How could I not? The baby was part of Tate. We’d discussed names for God’s sake. We pondered over its hair and eye color, whether it would look more like Tate or me, whether it was a boy or girl.
Now it was gone. It just ceased to exist, a soul that would never walk this earth, and for what reason, because some moronic bimbo didn’t know the difference between fantasy and reality, because she couldn’t take no for an answer, because she didn’t suffer rejection well?
My throat ached from the strain of crying. Each breath felt like sandpaper, gritty and abrading. That nurse was right; the drugs were looking dang appealing. They wouldn’t make things better, but they’d certainly ease the pain for a while. I reached up and clicked away.
The effect was swift. My head whirled dizzily. All my pain faded. A sense of peace came over me. My eyelids grew pleasantly heavy. The world faded to a fuzzy shade of black.
♫♪♫♪
When I resurfaced some time later, the room was aglow. Vibrant orange streams of light filtered through the blinds and streaked the walls. If I wasn’t feeling so incredibly crappy, I might’ve left the bed and appreciated the miraculous sunset hidden just beyond the window.
Gathering my attention, someone cleared her throat.
I lifted my gaze. A woman stood by the end of my bed, a doctor, judging by her white lab coat. She had dark hair and hazel eyes. “Sorry I had to wake you,” she said in a strikingly melodic voice. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Doctor Elizabeth Watkins. I’m…Tate’s mother—no no, don’t move.” She crossed the space, took my hand. “You’re going to be in a lot of pain for a few days. We’ll return your pain meds when we’re finished. I needed you lucid.”
In her hands, she held a tablet, and not the paper kind. It was the electronic kind. She tapped the screen a few times and then passed it to me. I winced as I lifted my hand. “This is a voice app. Type in what you need to say and hit play. It beats carrying a pen and paper. The patients seem to like it. You’re free to play any games already installed, but for security’s sake, I wouldn’t enter any personal account information.”
Tapping the screen, I entered my first question. ‘Where is Tate?’ read a robotic voice. I’m sure I’d be the brunt of many jokes for that. Carter would call me a true Stepford Wife.
“He stepped out. His home is only a quarter hour from here. He might have gone to get cleaned up.”
That raised my second question. ‘Where am I?’ I was in Missoula, Montana the last time I remember. Tate lived in Seattle.
“University of Washington. Tate had you transferred by airlift this afternoon. He wanted a second opinion, and we have the best ENT unit in Seattle.”
‘How long will I be here?’
“That depends on your rate of healing, but not less than ten days.” Pulling up a chair, she placed it beside the bed, smoothed her skirt as she sat down. “We need to discuss your injuries, the surgery performed to repair those injuries, any future tests or treatments, and the therapy you’ll need before you can leave the hospital.”
The bottom line: it was going to be a long, long recovery. I was on ‘absolute’ voice rest until further notice. That meant no talking, no throat clearing, whispering, coughing or mouthing words, whatsoever. I couldn’t lift any weight, blow my nose or strain in the bathroom. Oh, and no eating, not that I would attempt it with the pain I was feeling, nor did I have an appetite, but the feeding tube running through my nose and into my stomach was disconcerting.
Last but certainly not least, I had a breathing tube protruding from my lower neck so that I could breathe without difficulty and allow time for my throat to heal. Yes, a fucking tube was sticking out of my neck like a valve on a beach ball. I thought the feeding tube was bad…
I had to have more tests to check my healing and assess the mobility of my vocal chords. She wasn’t positive about anything at this point, but stated scientific possibilities based on her observations during my initial examination. Because of the damage caused to my larynx, she warned that vocal paralysis was a strong possibility. If that was the case, there were options. I could have a polymer implant surgically inse
rted, which would allow my vocal folds to work again. The alternative was to reroute a nerve from my neck to replace the damaged one in my throat. But it was all speculation until the swelling went down and I had a chance to heal.
When all was said and done, there was no guarantee that my voice would be the same. I might have hoarseness, shortness of breath and or reduced pitch. In other words, my singing career was most definitely over. She didn’t say that, but I wasn’t obtuse or naive.
‘Can I have my pain meds back now?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d like to live in oblivion a little while longer. I feel like someone just amputated my right hand.’
Sarcasm was completely lost on the robotic voice.
“Then we’ll teach you to write with your left.” Standing, she grasped my hand, squeezed it. “Don’t throw in the towel yet, Cooper. I haven’t.”
Before she left the room, she turned back. “Your pain meds are programmed. You’ll just need to press the button to dose yourself if the pain gets too severe.”
I tapped out a succinct ‘thank you’ and closed my eyes.
I forbade myself to cry. For number one, it hurt like a bitch. But more importantly, I didn’t want Tate to come back and find me red and swollen…well, more swollen than I already was. From what I was told, it was another after effect of the surgery, that and the few good hits to the face I took during the brawl. In any case, Tate was already mourning the loss of our baby. He didn’t need to find me blubbering every time I woke up. I had to be strong for him, for us. Because the only thing worse than being sick or hurt was seeing someone you love sick or hurt.
I was just falling asleep when Tate strode into the room, juggling several large and rather bulky shopping bags. He was wearing green hospital scrubs and a brand new pair of classic, black and white Chuck Taylors. When he saw that I was awake, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“You’re awake.”
‘You’re highly observant.’
A smile spread across his face. He dropped the bags on the floor and leaned over to kiss me. Despite my qualms, I let him. Dodging his kiss was out of the question. Any movement above my shoulders hurt like the fuckin’ dickens, and I was by no means a sadist.
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