Her next order of business was to speak with her patient, hopefully get some more information on his condition, pre-exisiting and otherwise. She just sincerely hoped that when she got there, he’d be willing to talk.
When Melinda finally made her way toward Warren Markus’s room, the door was open and the curtain pushed back. A nurse was busy taking in stats, talking gently with the man with a small smile. She was pleased to see that the man had a small smirk over his lips, and the sight wasn’t bad at all to behold.
“Mister Markus,” Melinda greeted as she crossed the threshold. The nurse, Eva, immediately walked out after Melinda walked in. Warren Markus blinked dark blue eyes at her, that tight expression of disdain appearing over his face again. “I’m glad to see you awake, even a little impressed.”
“Please don’t call me that,” he answered. “It sounds awful.”
Melinda took a mental note as she walked around his cot to see the information on his screen. “What would you like me to call you?” She asked absentmindedly.
“Warren is fine. The only people who call me Mister Markus are my clients and stuffy old men.”
Melinda glanced down at him, curious. “Business man, are you?”
“You could say that,” he replied, wincing as he shifted. “I specialize in a series of ventures…for the most part I just manage my father’s ranch.”
“Sounds like you spend quite a lot of time getting your hands dirty,” Melinda remarked.
Warren gave a small huff, lips quirking, “In a manner of speaking, yeah.”
“Casual conversation aside I do need to ask you a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
Melinda opened the chart in her hands, her eyes peering over information already memorized. “Your vitals are showing a small cardiovascular arrhythmia. Does this sound like something you’ve dealt with in the past?”
Warren’s eyebrows furrowed, “And by arrhythmia you mean…?”
“Irregular heart rhythm,” Melinda explained. “I’m aware that you’ve been prescribed Ritalin, we’re supposing that could be the source of the arrhythmia but one can never be too certain.”
At this, Warren’s expression turned ashen. “Right… well. The Ritalin was for ADHD, I had it rather bad a few years back.”
Melinda nodded, “So you’ve not taken recently?”
“I still take it every once in a while, whenever I get a random episode… I keep some in my car. Or I did anyways.”
“When was the last time you took a dose?”
“…Honestly?” he asked, looking at her with a frown. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember much from before the accident…”
Melinda’s expression softened, “I understand. This isn’t the sort of thing one can recover from easily. For now, just rest. I’ll return when you’ve gotten a little more sleep.”
The doctor gave him a final smile before turning on her heel and walking toward the door. “Uh, doctor?” Melinda paused, stopping at the door to look over her shoulder. Warren’s face looked pained, yet it didn’t seem like it was the sort of pain that took a physical manifestation.
“I need to know…” he said softly. “There was another person in my care with me at the time… I remember that much. Is she—are they okay?”
Something inside Melinda gave, threw her in an unexpected moment of recountance. Her heart squeezed tightly in her chest, nearly choked her as it lodged in her throat. In her hands she swore she could feel the slick heat of blood, the smell of sparks in the air, the taste of desperation in her throat.
“I’m sorry, Warren.” Melinda murmured, shaking her head. “You were the only one to make it out.”
Warren tore his gaze away, blue eyes blinking rapidly as his breathing turned harsh and ragged. Melinda felt her heart give a twitch and she nearly reached out to the man over the cot. Steeling herself, the doctor turned around and grabbed the door knob, leaving the man alone to deal with his grief the way she knew had to be done.
It didn’t occur to her until later that she could have offered to stay behind and keep him company, but she settled on the thought that he would have pushed her away, regardless of her intentions.
She had no idea how wrong she could’ve been.
--
Chapter 7
--
One week from the accident and the news was recapping the events of the accident over the television set at the corner of the room. Warren’s eyes stared over the screen without care, feeling cold and numb inside. It took another two days since his last conversation with Doctor Reese for him to be allowed meals, and while the sight of food would’ve cheered him up, it was just another bit of color he didn’t care for. He still ate, chewing without tasting the bland food as he flicked the remote through hundreds of stations before he settled on the news. His name, of no surprise, popped up here and there on every other news bulletin.
Millionaire Heir, Warren Markus, hospitalized after grievous car accident. Sister, Alana Markus, found dead at the scene. Suffering several broken bones and lacerations, Markus remains in intensive care. Fate of business unknown from the loss. No statement from family given.
That last bit wasn’t shocking in the slightest. His father had never been the type to leave flowery messages, nor was he the type to show his face when it didn’t suit him. Had the old man left him flowers, or—God forbid—shown up, Warren would probably die of shock then. The possibility of the being likely was of Warren leaving this place unscathed.
“You’re looking a little better today, Warren.” His nurse (the pretty one with the mascara), Eva, said with a lovely smile. “Do you feel better?”
“Sure,” he replied. “I actually need to make a call, is there a chance I could get a phone?”
“You can always use mine,” she replied with a light giggle. He humored her with a small smile. Eva disappeared a little while later only to return with a wireless phone. “Here you go, if you need anything else let me know.”
“Thanks,” Warren said, reaching with his good hand and wrapping his fingers around the gadget. He was not used to using his right arm and as much as he was capable in wrangling horses, his fingers seemed to have forgotten the fact. It took some time to punch in the digits with his thumb, but Warren managed to do it.
The tone trilled in his ear for a couple of seconds before he heard the line connect. “Markus Residence.”
“Tobias,” Warren spoke, sighing.
“Mister Warren,” the man on the other line spoke. “We’ve been worried. Your mother has been rather concerned since the news got out.”
“Spare me the niceties, Tobias.” Warren said, straight to the point. “If she really was so worried she’d be here in the hospital telling me that. Where’s the old man?”
“Speaking with the attorneys, sir.” Tobias replied. “Apparently it’s being insisted that you were the cause of the accident.”
Warren felt a bitter curse roll in his tongue, he swallowed it down swiftly. “He’d love for that to be the case, wouldn’t he? Jesus, at least tell me they’re getting something done about—” he broke off for a moment, eyes clenching shut. “Please tell me they’ve done something about Alana.”
“If you are concerned about funeral arrangements…”
“No, Tobias,” Warren snapped. “I’m not talking about fucking funeral arrangements…” he paused in his words, hearing over the line that caught his attention. “Is that mom?”
“Yes, she’s adamant about speaking to you.”
If Warren could have sat up, he would have. Darkly, he hissed into the speaker, “Put her on the phone.”
“Yes, sir. Ma’am…” Tobias’s voice faded away and Warren waited with slowing breath for his mother’s voice to appear.
“Warren?” There she was. Every bit hysterical and shrill as he expected her to be. “Warren, my love, are you alright? Oh dear god, the news has been screaming about this horrible event. You wouldn’t believe the backlash your father is getting with his clien
ts.”
“Where’s Alana’s body, mom?” Warren cut through her words. “At least tell me you guys have been able to get her back.”
“You know your father has tried very hard to get everything in order—”
“It’s been nearly a week and a half and you guys have done nothing?” Warren bit out.
“Now, Warren, don’t be like that, you know if we could we’d go and see you ourselves.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, mom! Fuck’s sake, I couldn’t give a shit if you completely forgot about me. Alana’s body has been in the city morgue for almost two weeks, and you’re telling me nothing could be done?”
“You know how the authorities can be.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about how the authorities can be, mom, when dad—himself—went to pick up the body of client’s friend not two days after the man died in a fucking drive by. And he cannot afford to do the same for his own blood?”
As expected his mother broke down into tears, babbling about one thing or another without restraint as Warren sat back and felt his disgust mount. When he couldn’t take it any more, Warren uttered an abrupt goodbye and squeezed the end call button with a growl.
It figures that that would do the trick for him. No sooner did Warren end the call did he feel his eyes burn with bitter tears. Turning the TV off, he settled on staring up at the ceiling, rubbing his right palm angrily over his face as the tears dribbled down the corners of his eyes.
At least his sister would not longer have to deal with the grand disappointment that was their parents. The though didn’t make him feel any better, in fact. Warren felt so horribly bereft… he felt so terribly alone.
That evening, Warren carved constellations into the dots above him with ice cold eyes, ignoring the presence of pretty nurses and gawky doctors that stumbled through words until they stumbled back out. He wanted to be left alone, and he desperately wanted to not be left alone.
The end result came in the form of a woman he hadn’t really expected to make an appearance.
--
Chapter 8
--
The bags under her eyes had transformed into permanent shadows, cutting into her cheekbones and making her look as bad as she felt. Sleeping had felt like slipping into black cloth that spun around her and tightened her body into an awful coccoon. Melinda would soon wake, wrapped in sweat-drenched sheets and a headache. She would attempt to fulfill her routines: Running at 6 am, breakfast at 7:30, be at work at 8:15 before she tackled patient after patient. It didn’t much work sometimes… Sometimes she couldn’t even sleep. She’d just lay on a cold bed and stare into her ceiling, finding obtuse figures in the designs above and fiddle with imaginative imagery that she hoped could lull her to dreamless sleep.
Today wasn’t any different, and the on-going pattern was making its mark on her bones.
She checked in at the usual time, half-heartedly greeting patients with warm smiles and cooler hugs. To her dismay, Richards was in the locker room just as she walked in to drop off her belongings and switch into her coat.
“Good morning!” the surgeon greeted cheerily, his smile overly sweet. The urge to kick him returned, but Melinda was far too tired to entertain moving all the way to his side. Besides, he wasn’t worth the warning from the Head.
“Morning,” Melinda greeted curtly, arriving to her locker.
“You know, if you keep pulling doubles, you’re going to wither away.” Richards stated.
“Your concern is heart-warming,” she drawled.
“Don’t misunderstand, I want you out of here as much as the next guy,” Melinda rolled her eyes. “But in all honesty, Melinda, you keep showing up like a walking corpse eventually people will forget they’re coming to a hospital.”
“You just love listening to yourself talk, don’t you?”
When she glanced over, Richards was giving a shrug. “Just think about it, Resano, and finish taking your shift early like a normal person.”
Walking out of the locker room, Melinda seethed inwardly. If there was one thing she hated, above anything else, was listening to Richards go on like the smug bastard he was. If there was one thing worse, it was knowing the smug bastard was right.
She knew why she was pushing herself. She was doing this whole thing for a cause: making sure that she would never deal with losing another patient like she had lost Eddie. Men like Richards could sit back and piss all day about their work and watch the money come pouring in, because men like Richards often sent someone else to give the condolences to the families of those who didn’t make it. Men like Richards came to work to do their job, laugh at those who gave more than their worth, and then left a few minutes before their shift ended.
Melinda hated men like Richards. She hated that she had to do twice the amount of work to receive half the amount of credit he got.
Storming down the halls, Melinda composed herself enough to down a hot cup of coffee, before she made her rounds. The only way she could clear her head was if she got another challenge.
Her pager began to beep and chirp, and when she glanced down at the number she felt a familiar thrill of adrenaline seep into her blood.
It was time to work.
--
Chapter 9
--
Warren’s neck was as sore as his heart. Aching and throbbing in tandem to the rhythm in his chest, Warren waited as quietly as he could until his next dosage of pain killers. At this point, they were the only relief he could get from all kinds of pain, since they were strong enough to pull him under a drift of dreamless sleep. He could forget about Alana, about the pain of having such disinterested parents, about being stuck and alone in this godforsaken little hospital… he could forget about a lot of things, and when he woke, it’d be to a pleasant numbness in his system and the lovely face of Doctor Reese.
“Sorry,” the woman said, all tired lines and simple colors. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Warren admitted. “I’ve been awake for a little while.”
She gave him a soft smile, and for the first time in two weeks, she took a seat by his bed with a sigh. “We’ve been having problems trying to contact your personal doctor,” Doctor Reese explained, settling on the chair with crossed arms and slightly haunched shoulders. Warren recognized the stance almost as easily as recognizing his own reflection. “Is there a reason for that?”
“Yeah,” Warren replied, his fingers fiddling with a wrinkle in his sheets. “He’s an asshole.” She blinked, thinly veiled surprise flashing through her dark irises.
“Is that a personal or a professional opinion?”
He let out a short huff of black amusement, “Little bit of both. You’ll have better luck reaching President Obama than you would that guy. He only answers to my family.”
“And you’re family is…what,” she said, thin eyebrows arching, “incommunicado as well?”
“You’d find them easily,” Warren replied. “Although, I doubt getting any information out of them will get you anywhere.”
At this point, his doctor sighed, reaching up to tug that same piece of stubborn hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Warren, we can’t exactly treat you if we don’t have your medical information. We’ve gotten your history just fine, and some other important things as well, but I need to know more about your arrhythmia, if you’ve had a history of heart problems, if it’s a genetic issue…etc. I’ll be frank, I’m concerned.”
“About me, or the fact I’m not providing any answers?”
She gave him an earnest look, “Both. Why is it that a thirty year old man, wealthy beyond belief and with such a presence in the media not have a single pot of flowers sent in?”
Warren shrugged, and he was pleased to feel the sensation didn’t hurt as much as it did two weeks ago. “I don’t like flowers.”
“Or a single visit?”
“I don’t have many friends.”
“Not even from his own family?”
“You know what that tells me about your story, Warren?” She asked softly. He didn’t like the rawness hiding behind her eyes, and it was as if she had managed to peel back his own walls by doing so to hers. “That you’re alone, and that you have no one.”
“Yeah, well it takes one to know one,” he replied scathingly. Doctor Reese’s lips tightened just a fraction, even if her eyes remained on him, he could see her throw up the same walls he had. She pulled away, retracting her hand and placing it neatly on her lap.
“How long have you used Ritalin?”
Warren looked away, feeling muscles in his jaw work and trying not to feel whiplashed by her abrupt turn of conversation. “Since I was seventeen.”
“How often?”
“Every day for six years,” he ground out. Her eyebrows arched again.
“Your prescription says otherwise,” she mentioned.
“A lot of things about me say otherwise,” Warren retorted, feeling like his insides had been scraped raw, and they were threatening to explode outward. “You wanna know what else? I had a drinking problem back when I was 22. Nearly shot my liver all for a stupid drinking contest that gave me alcohol poisoning and disappointed everyone in my family… I hurt my baby sister with that stupid choice. My father’s got this idiot obsession with horse races, don’t blame him, I like them too. He knew that I’ve got issues keeping still, but he insisted I get on a bucking horse anyway. He blamed me for getting unhorsed and nearly shattering my pelvis, but he had no problem stuffing vicodin down my throat. So long as I was up on my feet and not being an embarrassment to my family. So yeah, if you want to guess which of those things caused my arrhythmia—among other things, I’m sure—you can start there. Are we done?”
The Cowboy's Redemption: BWWM Billionaire Western Romance Page 3