by Ember Casey
“How did it go last night?” he asks. “Honestly, I’m surprised that you came back.”
I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it since the moment I regained consciousness. But now the scene replays itself in my head in agonizing detail: Orlando coming to greet me, Nadia appearing in the doorway and calling flirtatiously after him, Orlando chasing me down the driveway…
I think I might be sick.
“Uh, oh,” Rafe says, frowning. “What did that fucker do?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay.” I accept the mug of coffee Edie slides toward me, but now I’m afraid to drink it. One sip and I might throw up all over their pretty countertop.
Edie rubs my shoulder sympathetically. “That bad?”
I shake my head, unwilling to go into the details.
“I’m fine,” I tell them. “I’m just going to head to the airport and see if I can get a flight home. I know you guys have more important things to worry about than some girl you just met.”
Edie frowns and glances at her fiancé. Rafe is still looking at me.
“Want me to kick his ass?” he asks me. “Because I’ll kick his ass.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I assure him.
“Why don’t you come to the hospital with us, Maggie?” Edie says abruptly. “Then we can drop you by the airport on the way home.”
“I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable with that,” I say.
“Are you sure? Because it would be a big help with Melody,” she tells me. “We wanted to bring her along because Charles enjoys spending time with her, but when she gets fussy it’s always nice to have an extra pair of hands around. And she likes you.”
In reality, Melody has hardly even looked at me since I walked into the room, but it would be rude to point that out. If Edie feels the need to make up some bullshit excuse to keep me in L.A. a few more hours, maybe I should just humor her.
But I’ll only let it go so far. “Orlando’s not going to be there, is he?”
“As far as I know, he’s got a million things to do for Death and Deadly Night,” she says. “That’s why he asked us to bring Charles the movies he wanted.” She glances at Rafe, who shrugs and nods.
“I don’t know what’s going on with that guy these days,” he says.
“Please, Maggie,” Edie says, taking my hand. “I know it’s a big favor, asking you to tag along to the hospital with us, but we’ll repay you. We might even have some airline miles you could use for your flight home.”
“Oh, no. I could never accept—”
“Don’t try arguing with her,” Rafe cuts in. “She looks sweet, but she’s ruthless. You’ll never win.”
I sigh. I can’t believe I’m even considering this. I should be getting as far away from this family as fast as possible.
But damn it…I’m curious. This is my chance to learn a little more about Orlando’s family, about what’s been going on with his father these past couple of weeks. This is my chance to get a glimpse at the part of his life he’s kept hidden from me. The half of him he could never bring himself to share. He might have torn my heart out, but I still love him. And I still want to know.
“Okay,” I tell them. “I’ll go.” What harm is there in being stupid and irresponsible for one more day? The worst has already happened. “I do have one condition, though.”
“What?” Edie asks.
“You’re not allowed to call Orlando,” I say. “Either of you.”
* * *
Okay, so coming to the hospital might be mistake number 2,152 I’ve made since Orlando walked into my life. I thought I was ready for this. I thought I was strong enough to handle whatever I learned today. But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden rush of emotion I feel when we walk through the automatic sliding doors into the hospital lobby. I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals these past few years. I should have known better.
As Rafe and Edie sign us in, my gaze wanders over the people in the waiting room. In one corner, a woman knits while two small children play with a plastic puzzle at her feet. Several chairs away, an elderly couple sits hand-in-hand, the man looking on the verge of tears. Against the far wall, another man sits with his cap pulled down over his eyes and his shirt collar popped up. He looks like he wants to sink right into the wall.
All these people are here waiting for a loved one, waiting for news. I know exactly how they feel. Guilt swells in my belly when I think of how my burdens, at least, have been lifted for the time being—my dad’s health is finally improving, and thanks to Orlando, my family doesn’t even have to worry about the medical bills.
I should have reminded Orlando again and again how much that meant to me, I think as I follow Rafe and Edie down a long, sterile hallway. I should have showered him with gratitude every day. He saved my dad’s life. That’s far more important than him loving me or not.
When we reach Charles Fontaine’s room, Rafe raps a light greeting at the door before opening it and stepping inside. I linger in the hallway, not wanting to intrude on an intimate family moment.
As Edie follows Rafe inside, Melody squirming cheerfully in her arms, I catch a glimpse of Charles Fontaine lying in the hospital bed. His eyes are closed, and he has at least a dozen different tubes attached to his body. His cheeks are as pale and hollow as my dad’s were on his worst days.
Edie pauses with the door open. “Come on in, Maggie.”
I should refuse. I don’t belong here. I’m not part of this family in any way, shape, or form. But Edie is, and it seems rude to refuse her after coming all this way.
Slowly, I shuffle into the room. Rafe, Edie, and Melody aren’t the only ones here. As promised, Dante Fontaine is standing near the window with a red-haired young woman who must be his wife, Ashlyn. And the beautiful Giovanna Fontaine, Charles’s wife and Orlando’s mother, sits in a chair by the bed, her hand on her husband’s.
As if sensing he has an audience, Charles opens his eyes. His dark gaze goes immediately to his wife, and he manages an affectionate smile for her before turning his head to glance around the room. He takes in each of his sons and their significant others, and his eyes light up even more when they land on the cooing Melody. Then he turns his face toward me.
I can see where Orlando gets his stateliness. And his strong nose, and his square jaw. Charles Fontaine’s eyes are much darker than his youngest son’s, but they share the same fierce intelligence. And I can see the stories in their depths, those told and untold. He has the look of a master storyteller, just like Orlando.
“Charles, this is Maggie Blankenship,” Edie says, though I don’t remember ever telling her my last name.
Recognition glimmers in his expression. “Ah, yes. The artist.”
Wait—how does he know that?
Edie senses my confusion. “Maybe we should show her the picture.”
“Yes, the picture,” Charles says. Giovanna hands him an electronic tablet, and he scrolls through a few screens as he speaks. “When I was admitted to the hospital, Giovanna thought it might be nice to put together a digital photo gallery of our family to have here with us. We didn’t have a lot of recent ones of our sons—aside from those the paparazzi have been so generous as to provide—so she asked everyone to send in a few of their own. This was among the ones Orlando sent us.”
He turns the tablet around, showing me the sketch I made of Orlando during my very first day on set—laser eyes and everything.
“He laughed for ten minutes straight,” Giovanna says.
“It captures him perfectly,” Charles replies, grinning. “I hope there are more where that came from.”
This was not where I was expecting my first meeting with Charles Fontaine to go.
“I’ve done a few more,” I admit. “But they’re just silly doodles. I didn’t even realize he’d saved that drawing.” I sketched that at least a couple of weeks before Orlando got the call about his father.
“Oh, I must see the others,” Charles says.
“I’d love it if you could send them to me.”
“I actually have my sketchbook right here,” I admit, tentatively reaching into my bag. “But I’ll warn you again—they’re nothing special. Just little things I did for fun.”
I flip through my notebook until I find one of my other pictures of Orlando. I didn’t know how to draw him as a sexy alpha wolf, so instead, I sketched him morphing from a man into a half-man, half-wolf, werecreature.
When I pass it over to Charles, he takes one look and begins laughing so hard that the bed shakes.
“This is marvelous,” he says. “Gigi, you must look at this.” He shows the book to his wife, who laughs just as genuinely, if not as raucously.
He pulls the notebook back into his lap and flips the page. Now he’s looking at one of my attempts to capture Orlando in full director mode. I was never satisfied with the eyes, but Charles seems to find no fault.
“These are wonderful,” he says, flipping to yet another page. “Oh—look at this! More of the lasers!” He laughs heartily again, and I blush, unprepared for all this attention.
“You must send us copies of these,” Giovanna says. “He hasn’t laughed this hard in days.”
“Days?” Rafe says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh this hard.”
Charles is still flipping through my notebook, chuckling at almost every page. Whenever he comes to another drawing of Orlando, he throws his head back and guffaws. Apparently he enjoys my particular style of drawing. After the last twenty-four hours, it feels nice to make someone laugh like this.
A pang of pain vibrates through my chest. I made Orlando laugh like this, too. In fact, Charles’s laugh reminds me a lot of his son’s.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why do I keep dragging out this pain?
I’m glad I could make Charles laugh. It’s the least I could do after what Orlando did for my dad. I’ll always be in his debt for that.
“Feel free to take photos of whatever pictures you like,” I tell them. I glance toward the others in the room. “I’m going to step outside for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
I quickly slip out of the room, and Charles’s laughter echoes behind me.
It was a mistake to come here. I knew it the moment I set foot in this hospital, but I know it even more now. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I thought I’d get some closure from seeing Orlando’s father, from understanding all the pain and stress he’s under. But instead, it just makes me ache for the relationship we’ll never have.
I just want to go home, slip on my yoga pants, climb into bed, and stay there for days.
I glance around the waiting room as I walk through. There are a few more people here now, a few more people who understand the agonizing but monotonous torture of having a loved one in the hospital. The man with the hat and the popped collar looks up as I pass, but otherwise no one pays me any attention.
A bright blue sky greets me as I step outside, and a warm breeze sweeps playfully across the parking lot, but neither one can lift my mood. I want to cry again, to sink down onto my knees and weep until all my tears have dried up.
I also want to call Orlando, to hear his voice one more time. To tell him I made his father laugh.
There’s a footstep behind me.
“I was hoping for Orlando, but you’ll do just as well.”
Throat clenching, I spin around. The man from the waiting room—the one with the cap and the collar—is standing there, and as he lifts the brim of his hat, my eyes go right to the red, ragged scar on his cheek.
“Ford,” I choke out.
Ford Grand doesn’t look so perfect anymore, not since I sliced him with my key. And his nose is slightly crooked now, suggesting it was broken in the tussle with Orlando. But it’s his eyes that have changed the most. Those are the eyes of someone who’s had everything taken away from him, the eyes of a man who’s desperate and angry.
“I heard he was back in town, but I didn’t realize he’d brought you with him,” Ford says. “I distinctly remember you saying you had no intention of moving to Hollywood. Guess he offered you something I couldn’t, huh?”
He’s standing between me and the hospital doors. If I try to make a break for it, he’ll only grab me. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder at the parking lot, but I don’t see anyone approaching. Still, he wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight, would he?
When I look into those crazed, almost feral eyes, I’m not so sure.
“So? What do you have to say for yourself, bitch?” he growls, stepping closer.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I say, backing up a step toward the parking lot.
“Oh, I think you do,” he replies, still approaching. “I think you have a lot of trouble coming your way.”
“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” I say, backing further away. My heel comes down on the edge of the curb. “We’re in a very public place. Anyone could see you. If you leave now I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. You ruined my life, you little whore. Do you think anyone’s going to hire me now? With this?” He jabs a finger toward the angry scar on his cheek. “Maybe I’ll give you one to match. Then you’ll see.”
I step down off the curb, fumbling in my purse for my keys or anything else I could use to stab at him. I might have a better chance if I turn and run, but his legs are a lot longer than mine. I have a feeling he’d catch me easily.
So I attempt to keep him talking while my fingers search for a weapon.
“Your career doesn’t have to be over,” I tell him. “I hear there are some great plastic surgeons these days who could completely fix that scar. And even if they can’t, I’ve always thought scars made a man look distinctive.”
“Then we’ll see how you feel when you get your own,” he says. And then he lunges at me.
It’s too late to find a weapon. I turn and run.
Ford catches the back of my shirt, making me stagger, but I manage to break free and keep running. He’s only steps behind me, though. And gaining quickly.
Suddenly a sportscar whips around the corner, coming toward us so fast that my life literally flashes before my eyes. For a moment, Ford is forgotten. I throw myself out of the way as the brakes squeal and the driver desperately tries to stop his car.
I land hard on the concrete, the air whooshing out of me. Ford isn’t so lucky.
There’s a sickening thud as the car hits him, then another as he falls against the pavement. I struggle to raise myself to my hands and knees, to twist around and see what’s going on, but I can hardly breathe. My whole body aches.
I hear a car door open. Hear footsteps approach me. A large shadow momentarily blocks out the sun as a figure crouches over me.
“Maggie.”
That voice is like music to my ears. Orlando’s hand comes down gently on my back.
“Fuck, Maggie. Are you hurt? We have to get you inside.” His hands on me become more insistent, and he attempts to move me. “Damn it, Maggie. Please say something.”
“I’m…alive,” I choke out. Fuck, I need to stop almost getting hit by cars. And falling down on pavement. It hurts. “Just stunned, I think.”
He helps me roll over, and I stare up into his beautiful face. Right now, that’s more effective than any painkiller.
“At least this time no one landed on top of me,” I say. “It makes it a little easier to breathe.”
He smiles, but there’s still deep concern in his eyes.
“We’re getting you inside,” he says. Then he glances over his shoulder. “Hold on.”
Now that the initial shock has worn off, it’s a little easier to move. I push myself up to a sitting position, wincing at the stabbing pain that shoots up from my palms. When I look down at them, I see they’re scraped and bloody. My knees aren’t in much better condition.
I might have to start wearing padding around everywhere, I think. I’m going to have permanent scabs on my arms an
d legs.
It’s not until I hear the sound of scuffling that I look over toward Orlando. He has Ford by the collar, and the other man is desperately throwing punches at him, trying to free himself. For someone who was just hit by a car, he’s still got a lot of fight in him.
“What did you think you were going to do?” Orlando demands. “I thought I made it very clear what would happen if you ever laid a hand on her again.”
Ford aims a punch at Orlando’s side, but Orlando hardly flinches.
“You bastard!” Ford spits out the words. “You hit me! I’m going to have you arrested for attempted murder!” He throws another punch that Orlando easily dodges.
I glance toward the sportscar, blinking. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t even recognize that it was Orlando’s. Now I feel silly for not realizing sooner that he was the driver.
“You ruined me!” Ford croaks. “You and that fucking bitch! I hope you both rot in hell!”
“Stop it, you idiot,” Orlando says, twisting out of the way of another feeble swipe. “You’re just going to hurt yourself even more.”
To my right, people are venturing out of the hospital, coming to investigate all the commotion. A couple of security guards push through the small crowd. One of them is speaking into his walkie-talkie.
With a groan, I haul myself to my feet. Then look back at Orlando and Ford.
Ford has stopped trying to punch Orlando. Instead, he’s fumbling in his pocket. When he jerks his hand free of it again, I see a flash of steel in the sunlight.
“Orlando!” I shriek. “Watch out!”
Orlando doesn’t have time to twist out of the way. He only has time to throw up an arm, and even then he just narrowly blocks the blade arcing toward his side. The knife slices across his inner arm from his elbow down to his wrist, and dark red blood spurts out. Someone among the crowd of onlookers screams.
For the first time, Ford notices we have an audience. Wrenching free of Orlando, he turns and runs across the parking lot, dodging between cars. A couple of security guards race past me in quick pursuit.
But I don’t care what happens to Ford. I run over to Orlando. He’s losing a lot of blood. Quickly. It’s pouring down his forearm, running off his fingers.