by Ember Casey
“Help!” I scream to the people at the door. “We need help!”
A couple of people run back inside.
“He missed,” Orlando says in a dazed voice, looking down at his arm. “I think he was trying to kill me.”
He still might succeed if we don’t stop this bleeding. Desperate, I pull my shirt off over my head and wrap it around his arm, applying as much pressure as I can.
Orlando looks up from his gash. “What are you doing? Put your shirt back on!”
“This is more important.” I pull him toward the hospital. “Can you walk? We need to get you some help.”
He stumbles a little, which only increases my alarm.
“How are you walking?” he demands. “You’re supposed to be sitting and waiting for me to get help.”
“One of Panty Girl’s many powers is that she’s basically invincible,” I reply. “She can survive anything.”
He laughs, but the sound is terrifyingly weak.
A couple of people in scrubs come running out of the hospital with a stretcher. Thank God. Orlando has already soaked through my shirt, and he’s still bleeding. How can one little wound produce that much blood?
He stumbles again, and this time I’m barely able to keep him on his feet.
“We’re almost there,” I tell him. “We just have to get you to that stretcher.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, slurring a little. “This is little more than a paper cut. I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about.” He frowns down at me. “You really should put a shirt on. I’m the only person who’s allowed to see your breasts.”
“We can discuss that later,” I tell him. “And it’s not like this bra is particularly skimpy.”
“Nothing happened, you know,” he says. The stretcher has reached us, and he frowns, almost as if he’s angry at it for suddenly appearing. “With Nadia, I mean.”
Two people in scrubs try to help him onto the stretcher. Another is attempting to grab his arm, but he pulls it out of her reach.
“You need to get on the stretcher, Orlando,” I say.
“Not until you say you believe me.” His eyes are slightly unfocused. “Nothing happened with Nadia.”
“I believe you,” I tell him. “Now please, get on the stretcher.”
He does. But he doesn’t stop looking at me, even when they start to wheel him quickly back toward the hospital doors. I take his hand, jogging to keep up with their pace.
“I was a wreck after you left,” he tells me. “Nadia called and asked to meet up. I…I’ll admit it, I was tempted. In the past I’ve always resorted to…lots and lots of sex whenever I’ve been in a bad place.” His fingers squeeze mine, then fall lax again. He seems to be struggling to put sentences together. “But I told her we couldn’t do that anymore. We couldn’t. I told her our arrangement was over. She said we should talk in person.” He sounds almost drunk. “I knew she was going to try to change my mind. I knew it. But I invited her over anyway. I wanted to test myself, you see. I wanted to see how hard it would be to turn her down. I had to test myself.”
I’m not sure I like where this story is going. But Orlando continues, his voice still slurred.
“Honestly, it wasn’t hard at all. It was easy. Really easy. I was just about to kick her out again when you showed up.” He gives my hand another feeble squeeze. “Nothing happened. I swear it on my father’s life.”
“Miss, you’re going to have to release him,” a woman in scrubs tells me. We’re at the entrance to the emergency room.
“I believe you,” I tell him again. His eyes have a disturbing glazed look to them. “I love you, Orlando.”
His gaze sharpens for the briefest of seconds, fire shining through the rich gold.
“I love you, too,” he says.
And then they wheel him away from me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Despite the fact that I’ve slept a number of nights by Orlando’s side, I’ve never gotten a good look at him asleep before. With that loose, tousled hair, he looks almost angelic, but I know that the moment he opens his eyes again, that devilish spark will be back.
Repositioning myself in my uncomfortable plastic chair, I prop my notebook on my lap. I’ve sketched half a dozen different pictures of him over the last half hour. It’s tricky to hold the pen with these thick bandages on my palms, but I’m starting to get the hang of it. And Orlando is much easier to draw when his eyes are closed. In this latest doodle, I’ve even included some of the complicated machines on the far side of his hospital bed, even though only one of them is currently hooked up to him.
I’m adding some shading when his voice rises from the bed. “Now I know how my actors feel.”
I glance up. “Huh?”
Orlando smiles. “The way you’re studying me from all angles. I imagine that’s how my actors feel when I have them in front of the camera and I’m trying to perfect a scene.”
“That is, in fact, exactly how they feel,” I reply, leaning closer. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough,” he says. “I only had a little cut on my arm. Did you expect me to sleep for three days or something?”
“That ‘little cut’ required twenty-two stitches,” I tell him. “And you lost a ton of blood.”
“What about you?” he asks, eyeing the bandages on my knees.
“I have a few cuts and scrapes.” My fingers gingerly touch one of the bandages. “But they patched them up and said I’ll be fine. They found me this shirt, too.”
“I guess you were right. Panty Girl is invincible.” His grin widens.
“Yeah.” My heart flutters. I’m surprised he remembers that joke. “You really scared me, Orlando.”
Before he can say any more, there’s a knock on the door. Dante pokes his head in.
“May I interrupt?” he asks.
I beckon to him. “Come in.”
Dante gives me a wary look—he still doesn’t believe the whole pool thing was an accident—but for the most part, he seems resigned to my presence.
“Our mother sent me to check on you and see if you were awake yet,” he says to his brother.
“I’m fine, as you can see,” Orlando says. “And wide awake.”
Dante nods. “I also wanted to inform both of you that Ford Grand has been apprehended. He’s currently being treated for his injuries, but he’ll have an officer stationed at his door at all times until he’s well enough to be transported into custody.”
That’s a huge relief. I glance over at Orlando, and he nods grimly. “What are the chances I’ll be charged for hitting him with my car?”
“I’m still discussing it with our lawyer, but considering Ford had threatened your life and was actively targeting Ms. Blankenship’s at the time of the incident”—He nods toward me—“I’d say you have a pretty good defense.”
“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” I say to Orlando. “How did you know Ford had come after me? How did you even know I was at the hospital?”
“Actually, I can answer that second question,” Dante says. “On my way here this morning, I received a text from Rafe that you’d be accompanying him and Edie here. He mentioned that there’d been some sort of incident between you and Orlando, and that while Orlando didn’t know you were coming, it might benefit him if he did.”
I frown. “He promised me he wouldn’t tell Orlando!”
“He didn’t. Dante did,” Orlando says.
His brother shrugs. “I wasn’t aware of any promises.”
Rafe, you meddling bastard, I think. Still, I can’t deny it all turned out for the best. If you ignore the whole Ford incident. And Orlando nearly bleeding to death.
“When I heard you were here, it gave me hope,” Orlando tells me. “I was sure you’d already gone back to Atlanta. I told my editing crew they were on their own for the rest of the day. There was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to explain everything to you.” He smiles and reaches for my hand. “Unfo
rtunately, this does ruin the grand romantic gesture I spent all night planning.”
“You planned something?”
“Well, it’s not going to work now,” he says. “But let’s just hope your brother knows what to do with the ten dozen long-stemmed roses that should be showing up at his apartment this afternoon.”
I laugh, picturing it.
Dante is suddenly standing beside me. “Are those more drawings of Orlando?” He indicates the notebook in my lap.
“What do you think? Did I get it right?” I raise the journal, giving him a better look. “Don’t worry—I’ll send a picture to your father.” When Edie returned my notebook to me earlier, she told me that Charles hadn’t stopped laughing with joy until someone came to inform him about Orlando’s incident. I almost offered to let him keep it for the time being, but I needed some comforting of my own, and my doodles have always helped me process my feelings better than anything else.
“I’m sure Luca will want to see, too,” Dante comments. “He missed the earlier flip-through, and he’s been fond of the portrait with the laser eyes from the very beginning. He came to the hospital the moment he heard about you, Orlando. He and Rafe just went to grab lunch for everyone.”
“Look at that, it’s a family party,” Orlando says. “Don’t worry—I should be up out of this bed in another hour. Then we’ll come and join the rest of you.”
His brother simply nods. “I’ll look forward to that. In the meantime, I’ll tell our mother that you’re doing well. And that you’re in surprisingly good spirits.” He gives me another quick look before turning and slipping back out of the room, leaving us alone.
The air in the room feels much heavier once he’s gone. I look down at my notebook, uncertain.
“What’s wrong?” Orlando asks. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering if you meant what you said when they wheeled you away from me on that stretcher. Or if it was more of a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing.” He’d lost so much blood at that point. Does he even remember?
He lifts his eyes, meeting mine. “Do you mean the Nadia thing? Or…”
“The part that came after. And the Nadia thing, too, I guess.”
He takes my hand again. “Nothing happened with Nadia. And nothing will ever again. As for the other thing…” He smiles, and his eyes darken with amusement and heat. “I’m not sure I remember anything else.”
“Don’t tease me,” I beg him.
“No, I won’t be that cruel.” Abruptly he grabs me by the waist and pulls me up into his lap.
“Be careful of your stitches!” I tell him, laughing.
“They can just sew me up again.” He sweeps a bit of loose hair away from my face. “I love you, Maggie. I love you so much.” His fingers caress the side of my neck. “You were right when you said I was scared. Honestly, I’ve never been in love before. I didn’t know how it felt. And I didn’t know how it fit into my life. But now I’m starting to understand.” His hand slips back up, burying itself in my hair. “I don’t want to give you only half of me. I want to give you everything. And I want everything from you. Do you understand? Everything.”
He leans closer as if he means to kiss me, then pauses.
“I need you, Maggie. Not just physically, and not just as a distraction. I need you in my life.” His thumb brushes across my lips. “I won’t apologize for calling you the brightest part of my day. That’s still true, and I suspect it will be true until the day I die. But I want more than that. I want the passion that comes from sharing both the good and the bad.”
“I want that, too,” I whisper to him.
“Good.” He kisses me, his tongue sweeping playfully across my lips before he pulls away again. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”
His eyes look perfectly wicked right now.
“I don’t know,” I tease. “Do I?”
His fingers brush against my thigh, then slip beneath the hem of my skirt. “I’m wondering if you’re wearing any panties under there, Panty Girl.”
I smile sweetly back at him. “Why don’t you investigate and see?”
His face breaks into a wolfish smile, and the kiss he gives me sends me straight to the stars.
EPILOGUE
Sometimes small choices can have a huge impact on your life.
Now, almost a year after I first set foot on the set of Death and Deadly Night, I’m standing with Orlando on the red carpet at the premiere. I’m wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen, a shimmery gown with dark silver accents, and my hair has been styled into cascading waves that hang down over my shoulder. I have no idea what I’m doing—there are so many lights, so many people shouting—but as long as Orlando’s arm is around my waist, I don’t care. I can face anything.
Orlando is nervous. He doesn’t show it, not on the surface, but I’ve learned to read him quite well. He doesn’t have any reason to worry, though. Death and Deadly Night is brilliant. Some might even call it a masterpiece. I have complete faith that the critics and the rest of the world will finally see Orlando for the genius he is, and he can finally move out of the shadow of his family.
Not that I don’t love his family, of course. They’ve all come out to support him tonight—Dante and Ashlyn, Rafe and Edie, Luca and his gorgeous wife Emilia. They pose for the cameras on either side of us, and I’m impressed by how easy and natural they make it look. Even Ashlyn and Edie, neither of whom were famous before they met their Fontaine men. I hope I get the hang of it soon. This won’t be the last premiere I attend with Orlando.
Smiling up at him, I give him a light squeeze behind his back where the cameras can’t see. Orlando grins right back down at me. We haven’t told anyone yet—not even our families, though we intend to break the news to them at the private afterparty tonight—but Orlando proposed to me yesterday. And I, no surprise, said “Yes!” with every piece of my heart.
The ring is currently tucked inside my dress, and I find myself pressing at it absently as I search for my family among the crowd of onlookers at the barricade. My parents and brother are out there somewhere, and I know they’re beyond thrilled for Orlando and me already. My dad has been out of the hospital for months now, and he’s looking like his old self again. His doctor still wants him to gain another fifteen pounds, but the color is back in his cheeks and the spark back in his step, and that’s enough for me.
I’m sad that I can’t seem to locate my family among the rest of the crowd, but I know I’ll get the chance to talk to them at the party later. Orlando and I will share our joy with them then.
The chorus of shouts increases among the reporters closest to the street. Another limo has just pulled up, and my heart quickens. Our latest arrivals are a surprise for Orlando.
The limo door opens, and Giovanna Fontaine steps out onto the red carpet, looking radiant in a golden gown. She always attends her children’s premieres, but she convinced Orlando that this time she would be staying in the hospital with his father so Charles wouldn’t have to be alone, and that they’d watch the event via a special livestream instead.
Giovanna gracefully preens for the cameras for a moment or two, then bends down to help the other passenger out of the limo herself.
Charles Fontaine has made a remarkable improvement over the last few months. In fact, his complexion looks quite healthy as he steps onto the red carpet. He moves a little stiffly, but that’s the only indication that he’s recently had an extended battle with his health. While Charles still has an uphill climb to face, the outlook is much brighter than it was a year ago.
I’d like to think I have a little to do with that. After all, they say that laughter is the best medicine, and I’ve given him plenty of reasons to laugh. I regularly send him photos of my doodles—usually ones of Orlando, but sometimes other members of his family, too.
Recently, doodling has become more than just a hobby for me. I can thank Orlando for that. He’s been encouraging me for months to try my hand at a comic boo
k or graphic novel, and I finally agreed on one condition—that he would cowrite the story with me. Now we’re working on a couple of different projects together: a series of modern adaptations of Shakespeare in graphic novel form, and a comic featuring an original tale about an ordinary, klutzy girl who moonlights as a rather unique hero.
Orlando’s working on a screenplay of his own, too. And from the snippets he’s read me, it’s going to be brilliant.
“This way,” Orlando murmurs to me after hugging his parents. He guides me gently down the red carpet toward the theater. It’s almost time for the screening to begin.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper, still smiling up at him. “Everyone’s going to love it, I just know they will.”
“I hope so.” His golden-brown eyes still show concern, so I decide to try a different tactic to ease his nerves. I did not come unprepared.
“You know,” I say softly as we step inside the theater, glancing around to make sure no one else can hear, “that stylist you hired for me put me in the skimpiest pair of panties you’ve ever seen.”
“Did she?” Some heat returns to those eyes, and his fingers press into my back.
I nod. “They’re a lot sluttier than what I normally wear. But they weren’t very comfortable. I had to take them off.”
“Ah.” Disappointment flickers in his eyes. “You know, that’s supposed to be my job.”
“If you like, after the movie you can slip them on me again. In the meantime, I’ve put them somewhere safe.”
His gaze darkens again, amusement sneaking in. “Did you?”
I stand up on my toes so I can whisper right into his ear. “Check your pocket.”
He does, after a surreptitious glance around. And he bursts into laughter as his fingers curl around the lacy bit of fabric.
“Panty Girl strikes again,” he says, and he nearly chokes on his laughter.
The rest of his family is looking at us like we’re insane. Let them.