22: PHANTOMS
“Wes?”
I swat away the phantom. Must be new casting by my whisky theater.
“I object,” I mutter, because this ghost reminds me too much of Hannah. I’m also too weak to fight it when it pushes me on my back and scans me from head to toe.
Her gasp sounds painful. “My god! What happened? I’m calling for help.” She reaches for something, and I grab her wrist. Shit, it really is Hannah. I thought I took her key back. Didn’t I? No. I’d never have the strength to do that.
“I’m fine.” Yeah, not exactly a solid argument. “No hospital.”
I flinch when she touches my face. “I’ll be right back,” she says, voice quavering. She returns with first aid supplies, and I try to move out of reach.
“No. Go home.” Funny how I sound drunk even though I’m not for once. Drunk on pain, I guess. I like it. Have to remember that one in case I’m ever able to hold a guitar again.
“Not happening,” she says, and positions herself next to me on the bed.
I close my eyes. “Just leave. I don’t want your help.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to help.”
I look at her then. I have to because it’s Hannah and she’s the most beautiful, amazing woman ever created. “Hannah.” Just breathing her name settles a peace over me.
“Don’t. Not now.” She’s angry. Of course she is. But is it new anger or old anger? It’s a question I face often in my relationships.
“So why are you here?”
“Because I have to be.” Her hard tone lies through tears when her eyes meet mine. “Because I hate you, and I love you, and I hate loving you, but I do.” She cups my face. “So much.”
I’m shaking when she starts tracing the evidence of my pain. The cuts on my face, the bruises on my chest, each seeping wound should be scaring her away to the safety of someone who’s not poison. I’ve exposed my demon for her. How is she not running?
“Hannah…” Her flower-scent overwhelms me. I can’t think anymore. I just want to drown in that smell. That would be the sweetest death. Sweeter than sex, music, fame. A flower-scented pillow that never fades.
“I’m here.”
She is. Fuck knows why, but she is. I close my eyes, the pain finally taking more than I can withstand. Still, I feel the tug of a smile on my cracked lips. “Hannah…” I whisper, and everything goes dark.
∞∞∞
The flower-scent is gone when I wake. This time it’s disinfectant and chemicals wafting over me in a nauseating greeting. Beeps, hums, distant voices. The sterile glow of hospital lighting seeps through the swollen slits of my eyelids.
My first attempt at movement fails. So does the second. By the third, though, I’m able to lift my arm enough to see an IV extending from a vein in my hand.
A rattle at the door reveals a sandy-haired woman in scrubs. Her smile is bright and mischievous. “Well, hello there, Mr. Alton,” she says in a chipper voice. “Nice of you to join us.”
“My pleasure,” I mumble, although it doesn’t come out as words. Damn, I must be drugged up. That would also explain the floating walls and lack of pain.
“You got yourself into quite a jam, eh?”
“You could say that.” My syllables form better this time.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“Just a fight.”
She winks. “How are the other guys?”
“There were more of them, so they’re fine.”
“I see. Well, I’m Linda if you need anything. I’m going to let Dr. Smyth know you’re awake. She’ll have some questions for you.”
Yep, exactly the reason I didn’t want to come to the hospital in the first place.
“What about Hannah?” The nurse raises an eyebrow, and I grunt. “The girl who probably called the ambulance. Did she come in with me? Is she here?”
Linda’s apologetic look does nothing to soften the blow. “Sorry, I’m not sure about any of that. Dr. Smyth may have a better idea. She’ll be right in.”
∞∞∞
Dr. Smyth doesn’t remember a Hannah either. She does have a lot of questions about what happened. I downplay the incident and refuse to involve law enforcement. I know the Brute Trio will keep it to themselves as well, so no need to waste taxpayer dollars on more headlines I don’t want.
Her updates on my injuries are encouraging, though. No internal bleeding or brain trauma. Just a crap-load of superficial wounds and fractures that will take some time to heal. But they will heal, she promises with a smile that indicates I should be happy about it. I smile back because there’s no way in hell I’m having a forced conversation with a psychiatrist while I’m here.
Her confidence fades when she learns I’m that Wes Alton. We both stare at my bandaged hands in thoughtful silence.
“You should be able to play again,” she says finally. It’s the same tone my mother used when she promised maybe one day we’d get a dog. I never got a dog.
“When?” I ask.
“I’m not comfortable issuing an exact estimate. There are many factors to consider.”
“Then give me a non-exact estimate. Will I be playing by April?”
She doesn’t have to give me any estimate with that expression. No. I won’t be playing for my sister’s wedding. The last thing I had left is gone too.
I shut my eyes and rest against the pillow.
Dr. Smyth launches into backtrack mode, and I don’t have the energy to stop her optimistic lies. In rare cases this, that, fucking everything happens, but I stopped believing I’m one of the lucky ones years ago.
I’m also not interested in self-pity. “Sounds good,” I say, cutting her off. “Hey, doc, I have trouble sleeping. You know, the pain…” is bad, but being conscious is worse.
“Of course. I’ll have Linda get you something after we draw blood.”
“Thanks.”
She rests her hand on my forearm. “You’ll play again soon, Mr. Alton. You just need to have hope.”
I manage to suppress my laugh.
∞∞∞
When I wake again it’s dark outside. The gleam of parking lot lights sprinkles in through the slotted blinds, and a clock on the wall tells me it’s 7pm. A sign next to it reports that visiting hours end at nine. I guess that’s relevant information for some patients.
I briefly consider calling Sophia. At the very least, she should know about my hands so she can make other arrangements for her processional. But I don’t want to freak her out with a call from the hospital and I don’t have my cell. Besides, the thought of turning on that digital monster after all this time is more painful than anything that happened in the alley.
A light knock on the door draws my attention, and I turn to face Linda who’s probably doing another of her vitals checks. That would have been helpful at the moment because my vitals nearly crash when the dark hair of a younger woman pushes through instead.
“May I come in?” Hannah asks.
I’m too stunned to answer. She smiles at my dazed nod and closes the door behind her. My gaze is glued to every flex and sway of her body as she crosses the room. There’s a glow around her, I swear. The chair beside me creaks as she lowers herself and balances a small duffle bag on her lap.
“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. The nurses said you were sleeping when I came by this afternoon so I went to your place to get some stuff for you.”
“Thanks” –is what I say to the woman who makes my heart explode.
She clears her throat and holds up the bag. “So here. Um, I wasn’t exactly sure what you’d need but I brought some clothes, a toothbrush…” She looks at me again with a tortured expression, and something cracks in my soul. “Nine empty liquor bottles,” she says quietly, eyes heavy. “Is that all you’ve done since that day?”
“Not all.” I raise my messed-up hands, but she doesn’t smile.
“I brought your phone too.” It’s a warning, a question, and a critique all-in-one.
“You turned it on,” I guess, and she nods. Shit.
“Take it from the expert. Hiding from the storm doesn’t make it go away.”
“Is that why you came back?”
She adjusts in the chair, focusing on the floor. “I was worried, yes. You weren’t responding to any of my messages. Then I found out no one had heard from you.” She bites her lip as tears fill her eyes. I’ve never hated myself more. Her pain is on me. “When I saw you there, all bloody and not moving—” A sob cuts her off, and I instinctively rock forward. The strain hurts like hell, but it’s worth it when my fingers reach her shoulder and she slides onto the bed. I pull her in and bury my face in that intoxicating flower-scent.
“I need you, Han,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I can’t do it without you.” Tears, my tears, burn in protest but I don’t want to move. I won’t. Not when I have her in my arms again. “I love you.”
Another sob leaks out, and I lock her against me. My rock. My goddess. My kickass viper.
“You should have stayed away,” I say through a kiss on her hair.
“I know.”
“It’s going to be even harder now.”
“I know.”
She pulls back and grips my cheeks. “I’m breaking free to strike. Fangs bared, spring out, out. Of hell, don’t tell. Me what I am…”
I silence her beautiful song with a kiss. That voice. That smell. That magic we have together—I want it in my world forever. “I’m not, not your pet. I’m your hidden regret. So hear me, you should fucking fear me. As I rise.”