chapter THREE
“St. Peter opened the gates.” He has a smile on his face, and his eyes are glazed over in mild hallucination.
My body trembles. “You’re not dead.”
He starts to get up, but falls back down, clutching his arm in pain. His head rolls back as he bites down and clenches his eyes tightly shut.
I try to focus on anything but him: the awful green walls, the fluorescent light over his bed, the faux-leather recliner in the corner, the brown tray table with the Pepto Bismal-pink water jug, or the catheter tube peeking out at the bottom of his bed. Yes, anything but him.
Of course, that fails.
Jax rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. When his eyes are open, he takes another look in my direction and blinks a few times. His brows furrow in slight confusion. The glazed-over look is now gone, and in its place is realization and surprise.
“Then this must be hell,” he announces before dropping his head on the pillow and staring at the ceiling.
I clench my teeth and squint at him. “Well, good to know you’re not dead,” I says as I turn around and head toward the door.
“How did you know I was here?” he calls out, his voice deeper than before.
I stop. Speaking into the open air, I reply, “Your sister. Apparently, I’m the only person she thought to reach out to. You burned a lot of bridges.”
“Surprised to see one’s still standing.”
Revolted by his audacity to even think we still have ties to one another, I proceed toward the door, only to find it opening as I approach.
“Sorry. Almost hit you there,” a nurse apologizes as she walks in and then speaks to Jax. “Good. You’re up. How’s the pain, honey?” She checks the bag of fluids hanging from the metal post by his bed waiting for his answer.
“Like I broke my fucking body,” he says, and I want to punch the disdain off his face. He’s the idiot that got himself into this predicament. At least he could be kind to the nurse trying to help him.
She doesn’t seem bothered by it. “I’ll up your drip. The morphine will kick in soon.”
“Is Dr. Abler on his way?” I ask the nurse.
“Who’s that?” Jax’s chest constricts from what I can only assume is the blinding pain of his injuries.
“He’s the surgeon that should be looking at your leg.” I give my attention to the nurse. “How long can he sit here until infection sets in?” My words demonstrate more concern than they should.
“Dr. Abler is on his way.” She lifts the blanket from Jax’s lower body, looks at his wound, and breathes in sharply. “That’s quite a break you have there. You’re still clean, but we’ll try to get you into surgery soon. This damn hurricane has us over capacity.”
I take a step toward her, my hands out in exasperation. “What happens if you lose power? Can you still operate?”
She nods. “We have backup generators. He’ll be fine.” She turns to Jax. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll just make you as comfortable as possible until an operating room is available.”
“I need surgery?” His eyes are wide, the whites lined in crimson.
“We’ll wait and see what Dr. Abler says. You two just try to relax,” she states.
The thought of being in this little room any longer makes my skin crawl. “I’m not staying. I have to get back downtown.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” she says alarmed. “The Mayor put a travel ban on the entire city. No cars are on the road, and I wouldn’t advise walking anywhere outside. We have people coming in with injuries from falling tree limbs to someone who has a stop sign embedded in their skull. It’s a category two hurricane. Make yourself comfortable because you’re bunking here for the night.”
“Here?” I ask incredulously. “All night?”
She nods.
I throw my hands in the air in defeat. “Fine. I’ll hang in the lobby or the cafeteria—”
“You’re staying right here. Every space in the hospital is being used. I’d advise you to stay with your…” She motions toward Jax to indicate our relationship.
“Brother,” I answer, causing him to chuckle.
She seems satisfied. “Stay with your brother. He needs you, and I need you in here and out of the way. We expect more patients throughout the night. Please, for everyone’s safety, don’t leave this room.”
I run my hands through my hair and take in the predicament. Stay in a room with Jax, all night. It can’t be too bad. She just upped his morphine. Maybe he’ll pass out again, and I can commiserate in silence.
“Yeah. I’ll stay.” I fall into the pleather recliner and tap my feet.
“Good. I’ll see if I can get you a blanket and pillow.” She raises her hand to the blue curtain by his bed.
“He needs a hospital gown,” I get a strange look back from Jax.
The nurse closes the curtain, blocking my view of the bed. I’m not sure what’s happening on the other side, but from the hissing and faint cursing coming from his mouth, I assume she’s cleaning his wounds.
While I wait, I pull out my phone only to see I don’t have service. I log on to the free hospital Wi-Fi and open a message to Ella Davis.
Jax is okay. He has a broken arm and leg and is awaiting a consult with a surgeon. He’s awake and lucid. You have nothing to worry about.
I take the time to contact my parents as well. I won’t dare tell them where I am. Instead, I lie and say I’m at my apartment, still have power, and I’m going to bed.
The nurse opens the curtain, and Jax is now wearing an awful looking, maroon and gray hospital gown that makes his pale skin look extra dismal.
His bed is raised slightly, and his pillows have been rearranged, so he’s more comfortable, with one propping up his injured arm. The nurse leaves, closing the door behind her.
Jax and I sit in silence while he stares at the ceiling, and I stare at him. His hair is combed back, most likely with his fingers when the nurse had the drapes closed.
His eyes travel from the ceiling to the matted, red locks on my head, to the zip-up hoodie that shows zero curves, down my thighs, and settles on my leg. He lingers too long on my right foot, and that’s when I realize, I’m shaking like a leaf.
I curl my leg under my left thigh. “How did you hurt yourself?”
He seems surprised I asked the question. “We were supposed to perform at a club, but it got canceled due to the storm, so we got shit faced. Last I remember, I was hanging from one of the beams along the ceiling. Pretty sure I fell.”
“That would be a safe assumption.” Sarcasm radiates in my voice. “Nice of your buddies to come to the hospital with you.”
“They called an ambulance.”
“They sound like winners. Where did you find them?”
“L.A.”
“Long way from Virginia.”
“Not long enough,” he mumbles.
I cross my arms at his audacity—like he’d have anything to run away from home for. I uncurl my leg and catch his eyes as he watches my knee bounce up and down wildly.
He squints for a moment, possibly wondering if I’m really just a hallucination. “What are you doing in New York?”
“Work,” I say, and he doesn’t follow up with another question.
Instead, he lies there, looking at me, waiting for more of an explanation. Since I clearly have nowhere to go, I may as well entertain myself with conversation. “I’m an assistant at a production company.”
He shakes his head slightly; his brows furrow and eyes look down at his sheets. “What happened to being a reporter?”
I open my mouth in disbelief. “You kinda ruined that dream when you released a sex tape of me.”
Jax’s eyes pop up in surprise of my harsh words. Apparently, he didn’t expect me to address the elephant in the room.
He looks back at me, expressionless.
I hold his gaze and wait for him to say something profound. Maybe an apology. Perhaps an acceptance of the douchebaggery he was a part of.
Instead, he purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders. “It worked for Kim Kardashian.”
My jaw drops. I try to speak but stop because I have so many things to say I don’t know which one to release first.
“You selfish prick,” I finally blurt out. Tears build like the Berlin Wall behind my eyes and threaten to come crashing down with one whip of a sledgehammer. I fight to keep them up as my body quivers with each word. “Do you have any idea what I went through? I had to change schools. My family moved out of the state. My face and body still live on porn sites, and here you are making jokes? Is that all life has become for you? One big joke?”
The emotions and the feels—all the feels—come pouring out of me in four, short sentences. I’ve waited years to confront the man who destroyed me. I’ve rehearsed my speech; the most vindictive words so perfectly planned in my head. Yet, here I am, standing in front of him, and it’s just raw emotion coming through.
“I shouldn’t be surprised by what I’m looking at,” I continue. “A wannabe musician who gets piss-ass drunk and lands himself in a hospital where no one, not even his closest friends, wants to come see him. You messed with my life and faced zero consequences. I don’t know why I ever expected more from you.”
I begin to shiver, my wet clothing getting the better of me. I stand and spin myself around to face the door.
“Don’t leave.” The way his words sound like a plea make me halt in my step. My fingers itch to open the door yet my feet are planted firmly on the ground. “Why are you here?”
“I thought you were dying.”
He lets out a low rumble of a laugh. “Came to see me off?”
I turn and stare deep into his soulless eyes. “Something like that.”
His pupils dilate. His brow furrows as he tilts his head just slightly. A wary look of…regret, maybe, crosses his face. His lips part as he takes in a shallow breath. If he didn’t already have a bruise half the size of his face, I’d punch him square in the temple just for looking at me the way he is.
Our moment of contention is broken when a nurse—different than the one before—walks in.
“Mr. Davis, I’m here to take you for your scan.”
“He already had one,” I state.
“Doctor Abler called for one more,” she answers without looking at me. Her attention is solely focused on Jax. Another orderly comes in to assist the transport.
I step out into the hallway to give him privacy. I text Kelli to let her know I’m fine, Jax is alive, and that I’m waiting out the storm in the hospital. Then I do the usual newsfeed check on Instagram and Facebook. The storm is in full force. As much as I don’t want to be here anymore, I’m glad I stayed. Nothing is worth risking my life. Even spending the night with him.
The door to Jax’s room opens, and the nurse and orderly wheel him out. I don’t even glance their way as they roll his bed down the hall to God knows where.
Walking back into the room, I’m oddly startled at how big and empty it feels. Without the bed, it’s barren, sad even.
The recliner welcomes me, and I rest my head and run my hands along the arms of the chair. When I woke up this morning, this is the last place I ever thought I’d be.
There’s a plastic, drawstring bag on the windowsill filled with clothing and personal effects. Rising, I walk to the window and lift the bag assuming it was what he was wearing when the ambulance brought him in.
I tug on the drawstring and see what’s inside: a pair of ripped jeans, green-plaid boxer briefs, a black t-shirt, black socks, and fuchsia-colored, high-top sneakers. They’re, quite possibly, the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen, and I have pretty eclectic taste.
At the bottom of the bag is his wallet. I prop it open and find his Virginia license. In the picture is a man who resembles the Jackson Davis of my youth. Brown hair, light-brown eyes, and a grin. There’s a little heart on his license stating he’s an organ donor. I’m surprised he’d sign himself up for something so selfless. That said, I’d pity the man who wound up with his cold, loveless heart.
He also has a black Amex, probably being paid off by his daddy. There’s a gym membership, a bunch of credit cards, six hundred dollars in cash and two condoms.
I thumb through the black leather and into the secret pocket that wallets have to find a photo stuck inside. I slide my thumb in and pull it out, but what’s in my hands makes my heart stop.
Me.
A photo taken when I was sixteen-years-old, sitting on a dune by the beach we escaped to that summer. My hair is blonde—my natural color—and woven into a long braid. The yellow-striped romper and canvas sneakers I’m wearing in the picture take me back to another place in time. I’m laughing in the picture, but I can’t remember what was said that was so humorous.
It’s possible this is the same wallet he’s had since then and just never took the picture out. The wallet is very old. It wouldn’t be impossible.
I won’t pretend this means he’s harbored some sort of guilt for what he did or has deep-rooted feelings he hasn’t been able to get over. If the course tone to his voice is any indication of who he is today, the photo in his wallet was just an oversight.
I put the picture in the pocket of my hoodie and close his wallet. There’s also a stick of gum, some loose change, and a cell phone at the bottom of the bag. It’s dead, so I plug it into my charger. Taking a seat, I wait for it to power up and swipe the screen. The password is his birthday—no shocker there—and his home screen is a picture of him performing with his band. Can anyone say, narcissist?
His photo album is filled with selfies. Him sticking his tongue out, kissing a girl’s ass, drinking a beer, playing his guitar, and yes, he even has a bunch of shirtless, bathroom pictures. I won’t lie and say the images he took of himself at the gym aren’t incredibly hot—they’re just uncalled for.
His email icon has a little, red bubble that says seven thousand, seven hundred and fifty-six. I’ve never seen so many unopened emails. I click on the app, and his mailbox appears. Emails from a man named Dexter, who I can only assume in his manager, with show dates, scheduling info and contract materials fill the screen. False Accusations is a small, indie band. If I hadn’t done some Facebook stalking, I never would have heard of them. From these emails, they’re a little more well-known than I gave them credit for with shows all over the country plus a European leg playing small venues.
I read a bunch of emails from his sister, Ella. She sends him weekly updates of his niece, Vivienne. He has a ton of advertisements from stores. Apparently, Jax likes to cybershop. A lot. He recently purchased over three grand worth of sneakers. Just sneakers. And dropped another couple grand at Helmut Lang on a fall wardrobe. Or perhaps just a new outfit for Saturday night, who knows. The man doesn’t seem to have any respect for the dollar.
All these emails have been read so I tap on a subfolder that reads Fan Mail. With an eye roll, I open the folder and am floored to see Jax has hundreds of pieces tucked away—unopened. He just moves them into this little slice of cyberspace.
Due to my lack of self-control, I open the emails and dive in… to naked pictures. Oh my, there are so many pictures of women without clothes on—I can’t fathom what the end game is here.
Why any self-respecting woman would take a picture of her breasts to lure a man is beyond me. My dad had to hire an attorney and a tech team to get my bare ass off the internet. I know it still lives somewhere, but at least there are cease and desist orders on the video. If it goes live anywhere, a note goes out to the domain holder stating the person in the video is a minor and they face legal ramifications for sharing it. Years later and we’re still ripping it down from the web. Here, these women are inviting their bodies to be exploited.
Not every email comes with a naked photo attachment, but I can see why he wouldn’t open them. Half of these girls look underage, and the rest are just desperate.
There are so many notes from people who are true fans of his music. Songs of his helped them get through hard times or inspired them to pursue their own dreams. Beautiful words from gracious people sit here, unread and unanswered.
Moving back to the home screen, I tap an app called Recordings. There are a ton of files with various dates. I select one, and a guitar riff plays through the speaker. The soft strums are soothing as the strings are caressed by the hands of a skilled musician. It’s a slow tune, one I find oddly comforting. Enough so that I prop open the leg rest on the recliner and lie down.
With the phone on my stomach, I settle for the first time since walking into the room. A man’s voice hums from the speaker, and it’s soulful like the sunrise on the Atlantic Ocean. Peaceful in the way it dips low and careens into a sweet ballad. There are no words—just a man and his guitar.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else where the pleather chair I occupy is really a lounge chair, and the fluorescent lights above are the sun warming my skin. And those pelting drops against the glass are the crashing waves of the ocean.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asked.
I looked up into his warm eyes, and the stars above him, as we snuck away in the night for a chance to see eachother. “I believe that love involves a totality where you are united physically and spiritually, creating one heart and soul, so, yeah. I guess I do believe in soul mates. Why do you ask?”
“Because of this.” His hand gripped the side of my face and rested his forehead against mine. “Because I don’t know if what I feel for you is normal. I always believed we were connected through souls, past and present, but this is fiery and it’s real and it’s scary as hell.”
I laced my arms around his back and held him tight. “You’re awfully poetic. If you don’t become a lawyer you’ll make a great writer.”
He leaned up and looked down at me with a frown. “Are you mocking me?”
“No.” I brushed the hair off his face and caressed his cheek. “I just don’t find any of this scary. I’ve never felt safer in my entire life. And I know love. I’ve seen it first hand from my parents. This, what we have. Is bigger.”
A grin escaped his lips as he leaned down for a kiss. It’s sweet and brief, yet filled with meaning. When he lifts his face he has a grips me tighter. “My parents don’t even look at each other, let alone hold one another. I don’t want to be like that, Trish. Promise me, we’ll always be there for one another. We’ll always kiss and hold hands. We’ll always be connected.”
“I promise. We’re forever.”