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CHAPTER TEN: CICELY

I keep my back turned away from the bedroom until I hear the front door click shut. That’s when the tears I’d been fighting break free and cascade down my cheeks. Angry with him. Angry with myself. I flop onto my back and pound my fists into the mattress beneath me. What the fuck was I thinking? How could I let myself be used by that man? A-fucking-gain. Last night, I pleasured myself with thoughts of him. Tonight, I let him back into my apartment and let him fuck me. Fuck, I even let him have my leftover Chinese Food! How stupid was I? Everyone knows leftover Chinese Food is the best.

I thought his being here meant he still wanted me. Knowing he planned to stand guard meant he wanted to protect me. So, that meant he still had feelings for me? Right? I picture the look on his face when he exited the bathroom. That look said he fucked up. He regretted what we did. He regretted being with me. Well, that makes two of us. I grab the pillow next to me and slam it over my face to scream. But that scream turns into a sob because the pillow smells like him. Roaring in anger and pain, I leap off the mattress and strip the bed. I toss the pillowcases and sheets into the hamper before grabbing a clean set to remake the bed. With my pillowcases now smelling like my lavender laundry detergent and not the jerk who just fucked me and ran, I climb into bed.

Turning off the light, I noticed I hadn’t closed the curtains. Throwing back the covers and mumbling a string of curses, I stomp over to the window and grab the curtains. Glancing down, I see movement across the street in the same spot as the previous night. Instead of hesitating, I shut the curtains but leave a sliver of open space so I can still see outside. Whoever it is isn’t wearing white tonight. He has on something darker. However, he’s smoking a cigarette, so I can see his outline. While he’s out of the light, his bike isn’t. I can see the wheel of a motorcycle reflecting off the lamp’s light. I strain my eyes to see more, but that doesn’t help. I get an idea and grab my phone. Turning off the flash, I hold the camera and snap several pictures. I don’t think I’ll catch anything more, but sometimes cameras capture more than you expect.

Crawling into bed, I zoom in on the pictures I took. I can only make out the dark outline on each until I find a photo that gives me what I want. As he lights up another cigarette, the flame from his lighter reveals more of his face. He looks familiar. Maybe Chrome decided to have his men guard me after all. I wish that knowledge made me feel better, but I can’t shake the memory of Chrome leaving as soon as he got what he wanted from me.

Resolved to never let Chrome use me again, I wipe away the remaining tears. The next morning, I wake still ensnared by the remnants of a dream. Of course, Chrome starred in the dream. I was walking down a deserted street; the only sound was the roar of a motorcycle. At the corner is a man. In the dream, I know he’s waiting for me. I can feel the evil reaching for me as I turn to run in the opposite direction. The bike roars closer, but then moves away again as another man approaches me. I race through the streets, crying, as I try to find Chrome, but as in reality, Chrome leaves me to my fate.

I rush through my morning ablutions in case my car has trouble again. Relieved to find it unmolested, I drive into work. I’m a few minutes early, which makes up for being late the previous day. Sara smiles when she sees me.

“I’m glad you came in early. I need to get out of here,” Sara whispers to me with a glance at Jane Doe’s room. Angry voices emanate from the room. They’re conducting the argument in angry whispers, which carry across the open space.

“Who?”

“Dr. and Mrs. Kemper,” Sara says. Unlike most professional women, Lisa Kemper prefers Mrs. over Ms. She once told me she worked hard to earn the salutation and wanted to use it.

“What are they arguing about?”

“Mrs. Kemper wants to move Jane Doe to the NorthShore Health Center while Dr. Kemper says she should remain here.”

“Why does she want to move her?”

“Money. What else? They don’t have the woman’s identity so she’s likely homeless and without insurance.”

“There’s no way that woman is homeless,” I tell Sara before heading to Jane Doe’s room. I enter, but neither notices me. I step through my responsibilities as they argue.

“Paul, I understand you wanting to keep her here, but they will take care of her at NorthShore. That’s what they’re there for, to care for those like her.”

“What do you mean by ‘those like her?’” Dr. Kemper argues. “I don’t disagree that the NorthShore is a fine facility, but she shouldn’t be put through the trauma of transferring her without a good reason.”

“NorthShore has the federal funds to handle a homeless woman. We don’t. I have to think of the hospital.”

“Is that all you see when you look at a person?” Paul snaps at his wife. “Dollar signs?”

“Of course not, but managing this hospital is my responsibility. I have to do what’s best for everyone. This woman is obviously down on her luck and can’t afford the care we can provide. She needs to move to a hospital that is prepared to help the indigent.”

“She isn’t indigent,” I protest, drawing their attention to me.

“Excuse me, this doesn’t concern you,” Lisa says scathingly.

“What?” Dr. Kemper asks.

“Whoever Jane Doe is, she wasn’t living on the streets. I covered the exam the crime scene techs performed, and she’s obviously frequents a spa. She’s had a wax or the hair lasered. She has a pedicure,” I continue, flipping the blanket and removing the socks to show them her well-groomed feet. “She has money. I’m sure someone is looking for her.”

“Which means she should stay here,” Dr. Kemper says. Lisa throws her hands in the air before marching out of the room.

“Thank you. I know Lisa has a job to do, but sometimes I think she forgets that the main purpose of a hospital is to help people, not make a profit. But then she is the administrator, so I can understand how she can forget that the budget isn’t the only thing that matters.”

“No problem. I’m glad she gets to stay. I hope the police can figure out who she is. Her family must be worried sick about her.”

“I spoke to the detective in charge of the case. He said that with her missing teeth and her burnt hands, they won’t be able to identify her unless someone files a missing person’s report on her. We may have to wait for her to wake up and tell us her name.”

I finish my tasks before moving next door to Mr. Michaelson’s room. I find Gray Monroe sitting next to the bed and reading aloud from his tablet.

“That’s kind of you to read to him,” I say as I update the whiteboard with my name before checking his chart for his prescribed medication. “Most patients who wake from a coma have memories of their visitors.”

“I read that, too,” Gray replies. “His sister, Bella, is flying in today and should be here this afternoon to visit him. She’ll likely barge in here and start ordering him to wake up. She has little patience.”

“Maybe that’s what he needs,” I smile. “Have you learned anything more about his accident?”

“I spoke to the man who found him, and he told me where he saw him. I’m driving there later to see if I can spot his bike. I’m guessing he had an accident, although the doctor said he didn’t have road burns.”

“No, he didn’t. Just a bash on the head. Wouldn’t he have been wearing a helmet?”

Gray nods. “Absolutely, Blue never rode without a helmet. He had an expensive one. One that we designed.”

“So, he wasn’t wearing his helmet when he was knocked unconscious,” I muse.

Gray studies me. “You’re right. He must have pulled to the side of the road and removed his helmet. Why would he do that? Especially there? There’s nothing at the location.”

“Where was it?”

“Highway 41 between 87th and 89th,” Gray says.

“When was this?” comes a voice from the door. A voice I’d hoped not to hear today.

“Excuse me?” Gray asks as Chrome comes into the room.

“You mentioned Highway 41. Was that where your friend was found?” Gray nods. “When?”