Page 40

Jack

Ava lies in a hospital bed on wheels with her eyes closed. The faded blue hospital gown pales her skin. A white plastic hospital bracelet rests on her wrist. Her stack of shiny bracelets is gone.

A tall, broad shouldered, well-dressed Black man sits in a chair beside her hospital bed. He looks up when the nurse rolls back the ER privacy curtain.

“Ms. Amara has another visitor,” the nurse tells him.

He stands and holds out his hand. I sense from the way he’s looking at me, he knows who I am. His grip on my hand is firm. “Patrick Smith.”

“Ava’s mentioned you. Jack Sullivan.” Per my sources, this man is also my uncle’s boyfriend. Secret boyfriend.

A hint of a smile plays across his lips. “Ava’s mentioned you, too.”

Again, this is something I know. She told him about our agreement. He returns to his seat by her head.

“How is she?” She’s not on an IV. They haven’t assigned her a room. These are good signs.

“She’s lucky, is what she is.” His gaze falls on her. “She didn’t break anything. Doesn’t seem to have any internal bleeding. She’s going to be sore.”

Bruising shows on her face, below her eyes and near her nose.

“Her car is totaled.” I repeat the phrase that has been boomeranging in my head nonstop ever since Arrow relayed the information before we arrived. Police towed it from the scene.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t take much for them to consider an old car like that totaled.” Patrick’s dismissive statement riles me. She could have been killed.

“You work with her?” I’ve seen his name before on information about the center. My uncle has been sending me Buena Vida’s information for years. It’s one of many nonprofits I donate to.

“I do,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He fixes a steady gaze on me, like he’s sizing me up. “She’s my dearest friend.”

I step to the end of her bed and drop my gaze to the light blue blanket covering her feet. The weight of his gaze confirms that he doesn’t approve of our arrangement, or of me. I don’t blame him.

Her eyelids flutter open, and her hand goes to her temple.

“Hey,” Patrick says. “Head still hurt?”

“Not as bad.” Those sad, brown eyes focus on me, and I take in the bloodshot quality. She could have died.

“When can I leave?” Her question is directed to Patrick.

“They want you to stay tonight for observation.”

“No,” she moans. “I don’t want to stay here. I’m fine.”

“You have a concussion,” he says.

“You can come back to the house.” Patrick and Ava look at me. I sense Fisher behind me.

“She needs to be under observation,” Patrick says.

“I can have a nurse at the house before we get home. A doctor too, if we need one. There’s no need for her to stay here for observation.”

I hate hospitals. If she has to stay here, we’ll find a hospital with a private suite available, but based on what I’m hearing, she needs rest. No one rests in a hospital.

“I want to go home,” Ava says. She looks completely despondent.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone. You can come home with me,” Patrick offers.

Ava closes her eyelids and turns her head away from Patrick. She doesn’t want to come home with me. The realization reverberates within me. I can’t blame her, given how I’ve treated her. I rub my sternum, seeking relief from the pang reverberating within.

“Where do you live?” I ask Patrick.

“Los Angeles.” His chin juts out. “Malibu. Just moved from West Hollywood. She hasn’t seen my new place.”

Certainly a nice place to recover, but too far away.

“Your muscles must be sore.” I lean closer to Ava and reach down and touch her wrist. “Stay with us. We can get you home quickly and with the least amount of discomfort.”

Patrick’s gaze meets mine. Please don’t fight me on this . I will not accept any other scenario. I can’t. I possess a visceral need to keep watch over her. I could have lost her. In one second, that wreck could have taken her. Patrick blinks and slowly nods. I think he reads me well.

“He’s probably right,” Patrick says to Ava.

“Won’t you need to be at the center?” Ava’s question sounds like a plea.

“I’ll be back and forth. I have to be in LA two days from now.” His gaze drifts to me. “Personal obligation.”

“I have to plan the funeral.” Ava plants her palm against her cheek.

“Funeral?” I ask.

“A resident at the center passed away last night,” Patrick offers.

“He was more than a resident, and you know it.” Ava moves her hand. A lone tear leaks out of the side of her right eye. Then another. And another. My chest throbs.

“He’s being cremated. You have time,” Patrick says.

Sophia mentioned Ava received bad news from the center. Someone she was close to died. I have been in a similar place. Only I didn’t crash my car. But I had a daughter. I had no choice but to rise above it all.

I locate Fisher behind me, across the hall. I motion for him to join us.

“We will be leaving and transporting Ms. Amara back to my home. Can you check with a nurse and find out what we should do to transport her most comfortably?”

This is outside the scope of his responsibilities, but he nods. In addition to making her comfortable, he will ensure we are safe. I pull out my phone and send a text to my house manager.

Ms. Amara has been in an accident. She will recover at my San Diego property. Please arrange for a twenty-four-hour nurse to be in the house. Also, have a doctor on standby. Ask what kinds of foods a person recovering from an automobile accident should have and get Chef on it.

Janet - House

Yes, sir.

“Everything’s ready. Are we waiting on papers for her to be released?”

Patrick stands and smooths down his pressed Armani dress shirt. I recognize his shirt because it’s exactly like one my uncle gave me last year.

“I’ll go see if I can find her doctor,” Patrick says.

With him gone, I move to the head of Ava’s bed. There’s a silver guardrail along the edge of the bed, and I lean against it, peering down at her. I so much want to dry her tears.

“I’ll be fine at home,” she sniffs.

“There’s no way in hell you are going back to your home.”

Surprise flashes in those eyes. I’ve been reining in surging emotions because of the stranger next to her, but there’s a war raging within me, and my mind struggles to quell the explosions. “You are coming back with me. I’ll take care of you.”

“Jack…”

“Do you have any idea how it felt to hear you were in a car accident? Do I need to remind you that my wife died in a car crash? That my first thought was that the same people who killed her went after you? Do you have any idea the hell I endured until I learned you survived?” She blinks, and I cover her icy hand with mine. “Let me take care of you.”

There is no tenderness in my words because I am on the brink of losing control over a whirlwind of emotions I don’t fully comprehend. There is no room for negotiation.

Hours later when we finally arrive at my house, my nerves are beyond frayed. Ava’s exhausted, but the doctor explained it’s an expected side effect from the pain medication they have given her.

I fling the car door open and scoop her up in my arms.

“I can walk.” I ignore her and charge inside to the stairs.

One by one, I climb the stairs, my thighs burning as I reach the top. She rests her head against my chest, and as a true testament to her being slightly out of it, she doesn’t notice where we are until I’m laying her down on my bed.

“What?” she asks, pushing up on one arm. I ignore her, go to the far side of the bed, pull back the covers, and return to move her.

“Why? Is this…?”

“My room. The entire floor is a suite. If a nurse needs to be nearby, she can stay in the small bedroom at the front of the house. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

I press a button, and a mechanical whir sounds as the shades hidden in the ceiling fall, blocking the sun and the floor-to-ceiling view of the ocean. Low, dim lights cast a golden haze along the walls.

“If you want to listen to music, here’s a control. There are sound machine options. Rain, waves, birds. Anything you want.”

She rests back on the pillow and brushes her forehead. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants that Patrick purchased from the hotel gift shop. We tossed the clothes she wore earlier this morning. They were covered in glass and blood.

“I’ll bring you some clothes. Do you have any requests?”

“For you to stop this. You are freaking me out.” That’s rich, given she freaked me out this morning.

“Are you hungry?”

“What is Sophia going to think of me staying here?”

I stare at her for a minute. I hadn’t given that one second of thought. In a flash, the answer comes to me. “This is the best room in the house. She’ll understand.”

“The guest room downstairs is plenty nice.”

“There’s a soaking tub up here. You’ll need that.” I sigh. She needs to rest. “The tub downstairs isn’t as easy for you to access. And the nurse will have private quarters. This is the best place for your recuperation. Food requests?”

She shakes her head, and her eyelids droop. She’s tired, and so am I. As I exit the room, I tap a button to kill the auto movement lights.

“Jack?”

I pause. “Yes?”

“I know you feel this innate need to take care of Sophia, but you don’t need to take care of me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

She’s correct, of course. But my muscles tremble. My hands have been frozen all day. My eyes feel like someone is holding my eyelids stretched open. Taking charge is the only way I know to calm the inner turmoil. To find assurance that she is and will be okay.

The entire drive to the hospital, visions of Cassandra laid out on the stretcher flashed. She was dead on arrival, and they aren’t particularly careful with dead bodies. I insisted on seeing her because I couldn’t believe it. It was all too sudden.

I rest against the wall and breathe in deeply. This isn't about me. It’s about Ava. She lost someone today.

“Who was he?” I shove my hands in my pockets. My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can barely make out her shape beneath the comforter. “The person who died.”

“My ex,” she says. “Reid.”

My fingers curl into my palms. “What happened?”

“He relapsed.” She rolls on her side, her back to me. “Sometimes that happens. There’s no rhyme or reason.” He must have been staying at her facility. “He called me last night. But I didn’t have my phone.”

Dammit. She’s going to feel so much guilt. That’s something I know far too much about.

“How did Patrick learn you were at the hospital?”

“I called him.” That’s what I suspected. Dammit, Ava.

“You called Patrick, and not me?” For all she knew, I was down the street. He lives in Los Angeles.

“He’s my…” Her voice becomes dimmer, and she mumbles the rest of her sentence, something about him being her closest friend.

On one hand, controlled fury bubbles beneath the surface at her choice.

On the other hand, I completely understand her reasoning.

Regardless, rational reasons do not quell frustration and anger.

But what I’m feeling doesn’t matter. She suffered a concussion.

Her body took a violent beating. She needs to rest.

“Go to sleep. We’ll talk later.”