Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2) Page 12

  “Fuck!”

  “Hey, it’s okay, dude. I’ll grab a rag.” Grasshopper leapt to his feet. The damn man had guzzled copious amounts of whiskey over the past two hours but still looked completely sober. Me, on the other hand? I hadn’t touched a drop and I was the one fucking spilling things.

  Damn this headache!

  The doctor cleared her throat, her eyes taking everything in. “She’s fine. She’ll have a headache for a few days, but her vitals are good and eye dilation perfectly normal.” Moving toward me, she added, “She also took a shower. Without the blood covering her, I was able to assess and make sure there were indeed no lacerations or wounds.” She smiled gently. “She’ll make a complete recovery, and I’ve sent her to bed.”

  I slouched in my seat, no longer caring about the spill. “Thank God.”

  Grasshopper came back with a rag, throwing it on the carpet and stomping on it with his dirty boots. Dried mud rained every time he trampled the absorbent cloth.

  I was too exhausted to care.

  The doctor peered at me. “Your impairment is worse than I thought. Your friend said you checked yourself out of the hospital a few hours ago—but I wasn’t advised how bad you are.”

  My forehead furrowed. “What do you mean? Just ’cause I spilled a bit of whiskey?”

  “No, because you’re slurring.”

  The world stopped still. “What?”

  “Shit, man. You are,” Mo muttered. “Thought you were just tipsy, but you haven’t touched a drop.”

  Fear wrapped itself around my throat.

  I’m not slurring. Am I?

  I shook my head, trying to realign my disobeying tongue. “Just tired.” Swallowing, I peered at the doctor. “Time for one shmore—I mean one more consultation, Doc?”

  Shit, I am slurring.

  What the fuck did that mean?

  She smiled. “Of course.” However, her calm bedside manner couldn’t hide the sudden worry in her gaze. “Come into my office and climb up on your dining table.”

  I tried to crack a smile—I really did. But everything was such an effort. Shit, even standing felt as if I fought the couch for centuries before I managed to climb unsteadily to my feet.

  Shuffling forward in shoes filled with concrete, I passed Mo and gripped his shoulder. Holding on to him, I played it off as a goodbye when in reality he was my damn crutch to stop me face-planting to the floor.

  “Make sure this kind shlady is paid, won’t you, Mo? After this, I plan on shleeping and I’ve completely forgotten the combination to my safe.” I laughed as if it was the funniest thing I’d said. “I’m broke until I remember.”

  It’s not fucking funny.

  I couldn’t stop laughing.

  It’s fucking terrifying.

  Nothing could sober me up. I’d well and truly lost it.

  Lost everything.

  My mathematical ease. My carefully trained conscience. Shit, every bank code, password, and trading algorithm had flown free, leaving my brain a forsaken wasteland.

  I was … empty.

  Mo shot a worried look at Grasshopper. “You got it, Kill.” Grabbing me around the nape, he guided me like a dog leads a blind man to the door. “Go get better, Prez. The war can wait. But your health and woman can’t.”

  Without another word, I followed the doctor to her temporary examination room and passed the fuck out on the table.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cleo

  Crap, I was in so much trouble.

  Dad had caught us. He’d seen Arthur kissing me. Or rather, me kissing Arthur. God, it’d been so embarrassing. Why couldn’t Mom have caught us? She’d delivered the “sex talk” like an automated textbook with no giggling or embarrassment. But Dad … ugh. The fact that he’d sat me down and told me that Arthur had a penis and that I was to never—under any circumstances—let it come out of his pants was the singular most mortifying thing that’d ever happened to me. Only thing was … instead of being horrified at teenage pregnancy, now all I could think about was Arthur’s penis. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen

  Funny how sleep had the power to erase the trauma of the previous day.

  How dreams wash away grime and heal wounds in a way water and medicine never could.

  I’d gone to bed achy, wrung out, and fretting myself stupid over Arthur.

  Now I woke stiff, lethargic, and fuzzy—but revitalized enough that past concerns no longer gnawed so deeply.

  The clock still ticked.

  The world still spun.

  We were alive and that was all that mattered.

  Glancing around the room, I reacquainted myself with the space I’d slept in before I was stolen. The carpet was still the same. The layout hadn’t changed. The drapery hung open and inviting eager Florida sunshine to act as our alarm clock.

  I waited for a flutter of panic at having a safe place breached. But it never came. I remained centered and content.

  Stretching and sucking in a replenishing breath, I rolled over to face the man who’d been beside me when our safety had been compromised. My heart pattered with horrible memories of him being whacked over the head and left bleeding.

  I hurt more for him than myself, and I cursed the world for damaging him yet again. The injustice he’d lived through—the betrayals he’d suffered.

  But life doesn’t play favorites.

  Just because I loved him didn’t mean he was exempt from bad things happening.

  Life went on. Waited for nothing and no one. It was up to us to put the past in the past and grow stronger.

  Looking at the world in such a way made me feel very insignificant, but at the same time, relieved. Relieved because no matter what atrocities happened, they could all be forgotten if we allowed the magic of a new day to wipe the slate clean and begin anew.

  I smiled slightly, thinking about my progress from blankness to remembrance.

  The doctor last night had been one of the best I’d ever talked to. Not only had she discussed the symptoms I’d suffer over the next few days as the swelling in my brain went down, but also put my fears to rest about my amnesia. She’d studied psychogenic amnesia at length as part of her thesis and promised to catch up to discuss possibilities of me ever having a relapse and how to patch up the final holes in my past.

  She made me trust that I could be fixed … that I could become completely whole once again.

  When she’d finished with me, I’d headed upstairs to wait for Arthur. I’d had good intentions, but the moment I climbed into bed, I was out.

  I should’ve stayed up to make sure he was okay.

  I bit my lip, guilt clouding inside. What if he’s worse and I didn’t notice?

  Snuggling closer to Arthur, I feathered my fingers over the dark circles beneath his eyes. I held my breath, waiting for him to wake from the slightest touch.

  He’d always been a light sleeper—explosively coming awake if he heard a noise or, as he used to say, “a disturbance in the force.” He wasn’t a Star Wars fanatic but he’d seen the movies enough in his youth to quote it at the strangest of times.

  But … nothing happened.

  Arthur …

  His breathing hitched but he didn’t flinch away or open his eyes.

  Ice entered my heart.

  Wake up!

  I slid my fingers over his cheekbones, moving to trace his mouth.

  Still … nothing.

  Oh, God.

  Sitting upright, I swallowed back a rush of nausea and nudged his shoulder. “Arthur.”

  Old wounds caused by eight years apart ruptured inside me, bleeding, drowning with panic.

  I tapped his cheek harder. “Art. Wake up.”

  My wounds continued bleeding, flowing with no tourniquet, filling me with horror.

  “Arthur.” I shook him. “Wake up.”

  His large body twisted, a lethargic arm swatting at me. He mumbled something, then slipped back into slumber.

  He’s still alive at least. He could just
be super tired from the stress of finding me and everything else that he refused to share. Or he could be slipping from me.

  I would never let that happen. My veterinary training kicked in. I searched for vitals, sought out his pulse and temperature. What was the proper medical attention for a concussed man who couldn’t wake up?

  My brain rushed with textbook solutions while my heart fisted and pained.

  I shoved him hard. “Arthur Killian, wake up this instant!”

  I couldn’t shake the concern that he was far worse than a simple concussion. I hated him so quiet, so lifeless. “Arthur!” He couldn’t leave me. Not now. Not ever. Why would life be so damn cruel? To let us find each other again and then tear us apart?

  Grabbing his cheeks, my hair fell over my shoulder onto his chest. “Arthur, open your eyes. Please, open your eyes.”

  He moaned, his forehead furrowing into deep tracks.

  “Yes. That’s it.” Come back to me. Don’t leave me. “Arthur, wake up!”

  His eyes cracked open.

  My world ended and began again. Jitters hijacked my muscles; oxygen refused to stay in my lungs. The greenness of his gaze was just as vibrant, just as stunning.

  He’s okay … please let him be okay.

  Confusion flickered, followed by alarm. “Wh-what?” He grimaced, shuffling higher against the pillows. “What’s so important?”

  His voice was a blanket, putting out the flames of my panic. Oh, thank God.

  My insides stopped bleeding but my heart galloped like crazy. “What’s so important? I’ll tell you what’s so damn important. How about the fact you wouldn’t wake up!”

  My temper replaced the feeling of helplessness and my healing knowledge took over. There was strength in becoming a nurse rather than a grieving spouse. It was comforting to go through the motions of checking his pallor, counting the beats of his heart, reaffirming that the soul I loved so much was still firmly anchored in his body.

  “Buttercup, what the hell are you doing?” Arthur smiled, his voice sleep-soft.

  He wasn’t slurring; his eyes weren’t unfocused, but I didn’t trust he was fine—not after the struggle to wake him. “I want to call the doctor. Something’s not right.”

  He scowled. “Just because I slept like the dead doesn’t mean you have to go all iron-handed.”

  “It does if you should be in the hospital.”

  He groaned under his breath.

  Needing to test, to make sure he was okay and fully with me, I arranged my shaking hand into a Girl Scout salute. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Eh.” Arthur blinked. “You know, homework first thing in the morning isn’t exactly my idea—”

  “Just answer me. Humor me. Laugh at me if you must, but answer the damn question.” I shoved my hand in his face. “How many?”

  Rolling his eyes, he winced and jammed his thumbs into his sockets, rubbing sleep away. Yawning, he took his time—deliberately antagonizing me.

  He narrowed his gaze. “Seeing as my multiplication skills so interest you, I’ll put you out of your misery and say three.” A smile played on his mouth. “Want me to recite the three times table while I’m at it?”

  Relief slammed into me. I dropped my arm, growing numb with delayed shock. “That might be an idea.”

  Prove to me you’re whole and maybe I can relax.

  He chuckled but a shadow suddenly crossed his face; he shook his head. “On second thought, it’s still too early.” Tossing his arms above his head, he stretched. “How about you quit pestering me and come back to bed.” He looked like a giant jungle cat. All he needed was a palm tree as a scratching post.

  My tummy clenched but I still couldn’t shake the fear. “How are you feeling?”

  Tell me the truth.

  Yawning again, he rubbed his temples. “Surprisingly, better than yesterday.”

  I collapsed against my pillow. “Oh, thank God for that.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Buttercup.” He rolled onto his side, throwing his arm over me. “I’m fine, really.” His words said one thing, his voice another. He wasn’t fine—his tone just admitted it.

  But what could I do? Time would fix him—and if it didn’t, I just had to hope doctors would.

  We stayed quiet for a while. I feared he’d gone back to sleep, but then his voice trickled into my ears. “You can’t keep worrying, Cleo.” He nuzzled closer. “The doc last night was really great. She gave me some painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Did a few tests that I have no idea the purpose of, and arranged to pop by in a few days for a checkup.”

  Propping myself up on my elbow, I looked down at him. “Did she say you’ll be okay? No long-term effects?”

  He looked at the ceiling, avoiding my eyes. “Of course. What else would she say?”

  A tremble quaked down my spine. He’s lying again.

  I didn’t know how to reply.

  Arthur suddenly rolled onto his side and spooned me against his hard, bed-warmed body. “Like I said, stop worrying. I’ll be fine. Yes, I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I will be.”

  Kissing the top of my head, he threw his leg over mine, capturing me possessively. “However, I do want a bit more sleep.” His long length rippled like polished stone, his hard edges intoxicating.

  My heart skipped as he pulled me closer and rocked his hips against my butt.

  “Just … lie here with me for a little longer.” His breath caught. “And then we have the matter of settling a bet about money bringing happiness.”

  Money doesn’t bring happiness. You do. And right now you’re hurting me by avoiding what’s important.

  I wanted to deny him. I wanted to force him from the bed and call the doctor to check him over again. Something wriggled in my heart, urging me to uncover whatever he kept hidden.

  “Cleo, stop,” he breathed. “Your thoughts are so loud.”

  I stiffened, unable to relax when all I thought about was him passing into a coma if he went back to sleep.

  “I’m okay.” He pressed the sweetest kiss on my shoulder. Heat spread like blooming tendrils, disappearing down my back.

  I shuddered and sighed, unable to hide the watery sound of my concern.

  Arthur squeezed me closer, his strength undiminished even if his head was broken. “Honestly, Cleo. I’m fine. Just need a few days to rest, that’s all.” Kissing me again, he whispered, “Now, can you please stop thinking and let me hold you without fearing a panicked rabbit lives in your chest?”

  I laughed halfheartedly. He’s right.

  My heart raced to a supersonic beat while Arthur’s pounded slow and sure behind me. I forced myself to take comfort from the strong, steady tempo.

  He’s alive.

  That was all I needed—for now.

  “Just another hour, shokay? Then … we’ll …” His voice slurred a little as he slipped quickly back into sleep. He drifted.

  “Okay, Arthur. I can wait another hour before interrogating you.”

  Counting down minutes in my head, I lay still and silent.

  I should’ve been comforted in his embrace, but instead all I suffered was fear.

  A day passed.

  One moment it was dawn, the next it was dusk.

  How did one hour turn into ten?

  I’d remained unyielding and unsleepy in his arms for his requested hour. Once time had run out, I’d tried to rouse him but failed—he’d succeeded in swatting me away like an annoying bug, rolling himself up in the blankets. He was out again before I could poke him from his greedy dreams.

  Another hour had passed.

  I’d learned from my past mistakes and didn’t make the same again. Rolling him onto his back, I’d given him no room to hide. I’d slapped him. Gently at first, but harder until he rose from the clingy existence of sleep and opened his eyes.

  And there, I’d trapped him.

  I didn’t let him sink again. I caught him in my net and chatted and questioned and became so annoying he laughe
d and shoved me playfully.

  Even when he climbed from the covers to shower, I followed and gossiped and became a hyped up version of the weather channel, shopping network, and self-help station all to keep his mind here with me and not in the abyss of concussion.

  And it worked.

  After his shower, he was alert.

  We snuggled back into bed after raiding the kitchen for cornflakes and fruit, and spent the day side by side. We didn’t move far from the bedroom, but we turned the space into our haven, and for the first time since I’d woken tied in the back of the van with a scary biker battle as my welcome, I found a slice of ordinariness.

  I adored it.

  Arthur lost the argumentative snappiness from last night and we both ignored our unfinished argument in favor of pliancy and togetherness.

  By the end of the day, my headache had faded to a gentle throb and with the aid of a few painkillers it disappeared entirely.

  I’d never spent a full day in bed before. I could never stay still long enough or tolerate my own company for long, as it only highlighted my lack of a past. But the movie marathon we indulged in, laughing at others’ misfortune and relating to lovers in the midst of trouble, was rare and cherished.

  Occasionally, Arthur would roll over and gather me close. His nose would nuzzle into my neck and we’d watch the flickering scene with nothing between us.

  Those were my favorite times.

  The brief moments when we were nothing more than a man and woman snuggled up in bed watching other people’s lives for a change. It made me glow and ache all at the same time.

  To have this with him, after all this time was … indescribable.

  But to have missed out on this for so long was … unbearable.

  The last episode of the show we were watching ended and Arthur turned his green eyes on mine. The strain hadn’t left and he looked hollow almost—empty from the vibrancy I was used to.

  He looks lost.

  Cupping his cheek, I willed my panic to remain hidden. If he wanted to talk to me about his symptoms, then he would. I couldn’t force him. I didn’t want to make him face things he might not be ready to face. But at the same time, it was all I could think about.