Page 4 of Vegas Baby

While I wait for test results that could doom my career and my life, I find myself more concerned about what Andrei will do when he finds out he didn’t manage to kill me. Will he be horrified and regretful? Or angry that I’ll no longer be able to serve his needs when Obscurité severs my contract?

I fight back tears of anger and regret. How did I let my life come to this? How did I end up so completely at his mercy, to the point where he could make me lose focus? And not just in that moment on stage. I’ve lost focus in my life. Of myself.

A fact that presented itself with startling clarity when I came to. When I opened my eyes and found the kindest, most sincere ones staring back at me. Eyes that held true compassion, concern and … something else. They held emotions I’ve longed to feel.

It was a stark demonstration of the fact that I can’t remember anyone looking at me like he did in a very long time. Possibly not since I was a child, cared for and protected by my mother. And it was also a wake-up call to how dead inside I’ve become. Except for the fear.

My moments on stage have sustained me. But it’s been an ephemeral passion flitting along the surface of the deep lake of anxiety inside me. A feeling so vast and penetrating that real, positive emotions couldn’t sink in far enough to make a difference, not really.

The doctor coming to talk to me forces me out of my self-pity long enough to hear I have something he calls a “grade III neck sprain.” Apparently, this is supposed to be a good thing, since it means I didn’t break my neck, my spine, or sustain any brain damage.

They’ll keep me overnight for observation, then I’m to rest, ice, and take medication to reduce swelling for three days. I also need someone there at all times for those three days to make sure I don’t injure myself further. Followed by eight weeks of physical therapy before the doctor will do tests to decide if I’m healed enough to return to the show.

I should be glad I’m alive and my injury wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. But as I quietly cry myself to sleep, in pain and still wondering how I’m going to face Andrei, Cliff, and everyone else, I can’t help but wish the fall had killed me.

* * *

When I open my eyes to the bright light of day streaming through the plastic blinds of my hospital room, it takes me but a moment to realize there’s a man sitting in the chair below them, a fuzzy silhouette to my just-opened eyes.

Panic tightens my chest, and I make to scramble upright when the gentle tug of the cord winding into my arm and a sharp bolt of pain radiates from my neck up the back of my head and down the length of my spine, freezing me in place. I’m trapped. The thought sends waves of terror through me.

Despite the necessary stilling of my body, the panic burrows deeper, feeling like steel bands around my chest, causing my thoughts to race, my breathing to come in short, sharp gasps.

“Hey,” the man says, rising. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

The voice is unfamiliar. Soothing. Not Andrei. My body sags with relief and tears prick the backs of my eyes.

I blink hard, clearing the haze of my panic. I look up. And it’s those same eyes I woke to on stage. Dark and warm and full of feeling. My eyes take in the rest of him. Short, dark hair. Thick, arched brows over those hypnotic eyes. Angular cheekbones. A sharp nose and jaw. He looks no more than a few years older than me.

I swallow thickly, my memories of yesterday coming back. He rescued me. A … medic?

“I’m Sebastian Hernandez,” he offers. “I was one of the paramedics who brought you in yesterday.”

My brows pull together, confused. Had I asked my question out loud? I didn’t think I had. And yet, he answered it.

He smiles gently, hovering between the chair he’d occupied and the bed as if approaching an unfamiliar animal he doesn’t want to bite him.

“Thank you,” I manage. My voice scrapes out of my throat in a hoarse mockery of my usual tone, and it makes me cringe.

“Would you like some water?” he offers.

I almost nod before remembering the pain. “Yes, please.”

He reaches behind the bank of monitoring equipment next to my bed and emerges with a full glass of water and straw. Embarrassingly, he lifts it to my lips and helps me drink. And drink I do, draining the glass quickly.

The cool liquid feels like life. My head clears slightly, and my throat relaxes.

“Thank you,” I repeat.

“Part of the job,” he replies. After he sets the glass down, he pulls the chair he’d been sitting in closer to the bed and settles back onto it.

I raise a suspicious eyebrow. “And do you always visit the people you help in their hospital rooms?”

He huffs a laugh out of his nose and smiles. It’s sunshine and hope, and my concern lessens at the sight.

“Not always,” he admits. “Just when I feel like they might still need my help.”

Now both of my eyebrows rise. “And what makes you think I still need your help?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel like an asshole. He’s just trying to be nice, after all. But he seems to take it in stride.

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