Page 102 of Cruel Hearts

“No. Only Paulo. I was too—” I choke on my tears. I’m such a crybaby, but Mel understands.

“Your fight is onTruth or Dare, just like we hoped. Zane’s a good actor, Stella, and that’s all he was doing. Paulo called and said Zane accused him of killing you. He’s out of his mind. Crazy. Insane. We need to get you back to the hotel so he can see you’re okay.”

“He wasn’t acting.”

The nurse hands Mel another wad of wet napkins, and the cool water as Mel cleans off the syrupy liquid feels good against my clammy skin.

“Yeah, he was, sweetheart. You both did real good, though Ash gave you a little help. Max and Richard are scanning the video clips that are popping up online. So far, there’s nothing that will give us a clue as to who the shooter is. He blended into the crowd on the sidewalk, or he was watching from a window somewhere. If he left behind any litter, a cigarette butt, a gum wrapper, Paulo will find it. He got away clean, and the news reports say there are no leads.”

She carefully slides the other side of the dress off my shoulder and down my arm. She tugs the tank top over my head and I feel lighter. The ache decreases a bit.

Mel studies the body armor under a fluorescent light attached to the wall above a tiny desk. The bullet pierced the material, but the bullet itself is gone. I don’t care where it is as long as it isn’t inside my body. I’m starting to hate guns. She drops the tank into a duffle bag at her feet.

I sit in my bra, the neckline of my dress bunched around my waist, and Mel finishes cleaning me off. “You’re going to have a doozy of a bruise, but you’ve already been there, done that,” she says, gently pushing my hands through the armholes and zipping the zipper.

I don’t have the energy to respond and mumble, “Hmm, mmm.”

She digs into the bag and loosely ties a differently colored scarf around my neck. Leaning over, she takes out a red wig and shakes out the strands, smoothing the tangles. She twists my hair into a bun and pins it to my head, fluffing the pieces near my face. “You might not need these, but it’s better to be safe than sorry,” she says, and slides a pair of tortoiseshell glasses onto myface. They feel too big, but I can see clearly out of the lenses. The last thing she does to complete my transformation is swap out my heels for a pair of black flats.

The nurse, who’s been quiet all this time, digs a pill out of the pocket of her scrubs and drops it into my palm. She fills a small paper cup with water and I smile my thanks. I don’t care what it is as long as it will make my pain go away.

All of it.

I don’t believe Mel. She didn’t see the look in Zane’s eyes.

His steady hand poised to hit me.

He told me not to believe him, but how can I not? Maybe we’ve hurt each other too much to move past it. We haven’t had enough time. Time to talk, time to just be. To discover the people we’ve been forced to turn into during these past five years and how we’re going to relate to each other.

The water’s cool sliding down my throat. I wish I had time to let the pill work, but we need to leave. Mel fidgets near the exam table, and her agitation rubs my nerves raw.

She parked a plain sedan painted a simple silver in the alley behind the hospital, but the task of walking out the door and to the vehicle seems an insurmountable feat. I can barely find the energy to sit on the exam table. All I want to do is crawl into a ball, go to sleep, and pretend like hell this isn’t happening.

“Can you find Stella a wheelchair?” Mel asks the nurse. She’ll do anything to get rid of us, the faster the better, and she returns in seconds, looking nervously over her shoulder, pushing the chair into the dark room. Mel wraps her arm around my waist and helps me step onto the floor, and I sink gratefully into the seat, my legs too shaky to stand. She settles the duffle bag in my lap, and I rest my arms on the canvas tote. The nurse scurries in the opposite direction without saying good luck or goodbye. She’s definitely done with us.

Mel pushes me out a door not meant for patients. I’m too sore to move by myself, and she awkwardly lifts me into the backseat of the car. She wheels the chair inside the hospital and into the hallway where it belongs. Keeping her head down, she climbs behind the wheel and shifts into Drive.

A food delivery semi truck is backed into one of the bays, and Mel steers around it.

The pill started working, and I’m woozy, like I’m floating. I still hurt, but my body is above it somehow. At this point, I’ll be happy with anything I can get. The wig feels funny on my head, and the glasses keep slipping down my nose. I push them up using too much force, and without the lenses, I would have poked myself in the eye.

Mel loops around the streets and avenues, similarly to how I’ve been traveling King’s Crossing since escaping Black Enterprises, and the city lights dance on the car’s ceiling. I follow the glowing streaks as they slip and slide, and my stomach lurches and saliva pools in my mouth. I close my eyes and swallow, hoping the queasy feeling will go away, but it doesn’t. I really don’t want to throw up, and I crack the window hoping to feel cool, fresh air, but the day’s heat hasn’t abated despite the late hour. I slide the window back up, and Mel turns the air conditioner higher. She parks in front a café that’s closed for the night, the tables and chairs chained to the wrought iron fencing separating the café’s property from the public sidewalk. It’s near a bus stop, and the bus is a few blocks away, lumbering toward us, headlights illuminating the street.

In the rearview mirror, she studies me slumped in the backseat, my cheek pressed against the glass. I don’t want to get out of the car. I’m too tired to go back to the Crowne without help, and I’m scared to be alone.

We stay parked along the curb, and Mel doesn’t move to get out. The bus passes us, grumbles to a stop at the corner, and chugs on when no one gets on or off.

Tears of gratitude gather in my eyes. She understands.

“We’ll sit for a little bit, okay?” A cell phone beeps and she connects to a number. “Yeah. She’s not well enough to be on her own—I think the pain pill made her sick. I’ll drive around the city for a couple of hours and then head that way.”

Zane’s voice floats to me, tinny and loud. I can’t understand what he’s saying, but I tense. The anger is unmistakable. Aimed at me.

“Ask him if he loves me,” I mumble. The pill has taken full effect. I don’t know what that druggie nurse gave me, but I wouldn’t turn down more. I hope she gave Mel a few.

Mel doesn’t have to repeat what I said. Zane heard my question and his voice explodes over the line. Goosebumps pebble across my skin. Maybe we’ll always be caught in a love/hate relationship. Love to hate me. Hate to love him.

My thoughts swirl, and I lose track of how many minutes go by before I realize she’s not talking to him anymore. Maybe I fell asleep.

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