Page 62 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

Storm saved me.

“What was I drugged with?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“Rohypnol,” she says with an angry twist to her lips. I look down at my lap again and ask, “And you’re…you’re sure I wasn’t s-sexually assaulted?”

The tremble starts in my lips, then my cheeks and shoulders before shooting down to my nailbeds.

“We ran a full rape kit. There doesn’t seem to be evidence of sexual assault.” She tilts her head, her expression turning grave. “Unless…do you remember something?”

I search through everything I know about last night—the dancing, the laughter, the delicious drinks.

I’m never drinking again.

But it’s like there’s a big hole in my memory. Besides feeling really tired, I don’t remember anything after getting in the cab.

I don’t remember meeting Storm, much less on a sidewalk.

But I do remember seeing his face.

I shake my head, starting slowly, but then I move with more determined movements.

“No,” I say. “I don’t remember anything like that happening.”

Dr.Swanson looks at me hard for a moment before patting my hand. Unwinding the stethoscope from her neck, she places the earpieces and listens to my heart and lungs.

“All in all, you’re in pretty good shape. Our mutual friend will be relieved,” she says. It’s an offhand remark, but I zero in on the meaning.

“Mutual friend?” Could she mean Storm? “Is he—where is—” I begin to stammer, but Dr.Swanson puts her hand on top of mine.

“I’m sure he’ll be by soon,” she offers cryptically. Patting her thighs, she rises and walks over to the computer attached to the wall, speaking as she types.

“I want to keep you overnight for observation—just to make sure nothing new crops up. But other than some additional fluids and pain management, you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

I grimace. “Um, I think I’m good to go home now,” I say.

Dr.Swanson gives me a confused look, lifting her hands from the keyboard.

When she doesn’t respond to my statement, I clarify, “This is going to be pretty expensive already, and I….”

I don’t want to confess to this probably world-renowned doctor that I’m a broke college student who can’t afford to get the big bottle of Tylenol because it’s too costly.

But the state of healthcare being what it is, the probable costs of my treatment thus far have my head spinning like a slot machine.

“Are you concerned about your hospital bill? If so, you don’t have to worry about that.”

My temple pulses a bit more, thinking of some kind of charity program the hospital may run for cases like mine, but then Dr.Swanson continues.

“I’ve known the Sandoval family for years, so when Storm called me and demanded I treat you, I didn’t hesitate.” Dr.Swanson drops this bomb like she’s not saying something thoroughly outrageous.

“I see?” I say, my voice not at all confident.

Storm called the doctor in? From where? Why?

“Anyway, all you need to worry about is getting better. And as your current physician, I believe an overnight stay is warranted.”

There’s no arguing with her on this point, so I hum, and she presses a few more keys.

After a beat, I say, “My memory is fuzzy. Will I…?”

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