Page 62 of Out of the Blue

As I spin to leave him, he says, “I’ll let the rest of the band know and we’ll get there as soon as we can. Take the first car.”

My body seizes as tears well. Without looking at him, I manage, “Appreciate it.” And I’m back in the hallway.

Once again forgoing the elevators, I hoof it down the six flights of stairs, savoring the pain it brings to my lungs. I cross the empty granite-lined reception area and burst through the front door.

Everything’s dark.

I wrap my coat around my body, not having the coordination to button it. All alone, I wait for my car, starting every time I see a pair of headlights. What if he’s in a coma? What if he’s in pain? What if he’sdead?

Jumping from foot to foot, I try to calm my fears. Oh My God. His aunt! I snag my phone and fill her in, and she promises to meet me at the hospital.

Where is my car? If Trent didn’t survive, the hospital would’ve told me, right? He’s alive. Probably with something stupid like a broken pinky. Which would sideline his guitar playing—

A pair of headlights turn into the hotel’s driveway and stops in front of me. I jump inside.

“Going to the hospital, miss?”

“Yes. Please. Fast.”

The driver nods, and we take off in such a hurry I’m thrown backward against the leather seat. In any other situation, I would’ve admired the upholstery and all of the accoutrements of the car. Now, I don’t care so long as it has four wheels and a driver who can reunite me with Trent. “How long?”

“Normally, twenty minutes. But being this time of night, probably less. Have to be careful, though, because there’s a lot of black ice.”

Black ice. Did he hit some of it on Dwight’s Harley? Did it cause the accident?

My phone beeps, signaling a text. Dwight’s face appears.

Dwight:The whole band’s coming. Where are you? What do you know?

Me:Just that he was in an accident. I’m in a car already. Should be there soon.

Dwight:Shit.

About sums it up.

Me:Don’t know how your Harley is.

Dwight:It can always be replaced. Let me know what you find out. Our car should get us there in 30.

Idon’t respond. Instead, I toss my phone next to me and count mile markers. My heart rate speeds up with each passing mile.

He has to be okay. We can work through our differences.If he wants to. I shut down my conscience. He has to.

The driver points to a large building straight ahead. “That’s the hospital, miss.”

Relief surges through my body. Another couple of minutes and I’ll be inside. “Thank you.”

I count three more miles before the driver pulls up in front of the door. “Here you are. Hope everything’s alright.”

“Me, too.”

I hop out and slip on ice I didn’t even notice, and latch onto the car for stability. Shit. Is this what happened to Trent on the motorcycle? What did he have to stabilize himself? Air?

Shaking my head, I enter the mechanical revolving door going about a millimeter a second. Finally inside, I cast around. Where’s the ER? A sign over a desk says “Reception,” and I aim my footsteps forward.

“Hello.” An elderly woman with glasses greets me.

“Hi. I’m looking for Trent Washington. He was in an accident.”

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