#Superfan, page 7
“He was very sweet,” I admit. “Especially considering he was soaked in a stranger’s vomit.”
Madi smiles but doesn’t respond. The look of sheer sadness on her face compels me to do something I haven't done in years.
“God, I can’t believe I’m saying this.” I draw in a deep breath and meet her curious gaze. “If you want me to go to Club Champagne, I’ll go, okay? Even though I told myself long ago I’d never go clubbing again. I’ll be your wingman, your bumper, your shoulder to cry on. I’ll remind Logan of the good old days. Not the night he was covered in your vomit, but those nights soon thereafter.”
Sniffling, Madi pulls me in for a bone-crushing hug. “Thanks, Alex. But if this doesn’t work, I’m going for the guy next door.”
***
Later that day, Madi returns to my apartment, her arms loaded with everything from makeup to clothes.
“You’re two sizes smaller than me.” I hold up a red dress. An utterly tiny red dress. Good thing there’s a jacket to go along with it.
“Exactly.” She dumps a bag of makeup and a new pair of heels on my bed. “There’re other guys out there looking for a hot, successful, sassy girl to spend their time with. What better way to make a guy like Eight want you than to make every other guy want you?”
“I don’t know …” I drop trou and shimmy into the red dress. Well, I say shimmy. More like yank on the stretchy material until all my lady parts are at least partly covered.
I tug the dress down, and it rides back up. “Who’s keeping the baby tonight while you’re getting your club on?”
“The in-laws, girl. He’ll be spoiled rotten by the time he makes it home tomorrow.”
After a long look in the mirror situated above my dresser, I turn to my friend. “There’s no way I’m leaving the apartment looking like this.”
Madi looks up from the tube of lipstick she’s taken out of the bag. Her eyes brighten and a wide smile stretches across her face. “There’s no way you’re not leaving this apartment looking like that. Do me a favor. If Eight doesn’t stop by or call by the time you’re ready to go out, make a lot of noise when you leave. Let Eight get a glimpse of you.”
“No way. I’m too nervous letting strangers see me this way, let alone the guy I’m …”
“The guy you’re …” She makes a “tell me more” gesture with her hand. “The guy you’re in love with?”
“The guy I’m in like with,” I concede.
Madi snickers. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Keep telling yourself that lie. Meanwhile, I’ve gotta head home and get ready. See ya in a few hours, ‘kay?” And with that, she grabs her keys and breezes out the door with a skip in her step.
Ultimately I spend more time getting ready for the club than the actual amount of time I plan to spend inside the club. If anything, tonight’s a good excuse to experiment on my makeup. All those hours of watching drag queen YouTube makeup tutorials have not been watched in vain.
Eight’s apartment is quiet, quieter than it’s been all day. I press my diamond-studded ear against his door and, sure enough, hear the low hum of muffled voices on the other side. Madi might have invited him out with us, but he’s shown no interest in joining our group.
Disappointment floods my senses, but the emotion is short-lived. Tilting my chin up, I force myself forward. There’s no way I’m garnering his attention like Madi suggested. I look like a two-bit hooker on discount night.
The banister is my saving grace on my descent to the lobby. How Madi talked me into wearing heels is beyond me. They’re normally reserved for life-altering formal events, like funerals and weddings, which are both pretty much one in the same in my opinion.
There are no pockets on the skimpy, short jacket, and certainly none on this sleeve of a dress I’m wearing. So I toss my cell in the console of my car and shut the little door with a light thud.
I’m about two blocks from the club when some punk kid on a skateboard jumps the sidewalk and into traffic a few seconds after the light turns green. The car in front of me attempts to dodge him, jumps a curb, and nearly takes out a group of guys on the sidewalk. The guys leap back, their curse words swirling into the cold winter air in wisps of steam-tinged smoke. The SUV clips a streetlight, and I slam on my brakes as the light pole titters and tilts. Someone plows into me from behind, forcing me off the road and into the ass end of the SUV on the sidewalk. The last thing I remember is my head slamming against the steering wheel.
***
When I wake up, I’m blinded by a white light.
“Jesus, is that you?” I say, or at least I think that’s me talking. My voice is thick and garbled. My tongue is swollen. A metallic taste sours my mouth. Blood. I sit up, spitting. Red spots splatter the gray sidewalk my butt is sitting on.
My car sits in front of me, smoke curling from the crumpled front end. The front of another car is lodged into the back bumper of mine. A young guy stands next to the car on his cell phone, his worried eyes darting from me to the car.
“Hey, gal, don’t move.” A man in his late fifties hovers over me, blinding me with the light on his cell phone as he stares into my eyes. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Too late.” A dull, throbbing pain splinters its way across my forehead. “Who pulled me out of my car? You’re not supposed to move someone with a head injury.” Fuzzy minded, I’m grappling at what little information I know about injured people. All I’ve learned is self-taught from watching Grey’s Anatomy and reruns of House, so who knows how true any of that really is.
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” The man pockets his phone and pulls my probing fingers away from a split on my forehead. He sheds his coat and drops it on the ground, easing me back to rest on the denim material. “Either I pull you from the car and take the chance of hurting you worse, or I leave you in the car and hope you don’t burn to death.”
I blink at the thought of burning to death. “Good decision.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” The guy smiles. He’s missing most of his front teeth and he smells like cheap booze, but I’m not judging. The toothless, drunk bastard saved me.
I reach up and pull him in for a hug. Losing his footing, he lands on the ground beside me with an oomph. His face spins on his shoulders in a swirl of dark skin and yellowing teeth.
“My hero.” Giddiness swirls inside me. An odd sense of euphoria infiltrates my system. I can only imagine this is the sensation one gets after a near death experience. Any and all traces of terror ebb away, replaced with utmost happiness.
Toothless scrambles out of my arms, but I’m having none of that. I’m taking this homeless guy home to live with me. Hell, I might even marry him. Damn society’s standards.
“Hon, I ain’t homeless. Just trying to get home from the club.”
I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud, and don’t even have the decency to blush. “Club? Club Champagne?”
Toothless grins, cocking his head to the side. “Do I look like I hang out at Club Champagne?”
“You do now. Grab your coat and let’s go. Drinks are on me.” I attempt to stand. Dizziness grows tenfold.
Toothless touches my shoulders, directing me back on his wrinkled, stained coat. “I tells you what. You sit right here and wait on that ambulance. Get checked out at the hospital, and when you get better you can take me for drinks at Club Champagne, you hear? You ain’t acting right.” Worry lines his forehead.
This stranger, this complete stranger, is worrying about me. The up I felt earlier now drags me crashing to the ground. Tears swallow my eyes, and as the first sound of a siren breaks the chatter of pedestrians on the sidewalk, I begin to cry.
“You don’t understand.” I rub my nose with the back of my arm, potentially ruining Madi’s jacket. “This is how I always act. That’s what’s wrong with me. I’m a mess. And I nearly died, and if I had … I’d never …”
Be able to tell Eight I’m falling in like with him.
The thought hits me harder than the kid who rear-ended my car. For the second time tonight, I want to bounce off the ground and scamper away, but I’m frozen to the cold cement.
The police are the first to pull up, then the paramedics. They ask me questions, they poke and prod. Someone cleans the wound on my forehead and places a bandage over the laceration.
“She’s actin’ funny,” Toothless tells one of the paramedics. “But she says she always acts funny.”
His words snap me from my trancelike state. I bark in laughter, those tears returning again. The paramedics exchange a “she’s loo-loo” glance that sends me into more forceful fits of giggles.
“We’re gonna help you onto the stretcher, ma’am.” A blue-gloved hand touches my shoulder gently.
“What about my car?”
“The police will take care of it,” the paramedic assures me. “You can call the police department when you’re feeling better and they’ll tell ya where to pick it up.”
“Where’s my phone? My purse?” Some sense of normalcy worms its way inside my head. Madi’s probably flipping out right about now, wondering where I am.
Toothless clambers around inside my car until he finds my cell, keys, and purse. I try passing him what little cash I have inside, but he’s having none of that. He waves me away with his fingerless, holey gloves.
“You go on to the hospital.”
“Ride with me.” I fist his worn shirt, pleading.
“Gotta get home to the little lady.” Toothless points at the stretcher. “You go on and get on that stretcher for these nice folks. Don’t forget: when you get better, drinks are on you.”
I give him a nod and wave as he disappears into the growing crowd on the sidewalk. The paramedics assist my dizzy ass onto the stretcher. I close my eyes during the ride to the hospital, only opening them when instructed to do so by the paramedic. One hand clutches my phone, the other my purse. I should probably call Madi and tell her what’s happened, but the throbbing of my head worsens with the thought of staring at the bright screen of my phone.
I snap back into consciousness when I’m wheeled into the ER and placed inside a room. Still, I don’t open my eyes. Not until the molasses-thick voice of the doctor says my name. My eyes flutter open and meet those of Dr. Norris, or so his white lab coat claims. Dr. Norris wheels a short stool close to my bed and takes a seat.
“Ms. Hannah, I’m Dr. Norris, one of the attending physicians.” He briefly glances at my wardrobe and back to the clipboard in his hand.
I look down at my slinky dress, cringing at the sight of a long rip just below where my prized possession hides underneath a pair of silky drawers. My legs are dirty and scraped from the sidewalk. Dried blood cakes my forehead, making my skin tight and itchy. Resting on Toothless’ coat has left me smelling like cheap beer and off-brand cigarettes. Madi’s heels are dirty and scuffed up the sides, aging the new leather. I not-so-discreetly sniff my jacket. Toothless’ dollar store cologne swarms around me. And I’ve been crying, so I know my thick, smokey eye makeup has melted down my cheeks, giving me a sorrowful raccoon appearance.
Great, I look and smell like a ho.
“I’m not a prostitute, I swear.”
Dr. Norris blinks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t assuming—”
“Just do your tests, okay? And let me go home.” My voice grows quiet, and those dumb tears threaten to make an appearance again. Nearly dying has turned me into an emotional basketcase, laughing one minute, crying the next.
Dr. Norris pulls out a pen light and blinds me with it, his deep voice directing me on where to look. Once he’s satisfied with whatever he finds or doesn’t find, he drops the pen light into the front pocket of his jacket and asks me the strangest questions. What is today’s date? What time of the day is it? What is my full name? Do I know where I am? Do I know who I am? After he’s satisfied with my answers, he sends me off to have a battery of tests.
A little while after getting my noggin scanned, Dr. Norris re-enters the room. He flips through a stack of stapled papers, a big grin on his face. He has nice teeth. White and straight. Someone paid good money for those teeth because no one has real teeth that pretty.
“Great news,” he says, sitting on his stool.
“I have a brain and it’s somewhat functional?”
Dr. Norris chuckles, his gaze remaining on my face a beat too long. Some poor nurse came in a few minutes prior and helped clean the ruined makeup from my face and the dirt from the superficial wounds on my legs. I probably don’t look much better, but compared to earlier I feel like a new Alex.
“There are no signs of any internal damage, but considering you have that head injury,” he says, nodding at my bandage, “I’ll need someone to look after you tonight. If you have any nausea, vomiting, loss of consciousness, an unresolved headache, you’ll need to return to the emergency room immediately.”
“But I thought my CT scan came back clear.” I shake my head. “Or negative. Whatever y’all call it.”
Dr. Norris nods. “It did, but I’ve seen a brain bleed not show up on a CT scan for hours, and sometimes it can even take days to show up. There’s always a chance when a head injury is involved. Although I believe you’ll be fine, we shouldn’t take that risk. Do you have a significant other at home? Someone who can be around in case you need to return to the hospital?”
His voice is softer on the end. Shy. It’s kind of cute, or would be if I didn’t feel as though I’d been shot in the head.
“Nope, no roommate, no boyfriend, no husband.” I fiddle with the hospital band around my wrist.
“Parents? Siblings?”
Guilt consumes me. “Yes to both, but they all live hours away.”
Dr. Norris nods. “Normally I don’t admit a patient I feel is ready for discharge, but under the circumstances …” His voice drifts away.
Under the circumstances. What circumstances? That I’m a total loser because I have no man and no family around to help me out?
“I have a friend. Madi. I was supposed to meet her tonight at Club Champagne. That’s where I was heading when …” I gesture at my general disposition. “You know.”
He smiles, relief soothing the anxiety from his face. “Call your friend. While you’re doing that, I’ll check on my patient in the next room and be back in a few minutes.”
Once he ducks out of the tiny room, I pick up my phone and scroll through the dozen or so missed messages. Each one is from Madi, and each accuses me of vamping out on her and our night of debauchery. Her accusations kind of piss me off. She knows I hate—no, despise—going out, especially clubbing, but I’m not the type of person to just not show up as planned.
My calls go directly to her voicemail. I send her a text. Then another. According to my phone, it’s two o’clock in the morning. I was supposed to meet Madi at ten. Either she’s still on the dance floor at Club Champagne or she’s snoozing in her king-sized bed beside Logan. Either way, she’s not answering, not even when I leave a message explaining I’ve been involved in an automobile accident and I’m at the hospital. There’s no response from their landline either, which leads me to believe they’re still out partying. Logan’s phone is broken. There’s no way I can get in touch with him.
“Any luck?” Dr. Norris leans on the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
I press the cold screen of the phone against my forehead. “My friend isn’t answering.” A boulder of dread and excitement burrows its way inside my belly. “There’s only one other person I can think of to call.”
“Another friend?”
“No.” I sigh, pulling up Eight’s number. “My neighbor.”
***
A bubble of anticipation builds inside my chest with each minute I sit waiting for him to arrive. Dr. Norris hated banishing me from the examination room and into the lobby, but he had no choice. After all, it’s Atlanta, a city of never-ending chaos and crime. People need my room. People with life-threatening injuries. Nothing like mine.
Only fifteen minutes pass before Eight pounces into the lobby. He must have sped the entire way here, because it’s a good thirty minute drive from our apartment complex in our small town on the outskirts of the ATL to this hospital in the city. His frantic eyes search the crowd of patients and families until they land on mine. He slinks across the room. Lithe, like a cobra.
“What the hell happened to you?” He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
It’s soft and warm and smells like him. All jasmine and citrus. I sniff the collar, way past caring what he or anyone else thinks at this point.
“There was this kid on a skateboard, and this SUV jumped the curb …” I’m on the verge of crying again, but I’m all cried out. No tears left inside my head. I lick my parched lips and stand. “Can we go?”
“Yeah, of course.”
His hand is on my elbow, leading me out of the ER. Once we step outside, his arm makes its way around my waist. I lean into him. The stiffness of his shoulders gives way, wavering against the heat of our joined bodies. We climb a short flight of stairs leading to an upper level of the parking garage, foregoing the elevators.
I’ve never seen his vehicle, so I’m lost as to where we’re going until the headlights blink on a sleek black car. The car isn’t him, although I’m not sure I can even begin to picture the type of vehicle Eight would drive. The sweetness of his thick, country accent contradicts the yuppiness of the modern car. I don’t realize I’m standing still as a statue in front of the car until he puts pressure on the small of my back, guiding me to the passenger door. I climb inside, praying my dirty dress doesn't ruin his interior.
“Something wrong?”
“This isn’t you,” I say. “This car, this isn’t you.”
Eight chuckles and leans on the open door, staring down at me. “You’re right, it’s not. My ex picked it out. Said my bike was too impractical.”
“Bike,” I say, but any further words are cut off by the gentle click of the door.
Within seconds he joins me. The small space inside the car heats with our two bodies, dizzying me more than any head injury ever could. My finger touches the button to lower the window, but I make no move to press it. There’s something enticing about the heat, and it has nothing to do with the chill of winter outside. Warmth tickles my belly, the sensation climbing over my skin. Nerve endings stand on edge, wishing he’d touch my skin again. And he does. He cranks the car with the touch of a button, places one hand on the steering wheel, and shifts into gear before dropping his hand on top of mine.
