If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(9)

I don’t know any specifics, he had said. But you should go.

So I did. I rushed to the hospital and when I arrived, I somehow knew as I walked through the doors that something was very, very wrong. No one would meet my eyes, not the doctors or nurses passing in the halls and not my old neighbor Matilda, who had somehow managed to beat me to the hospital.

She had wordlessly led me to an empty room; a chapel, I think, where she quietly told me that I wouldn’t find my parents there, that they’d been taken to the morgue. She had been so matter of fact. And then she had caught me when I had collapsed to the floor. I still remember my fingers releasing the leather handle of my purse, and how it had hit the ground, spilling all of its contents onto the blue carpet. My lipstick had rolled to Matilda’s feet and she had picked it up and handed it to me, her face white and solemn.

I gulp now.

And then I realize that I had just spoken all of this aloud.

Pax is staring at me intently, the expression on his handsome face unreadable as he processes the details of the most painful day of my life.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That must have been horrible for you. I didn’t mean to dredge up old memories.”

His words are simple, his voice is not. He is a complex person, which seems to be all I can figure out. He’s difficult to read, but his complicated and seemingly contradictory nature is intriguing. I feel my belly twinge as I stare back at him, as the gold in his eyes seems to swirl into green.

“It was a long time ago,” I answer simply. “I’ve put it to bed.”

“Have you?” he replies, his eyebrow raised. “You must be talented. Sometimes, the past doesn’t want to sleep.”

“That’s true,” I admit. “You’re right. Sometimes, at the least opportune times, the past is an insomniac, alive and well.”

He nods as if he understands and I wonder if he actually does. But he doesn’t say anything more and I let it go.

In fact, I stand up, picking my purse up off of another hospital floor.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I tell him politely. “Thank you so much for humoring me and letting me see that you are doing okay. You’re going to be just fine, Pax.”

I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or me. He looks like he isn’t sure either, but he smiles and holds out his hand. It is slender and strong and I take it. He shakes it, like we’re businessmen.

“It was nice to meet you, Mila. Thank you for saving my life.”

His voice is husky. I gulp and stare into his eyes and I can’t tell if he really means it. Somehow, it seems that he doesn’t really want saving.

But I smile anyway and I turn around and walk away. When I am partway down the hall, I turn and glance back into his room. He is still watching me, his eyes intent and fierce.

I swallow hard and turn back around, putting one foot in front of the other. Before I know it, I’m in my car. And I still don’t know what the heck happened.





[page]Chapter Five


Pax



A week in the hospital is one f*cking week too long. That much is certain.

I slowly curl up out of my pillows and sit perched on the edge of my bed. I wince a bit as the movement disturbs a cracked rib and I try to take shallow breaths so that it doesn’t hurt. The chest compressions from the paramedics did a number on my ribcage. I know they were trying to save my life, but shit. Did they have to crack four ribs?

Fuckers.

As I wait for the pain to settle and for my eyes to adjust to the light of day, I stare out the windows at the large lake that looms in front of me.

Lake Michigan is huge and vast and gray, and my loft-style home is perched above it on the edge of a bluff. Each room facing the lake has floor to ceiling windows so I have a good view no matter where I’m at. And I never worry about who might be walking on the beach below and might see me walking naked through my house. It’s my private beach. If anyone is trespassing, they deserve to see my ball-sack.

I reach for the vial on my nightstand, wincing again.

Running my thumb around the metal rim of the lid, I absently let my mind wander as I try to clear the blur of sleep from my head. And then I give up on that and dump a little white pill into my hand, something to help me with that process because I’m too impatient to wait.

I’m slacking off the other stuff for a while, though. Regardless of what my father thinks, I don’t need to take it. I’m not a f*cking addict. And since it’s not fun to get my stomach pumped and my ribs pummeled, I think I’ll refrain from that particular activity for a while.

I knock the pill back with a swig of water from my nightstand, ignoring the fact that I wish it was beer. It’s only 11:00 a.m. and I’ve decided that I’m not going to drink until 5:00 p.m. on any given day and I’m not going to have any of that “It’s 5:00 somewhere” bullshit. I’m not a f*cking *. Regardless of popular opinion, I can restrain myself when I want to.

I stumble from my bed, stretch as carefully as I can and make my way into the bathroom, stepping down into my shower.

My shower is one of my favorite things about this house. It’s a huge tiled expanse, completely ensconced in stone and has four shower heads hitting me from all different directions. It was custom made to fit my tall body because I hate having to duck down to get clean. There’s room for a party in here, if I wanted. And I have had many a party in this very shower with groups of willing women.