Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(34)

“Don’t. Whatever it is, don’t do it.”

“I’m giving you a reason to live.”

He swallowed hard and stared past me, at the ceiling.

“You are my reason to live. Fuck.” His lips moved in a litany of f**ks that had no sound. They were made of breath and panic. I glanced at the machines, they seemed okay, not that I knew what that meant. They weren’t beeping or honking, the stylus that kept track of his heartbeat was making the same scritchy noise it always did.

“It’s okay,” I said, but was it? I had no guarantee I wasn’t being f**ked with royally. I had no idea who I was dealing with. Declan seemed to be a different person to everyone who spoke about him. Who was he to me? And would I find out the hard way?

“I’m stuck here,” he said. “I can’t do anything but trust you, can I?”

“No. You can’t. I love you, you have to know that.”

“I know it. But your decision-making...”

“I decided to wait you out when you left me. I decided to ask you for exclusivity. I decided to let you kiss me on Mulholland Drive. I could go on.”

“Maybe later,” he said weakly.

“Will you do it for me, though? See your father?”

I put everything into the question, and that was a mistake. He shouldn’t see any emotion from me with regard to Declan. I should have played blithe or irritated. But I’d played it honest and I didn’t realize my error until the machines started whining and Jonathan’s eyes closed.

CHAPTER 33.

JONATHAN

Fiona had gotten kicked in the chest once, at the riding academy, as she was making a token attempt to learn to check a hoof for splits. The thoroughbred had just gotten annoyed, and Fiona, who never listened to a damn thing anyone said, had been sitting in the wrong spot. She went flying. Two broken ribs and a bruised ego later, she quit riding.

I’d probably never see Fiona again to tell her getting defibrillated repeatedly felt the same as getting kicked in the chest by a horse looked.

Monica stood in the corner, wringing her hands like she wanted to break a bone. She was terrified. I must have gone into arrest at some point in our conversation. I forgot what I’d said.

“How are you feeling Mister Drazen?” asked the doctor, a young guy I’d seen pass through a couple of times. He looked at his chart and barked orders immediately after the question. The number of people in the room had doubled in the minute I was unconscious.

“Like a newlywed.”

“Congratulations.” He listened to my heart, eyes on an instrument panel. “You’ve taken quite a beating. I don’t know how many more times we can do this.”

“What’s the world record? I want to break it.”

“Stop trying to be funny,” Monica said from her corner.

“Joking in this situation is common, Miss,” the doctor said as he scribbled something on the chart, speaking medicalese to the nurse before and after his statement.

“What situation is that?”

My wife was about to verbally cross-check the doctor, I saw it in the fact that she wouldn’t look at me. She only had laser-hot eyes for the guy in the scrubs. As if he could feel her seething, he stopped mumbling nonsense to the nurse and turned to her.

“He needs a heart, Miss.”

“Or what?”

I could see the thrust of this conversation a mile away, even feeling like a bag of shit, with the hiss of oxygen tubes drowning out much of what was being said. If the doctor mentioned, implied, or thought about my death, she was going to go ballistic and get escorted out. I didn’t want her to have to negotiate reentry. Every minute without her was a minute wasted.

“Goddess?”

She didn’t answer.

“Monica,” I tried to put dominance in my voice, and I know I came up short, but as if hearing the intention and not the result, she turned toward me. “Go get my father for me, would you?”

CHAPTER 34.

MONICA

Any shadow of a feeling resembling doubt left my mind when those machines went crazy. I was in empty panic when they all rushed in, and when they put this paddles on this chest and he convulsed, well, the empty panic turned to something else. Something like, when you feel pressure in your bladder, you go to the bathroom. You may stop and do other things, but your ultimate goal, at some point is to release that pressure. Everything else is either a distraction, or a means to an end.

When I walked out of Jonathan’s room to get his father, I had absolutely nothing on my mind but making sure some motherf*cker put a new heart in him. I did not ever want to see that again. I never, ever wanted to get used to it. If I went to jail for killing someone who was already pretty much dead, f**k it. I could be cool with that.

Declan paced the lobby, phone pressed to his ear. Even as exhausted as he must have been, he looked clean, energetic and calm. This must be a Drazen thing. Only Leanne in her general slovenliness and Sheila in her constant backbitten rage ever seemed a tick to the left of perfect. And Theresa, who looked buffed and polished when I’d met her before, had looked like she’d run a marathon in pumps when she came to the hospital. Maybe they were all human after all.

Except, Declan of course, who had been described as less than human, yet somehow had shown me only a vulnerable face. He saw me and held up a finger for me to wait. I didn’t have time for him. I scribbled —Room 7719 NOW— in one of the last blank pages in my notebook, tore it out, and slapped it in his hand. I walked away before he had a chance to answer. I had to assume he’d go up. I didn’t have time to baby him, and I certainly didn’t want a verbal cat and mouse.