Heartstrings (4 page)

“Fantastic!” Dr. Kelly says, clapping me on the back, “You
two carry on! And make sure our man here wants for nothing.”

He practically skips away, pleased as punch to be housing a
rock star for the time being. That makes exactly one of us. I close the door
after him and turn back toward Slade, doing my very best to remain
professional. But between the overwhelming force of his physical charm and the
despicable nonsense that keeps pouring out of his mouth, it’s a rather
herculean effort.

“Is there anything you need that I can actually get you?” I
ask.

“Not anything that you’d be willing to give up. Yet,” Slade
says, tucking his hands behind his head. I try not to stare as his biceps bulge
beneath his tanned skin, his tattoos flexing and stretching under the duress.

“How did you get hurt?” I ask, trying to focus on something
besides what my patient might look like naked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he says.

“How can that be possible?” I ask. “You showed up here
bleeding internally, with a head wound. Events that lead to that kind of injury
generally warrant notice.”

“I don’t exactly live a safe life,” Slade said, “I don’t
keep score of head wounds.”

“Still,” I pressed, “You must remember what you were doing
right before you woke up here.”

“Sure,” he says with a sigh, “My band was a playing a
midsized venue in town. A one-off sort of deal, before we hit the road for the
real tour. It was a pretty rambunctious crowd, more so than usual. Someone
started a pretty epic mosh pit toward the end of our set, and I decided to join
in the fray. One thing led to another...”

“Can you be a little more specific?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, “I noticed that there was a scrawny little
kid trying to hold his own in the pit. He must have been, like, fourteen or
something. Toothpick arms, the whole thing. He accidentally hit some big
guy—grazed his arm or whatever. The big dude gets his buddies and turns on the
kid. Just brutal stuff, totally uncalled for. So, what am I supposed to do? Let
this poor little dude get the shit kicked out of him at my band’s show? No way.
So I went in after him.”

“Against three guys?” I ask, amazed.

“Yeah,” he says, “They landed a few good punches, obviously.”

“That seems uncharacteristically chivalrous of you,” I say
suspiciously.

“Hey,” Slade says, sitting up straight, “You don’t know the
first thing about me, kiddo. We’ve known each other for all of five minutes.”

“First impressions are pretty powerful,” I tell him, “And
yours was pretty subpar.”

“Yeah?” he says, “How did I come across?”

“Like a misogynistic man-child,” I say.

“Huh,” he says, “Well, you came off as an uppity elitist ice
queen whose box hasn’t been opened in so long that there’s probably dust
collecting in it.”

“That’s right,” I say, refusing to let him get the last
word, “Go ahead with the Madonna/whore thing. A binary is probably the most
complicated idea you can wrap your head around. Black and white. Man and woman.
Slut or prude.”

“I just call em like I see em,” he says. “No need to get all
hysterical on me.”

“Hysterical!” I exclaim, “Going old school sexist, are we? I
like the vintage flair.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, “I like your big blue eyes. And a
couple other parts of you that I won’t mention by name.”

“I’m not a collection of parts for you to admire,” I tell
him, taking a menacing step toward the bed, “For the time being, I’m the person
in charge of your sorry ass. So if you have any hopes of being discharged by
the time your precious tour leaves, I would suggest that you be a little nicer
to me. You really have a lot of—”

His sudden outcry cuts me off, and I let my sentence go
unfinished as his face twists into a mask of pain. I switch into nurse mode at
once, and draw back the bed sheets to check out his surgery wound. As I tear
away the blankets, I notice that he's not wearing any underwear, leaving his
groin uncovered. I try very hard not to gape, but can’t quite tear my eyes away
from the impressive specimen resting between his legs. Convinced that I’ve
officially left professional tact by the wayside, I peer at his stitches.
Everything looks OK, but he’s practically writhing on the bed.

I reach for the morphine drip, hit the button, and let
another dose course into his body. In a matter of moments, his tensed muscles
begin to relax. Beads of sweat stand out on his smooth forehead, and as he
looks over at me, a new expression settles onto his face for just a minute—it
looks very much like fear. For a second, I forget his arrogant swagger, and his
offensive remarks. I remember that he is my patient. And just like with any
other patient, I’m going to do my best to help him.

“It’s OK,” I say, placing my hand on top of his. A warm
pulse runs up my arm as my skin brushes against his. I just hope that I’m not
blushing too obviously this time.

“Thanks,” Slade smiles, the morphine dulling his edges for
the moment, “That feels good.”

I don’t know whether he’s talking about the drugs or my hand
on his. I smile kindly at him, having regained my professional composure. Dr.
Kelly doesn’t seem ready to let me leave Slade’s side, so I might as well make
the best of the situation. I pull over a chair with my free hand and sit down
beside the rock star.

“You’re going to be fine, you know,” I tell him.

“That’s good,” he says, “I’m not quite done living yet.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say, “Though your kind has a pretty
high mortality rate, truth be told.”

“My kind?” he asks.

“Rock stars,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, “Right.”

“What, did you forget?” I laugh, “That morphine must be
pretty good stuff.”

“I haven’t exactly been famous for very long,” he tells me,
loopy on the drugs, “We just sort of...happened. My band, I mean.”

“Sorry I’ve never heard of you before,” I say.

“It’s cool...” he drawls, “Now you have.”

“What’s your music like?” I ask.

“It’s pretty heavy,” he says, “Just short of hardcore, I’d
say.”

“So, a lot of screaming?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“Some screaming,” he admits, “But not too much. I don’t
write lyrics just so they can get lost entirely.”

“You write the lyrics, huh?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says, closing his eyes happily, “And the music.”

“Well, look at you,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his hand
perhaps a bit more than I should.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, turning toward me. He
blinks one eye sluggishly, and I let out a bark of laughter. I take it that
he’s trying to wink at me, but the morphine makes his attempt clumsy.

“Easy, tiger,” I tell him, taking my hand away. “It’s no fun
to berate you while you’re under the influence. Save your bullshit for when I
can yell at you properly.”

“You...” he says, on the brink of another nap, “Are what I
like to call...a buzz kill.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I remark.

Slade lets out a soft little laugh and lets his head rest
against the pillow. In an instant, he’s asleep again. I lean back in my chair
and let out a long breath. It’s too bad he can’t be so angelic while he’s
awake. I’m at once tempted to run my fingers through his curls as well as slap
him across the face for all the manly bullshit he’s heaped on me in the last
ten minutes. I manage to resist both urges, though it takes sitting on my hands
to dissuade me entirely. I can only hope that he heals quickly and gets out of
my life as soon as possible.

Chapter Three

* * * * *

The hours of my shift tick slowly by with me on rock star
watch. Sitting still, tending to Slade Hale, is driving me absolutely insane. I
watch the other doctors and nurses pass by the room, rushing here and there,
seeing to other patients, and I itch to join them. I didn’t become a nurse to
babysit full grown men. If I wanted to do that, I would have kept a boyfriend
instead. I try to remind myself that Slade is a person too, and deserves to be
taken care of...by why do I have to be the one doing it?

There’s a knock at the door, and I look up to see Penny
hovering there. Her face is flushed from running from patient to patient, and
I’m a little jealous. She looks across the room toward Slade and lets out a
little sigh. “He’s still asleep?”

I get up and walk over to the door, careful not to wake him.
“Like a baby,” I say, “A big, arrogant, squalling baby.”

Penny raises an eyebrow at me. “Someone’s feeling
uncharitable.”

“I’m not uncharitable!” I say, “I’m just a little bummed
about having to be this guy’s serving wench until he’s all better.”

“Why are you not absolutely thrilled about this assignment?”
she asks, giving Slade a not-so-subtle once over. “Most women would kill to be
in the same room with this guy.”

“He’s not my type,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“What
is
your type, Julia?” Penny asks.

“Battery operated,” I mutter. “Look, I just don’t like his
attitude. He’s got this swagger going on that I just find deplorable.”

“Well of course he does,” Penny says, exasperated, “He’s a
rock star! Don’t you think that kind of thing is expected of him? Encouraged in
him?”

“I really don’t see how that changes anything,” I tell her,
“I’m supposed to feel sorry for him because he’s under pressure?”

“Maybe a little,” Penny says, “Would it kill you to try and
look past the bravado?”

“It might,” I say.

“Well, at least you’re already at the hospital. You can
attempt it and know that help is nearby.”

“Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You know, you’re very adamant
about liking this guy. Why are you so eager to give him a break?”

“I think he’s got a touching story,” she says, leaning
against the door frame.

“What story?” I ask, checking to see that he’s still asleep.
His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and there’s a little half smile still
lingering on his lips. I feel a rush of sensation pass through me, like what
happens the minute you start down a roller coaster. I’d better get all this out
of my system before he wakes up again.

“You really don’t know anything about him?” Penny asks,
“About the band, or the music, or anything?”

“Honestly, no,” I say, “He looked really familiar when they
wheeled him in. I’m sure I’ve seen pictures or whatever, but you know I don’t
pay attention to any of that stuff.”

“Right,” Penny says, “Who needs the Top 40 when you’ve got
Carly Simon?”

“Carly Simon is a goddess,” I say, “Don’t knock Carly
Simon.”

“Anyway,” Penny says, “Slade Hale’s band, Flagrant
Disregard, have been together forever. Like, started in high school, started
playing local shows, all that. It’s Slade on vocals, Dodge Bailey on guitar,
Joe Wegman on bass, and Annabelle Walsh on drums.”

“There’s a girl in the band?” I ask.

“Yep,” Penny says, “How much of a sexist can he really be if
there’s a girl behind the drum kit? I think he’s just messing with you.”

“It remains to be seen,” I say.

“So, they started out playing in Dodge’s garage when they
were, like, fifteen. They all lived in South Jersey, and grew up with really
heavy rock. Hardcore is really big around there, lots of screaming and all—”

“Ugh,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “Is that the music that
sounds like a bunch of vacuum cleaners going at once?” 

“Well...Yeah,” Penny says, “But that’s not what Flagrant
Disregard does. Anyway, they started playing at battles of the bands, and
around their hometown, and then around the state. There are all these great
stories about the venues they would end up at—old pool halls, exotic bird
stores, the works. They started building up a following, which was surprising
to everyone at first. See, what they did was take the hardcore sound they liked
themselves and brought back in the emotional element that everyone reviled so much.
They dared to be lyrical and even darkly romantic when all the other bands were
screaming about hate and anger exclusively. People didn’t know what to do with
them at first, but they started to win over the hardcore scene and the emo and
indie scenes. They’re the perfect mix, you know?

So, they started getting all of this attention, and soon the
record labels in New York were taking notice. After a while, one of these
executive types shows up to a concert they were playing, unbeknownst to them.
Afterwards, the guy comes up to Slade and offers him a contract, but there’s a
catch. He only wants Slade, not the band. They had this big plan to make him
into a solo artist, like Jeff Buckley. And Slade looked his guy in the eye and
told him to get lost. He said that the band was a unit, and that it was totally
out of the question. He turned down an entire career because he was so loyal to
his band. And it’s not like he didn’t need the money, either. He doesn’t
exactly come from a family of means.”