The HOOK | Hospital Scene | Chapter 18
Deacon had expected the police to show up after his arrival had defaced the hospital’s tile floors. But the number of police on rotation at his door since he woke from surgery was staggering; he was never left more than thirty seconds without a babysitter.
In the brief moments he was alone, he attempted to levitate off the bed. He would feel his internal fire ignite … then die out. The only explanation was that the medication pumping through his system was dousing the flames.
So, even though he was laid up next to a window, the obvious means of escape taunted him day in and day out.
At present, the only weapon in his limited arsenal was his convenient bout of selective amnesia—which had been attributed to the large contusion above his left temple. The police had been allowed to question him between his drug-induced naps, but each one had left without the satisfaction of obtaining his—or his assailant’s—identity.
Deacon estimated he had been in the hospital for four days when at last there appeared to be a gap in supervision. He hobbled to the archaic telephone next to the other bed and dialed Vivienne’s number.
“What’re you doing out of bed?” Despite her stern tone, the attractive red-haired physician standing inside the door had a flaking sense of humor.
“Hello, Dr. Blue Eyes.” The receiver tumbled from Deacon’s hand and clattered onto the table. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Bracing her hands on her hips, she stepped further into the room. “I’m interested in hearing who you’re calling considering you don’t even know your own name.”
“Good question.” The walk back to the bed was difficult. “If only I had a good answer.”
She rolled her eyes and placed his right arm around her shoulders. Once he was back in bed, he offered her a repentant smile. “Why are you still around this place at such a godforsaken hour?”
“For some reason, people keep getting sick—or shot.”
“The nerve of them.” He stretched his unbandaged leg toward the end of the bed. He needed to distract her. The last thing he wanted was her telling the police that he was calling someone and have them look at call records and find Vivienne’s number and—“Do you have any plans for the night?”
Her lashes fell closed, and a small smile lifted the corner of her lips. “I’m going to go home, run a hot bath, and drink an entire bottle of wine.”
“All by yourself? That doesn’t sound all that exciting.”
“It will be blissful.”
“If you wanted to bring that bottle back to the hospital—”
“Very funny.” She smacked his good foot with the clipboard. “Right now I need to check on a certain patient who’s trying to win the hearts of every female in the hospital.”
“He sounds charming.”
“He thinks he’s charming.” She checked his IV, then took his temperature. “How’s the war wound?”
“I won’t be flying any time soon.”
“Probably not.” When she laughed, a bit of her hair fell from its clip atop her head. “You’re one lucky guy.”
Deacon was sure the poking and prodding as she checked his bandages should have been painful, but he felt nothing. “You think I was lucky to be shot?”
“I meant that if the bullet hadn’t avoided your heart and subclavian arteries”—she sat him up and checked the bandage at his back—“we wouldn’t be having this conversation today.”
“What conversation would we be having instead?”
“You’d be in the morgue, Casanova.” Chuckling, she went to the sink, squirted soap into her hands, and rubbed vigorously. “You’re healing nicely.”
“I must’ve had a brilliant surgeon.”
“One of the best.” She tore a towel from the dispenser, dried her hands, and dropped it into the bin.
“When do you think I’ll be discharged?” If he didn’t get out of here soon, people were going to start worrying.
“It’s tough to say considering you don’t even know your own name. You could make a miraculous recovery and tell me what really happened.”
Deacon yawned,“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Have it your way,” she said from the doorway. “But you’re not getting out of here without coming clean to the police.”
Deacon nestled into the extra pillows the nurse had given him and studied his reflection in the night-darkened window. “Whatever you say, Dr. Blue Eyes.”
***