The next few nights continued on as planned. By day I worked on the merger with Storm Media, and in the evenings, I hung around Max, with Madeline there as much as I could have her. Every day our resident patient continued to heal—the bruises on his knuckles clearing, the color coming back into his face—and every day Max assured me that we were doing the correct thing. And every night I tried to remain impartial about the fact that Neal still hadn’t come out of his room. Or even talked to me.
Everything I knew, I knew because Max told me. All that changed the night that Max staggered into the penthouse, a pale, sickly look on his face I’d never seen. I’d immediately sent him home early, with strict instructions to not come back until he was feeling better. He apologized a hundred times, letting it slip that his girlfriend, who was an aspiring chef, had brought home food from the restaurant she worked in and was also not feeling well.
Church appeared in the hallway, offering to drive the other man home, and I went to check on Neal. As I entered quietly, a soft noise came from the bed. My eyes flickered to Neal, thinking he was awake, but he remained still on the bed, sleeping.
He must’ve been a large man once. Even now, his body was broad, reminding me that even as a nutrient-deficient man experiencing homelessness, he’d been able to take down two of my attackers. I wasn’t sure if he had military training or something else, but he had dispatched them like a professional.And while that was probably supposed to worry me, I wasn’t concerned.
He'd had a chance to hurt me, and he had chosen to help instead.
My eyes moved back to the television buzzing on the wall of Neal’s suite, nodding along to the introduction of my favorite documentary series. This one was about ancient Egypt, and I was so engrossed that I almost missed the movement. But under the covers, against my calf, Neal’s leg flexed and stretched. I rolled over and rose up onto my knees so I could look down at him. Sure enough, a moment later, the muscles in his face twitched, a frown deepening the corners of his full lips. The nurses had trimmed his dark beard, sprinkled with silver, while he was in the hospital, and I found I enjoyed the fact I could see more of his face now.
I put down the hummus and carrots I had been grazing on and inched forward still on my knees. “Mr. Crowe?”
A soft mumbled response reached my ears. I slipped off the side of the bed and bolted to his head. “Mr. Crowe, do you need something?”
The man’s head shook a little, but his lips didn’t move again. “I’m right here.” I slipped a hand into his. “You get your rest. Whenever you're ready to wake up, I’ll be right here.”
My heart pounded as I waited, and after a breath, the heavy hand in my grip gently squeezed me back.
Grinning, I bit into my lip and waited to see what my rescuer would do next.
***
Neal
Clarity. It was a strange thing to feel at this moment, especially since the ceiling I was looking up at was clearly not my own.
But fuck it, it looked pretty, all clean white lines, with a thread of dimly lit interior lights around the outside. Far better than that hospital bed that I`d briefly looked up into. A soft pressure came again, squeezing around my fingers. And that voice, the one I felt like I'd heard a hundred times. It was low, gentle, lyrical.
I craved it now. And when it stopped, I almost whimpered, wishing for more of that sweet relief.
I squeezed with my hand again, searching for that pressure. And thank God the voice spoke again. This time it was utterly clear, my mind finally catching up with my wakefulness.
“There you are. It’s okay, Mr. Crowe. We’ve got you.”
She knew my name. My real name.
Fuck, I remembered now. The past week came blasting through my memory.
That voice had been so familiar. The woman from the street. The woman who had brought me home. I’d been listening to her every evening this week, when Max wasn’t looking too closely.
She was here, touching me, and fuck if it didn’t feel fantastic. Where the fuck was Max? This was going all wrong. I struggled to sit up and apologize for ever darkening her doors.
“Max went home sick.” Her voice cleared as my focus returned. “Sorry. You’re stuck with me tonight.”
My good elbow began to slip, and slowly I fell back into the softness of the bed. God, I was weak still. Once I’d been a menace, a powerhouse, someone strong enough to protect and defend.
Even if I hadn’t done it for the right people.
Those slender fingers stroked briefly over mine. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, Mr. Crowe. Do you need anything?”
“Neal,” I grunted out. I hated my last name “Call me Neal.” I wanted to open my eyes—to see her face again, to see what she looked like, to make sure she wasn’t worried, because that wasthe last thing that I’d ever want for her. But my eyes stubbornly closed once again.
A moment later, delicate fingertips brushed over my cheekbone. “Shh. It’s okay, Neal. You’re safe.”
I swallowed, darkness lurking at the edges of my mind. I wanted to tell her, I wanted to blurt it out, but I couldn’t. I wanted her to know I didn’t deserve her kindness or her soft words. I was a bad person, a stupid person. I was unworthy of anyone’s love and care— most certainly hers. But darkness crashed over me, and I knew nothing else.
The next time I woke up, natural light illuminated every corner of the room, showcasing just how expensive it truly was. There was a second bed beside mine, the blankets still thrown back on it, a small sitting space against the windows beyond that, and at my feet, the wall beyond was covered in a huge wardrobe, a widescreen TV, and farther down, a bathroom was brightened by a series of large bright lights.
