Driven to Ink

Chapter 54

Tim’s words sunk in slowly.

“You let him go?” I finally asked.

“We didn’t have anything to hold him on. His car really had been at the garage, getting a timing belt like he said. Nothing about it indicated it had been in a crash lately. He told us about that rat, but there’s no evidence that he put it in your trunk or killed Ray Lucci. He confessed to being in love with Rosalie Marino but swears she doesn’t know.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

The back of my bed was up, so I leaned against it, closing my eyes for a few seconds. I could see that body tossed up against the hood of the Pontiac like a rag doll. I opened my eyes again to get rid of the sight.

“Can we find out about Jeff?” I asked.

“He’s in surgery,” Tim said again. “We won’t know anything for a little while.” He paused. “We’ll need to talk to him when he wakes up.” He meant Flanigan. Of course Flanigan would have to talk to Jeff. Probably to make sure Jeff and I had the same story.

“He’s tough,” I said, mostly to myself. “He’ll be okay. He was in the Marines. He was in a war. And he came home okay.”

“Flanigan will probably need to ask you more questions, too.”

I nodded and sighed. I knew that, but I wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated again. Tim noticed and rubbed my shoulder. I winced as pain shot through my back. He jerked his hand back. “Maybe you’re not okay,” he said.

“We got into a crash. I might be sore for a couple days.”

He cocked his head at my face. “You might want to wear a veil or something.”

“It looks that bad?”

“It’ll look worse tomorrow.”

Great.

I wanted to close my eyes again, but I was afraid of what I’d see. The curtain moved, and Bixby stepped in. He looked at Tim.

“How is she?”

“She is fine,” I replied, before Tim could. “She would love to take a shower.” I didn’t add that I wanted to wash off Jeff’s blood, but I didn’t think I had to.

Tim’s phone started to ring, and Bixby frowned.

“I’ll be back,” Tim said, putting his phone to his ear and walking out.

“You really are fine?” Bixby asked.

“How is Jeff?”

“He’s in surgery.”

Same answer as Tim. Totally wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

“You’re the doctor here. Can’t you find out how it’s going?” I asked.

“You care a great deal for him, don’t you?” Bixby asked, his eyes probing my face.

I knew what he was looking for. “He’s my friend,” I said softly. “Nothing else.” Although as I said it, I remembered how Jeff had held my hand, how he’d called me by my first name, not Kavanaugh. “He’s a very good friend,” I added.

“Oh.” Bixby turned his face slightly, and I could see disappointment.

“We’re not a couple,” I said. “It’s not like that. It’s different.” I struggled with how to describe my relationship with Jeff Coleman. He was a royal pain in my butt, but he had helped me out on more than one occasion, and he created the koi tattoo on my arm, something that was permanent, that would never go away.

As I sat there and thought about him, I knew. I knew that if something happened to him, my life would be a little bit emptier.

I’d never admit that to him, though. He’d get some sort of stupid idea that it meant more than it did. Just as Bixby was having that stupid idea now. I could see it.

I crooked my finger at him and said, “Come here.”

He did, and I sat up so our faces were mere inches apart. And then I kissed him. Gently, because my face hurt more than getting a hundred tattoos at the same time.

It seemed to pacify him, because when he pulled away, Dr. Colin Bixby wore a lopsided grin.

“I’ll go check on Coleman’s status,” he said and went through the curtain, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Sister Mary Eucharista wouldn’t have been happy with me. I’d kissed the man to make him stop asking me whether I had feelings for Jeff. Don’t get me wrong-I found the guy incredibly sexy. But kissing him to get him to stop asking questions wasn’t exactly right.

I looked at my shirt and the bloodstains and decided I couldn’t stay here like that. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the shooting pain that moved through my body. My neck felt as though there were a vise on it. I moved toward the curtain, slowly, because now my muscles had decided to revolt. They’d been resting, they’d been happy, and now I was making them work after way too much trauma.

The curtain swung open just as I reached it. Tim frowned.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded.

“I need a shower. Please tell Bixby to find me a shower.” Tears sprung into my eyes, and Tim put his arm around me.

“Okay, okay. We’ll find you a shower.” He twisted his head and called over to one of the nurses. “Can my sister get a shower somewhere?” To me, he said, “I can call Bitsy, see if she can bring a change of clothes.”

I’d forgotten about Bitsy. I’d told her she could go home early, and I’d said I’d open up tomorrow. How was I going to manage that now?

A nurse in baby blue scrubs and green Crocs came over to me and smiled kindly. “Do you want to come with me?”

I nodded and followed her down the hall and out a door. She led me to another door and pushed it open. It was a full bath, hospital style, with plain fixtures and handicap rails. The shower had no tub, but a small plastic seat and more rails, in case I couldn’t hold myself up. I might end up making use of them.

The nurse pointed to a soap dispenser.

“We don’t have shampoo,” she apologized.

“I’ll use the soap,” I said.

She shut the door behind her as she left. I locked it and stripped off my clothes. The blood had soaked through my shirt, and the skin around the dragon tattoo was pink. My heart began to pound, and I sat, naked, on the plastic chair, my head in my hands, and I began to sob softly. Somewhere in this building, Jeff was fighting for his life. I vowed to be nicer to him when he got better. I wouldn’t get as annoyed with him.

After a few minutes, I pulled myself together and turned on the faucet, the hot water crashing down around me, beating into my skin and washing away the blood.

The nurse had left me some scrubs, and when I was done, I put them on and found Tim waiting for me.

“Better?” he asked casually, although I could see from his expression that something else was going on.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Cops found the scene. Couldn’t really miss it. Pieces of car all over the place, lots of skid marks. A dent in that light pole you must have hit.”

He was holding something back, though.

“What?” I asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing else there. No car, no injured person. No one at all.”