The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,4

Trent.”

Cecilia didn’t budge.

“Address?”

“Pass.”

“Ah, okay.” He skimmed the screen for an easier question. “Religion?”

“Currently, I’m practicing the ancient art of”—she paused as he typed—“I don’t give a fuck-ism.”

He continued typing until the end and then pressed the delete button. “I can’t type that.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I can’t.”

“And they say this is a free country,” Cecilia said. “Okay, I’m a practicing nihilist.”

“Why don’t I come back later.” He pushed his computer cart out of the room as he closed the curtain.

“Don’t be like that,” she called after him apologetically. “I’m just bored.”

“Get some rest.”

She should have been able to, with all that sedation flowing through her, but she couldn’t. She kept replaying the evening over and over in her head, the little she could remember of it. After a while, the ER went almost totally quiet except for the sound of hurried footsteps. They sounded heavy, not like the surgeons’ paper booties or the nurses’ rubber soles that had been scurrying through the ward until then. Cecilia, an experienced night owl by nature and profession, felt uneasy for the first time in a very long time.

Cecilia looked up and noticed the shadow of a male figure on her curtain, passing by her bay. “Coming back for more? They always do.”

She glanced down and saw the coolest pair of black biker boots she’d ever seen. Even in silhouette she could tell, whoever he was, he was hot. Definitely not the douche bag ER tech. She’d gotten really good at determining a guy’s “attributes” in the dark.

He stood still, as if he were intensely plotting, his back to her curtain divider, giving her time to wonder about him. Visiting hours were over, and from the almost chiaroscuro outline of his hair, jeans, and jacket, she wondered if this was the guy she’d hooked up with earlier. She could barely remember what he looked like, but maybe he’d snuck past the desk to see her. See if she was okay. Even if it was out of guilt.

“Are you decent?” he asked. “Can I come in?”

“No and yes. Two things about me—I never get on a plane with a country star and I tend to never say ‘no’ to a guy.”

She felt a tingle in her stomach as he slid aside the curtain. He looked anxious, almost like a chain smoker who had given up cigarettes earlier that day. Tense. He ducked quickly into the space. He was tall and lean, olive-skinned, with thick, styled hair, long, slightly muscled arms, and a barrel chest that was barely enclosed by his jacket and a T-shirt of The Kills.

A vision.

“I didn’t think anyone was awake,” he said in a baritone whisper.

“Here to give me last rites?”

“You have a death wish?”

“After last night, possibly.”

“Do you always invite strangers into your room?”

“I prefer the company of people I don’t know very well.”

“Sounds lonely.”

There was an awkward silence and Cecilia had to look away from him. The understanding and compassion in his voice was overwhelming. Her eyes welled unexpectedly with tears. “I’m not crying. I must still be high or something.”

“I understand.” He stepped forward. Closer to her. Shrinking the space between them. He smelled like incense. Cecilia began to question the wisdom of confiding in this guy. Hot guys cruising clubs was one thing, but hot guys creeping hospitals was quite another. She tensed up. “Do I know you?”

“Wouldn’t you know if you knew me?”

The truth was she hung out with a lot of guys, and it was difficult to keep them straight. So running into one turned into a game of Twenty Questions with her. Something she was good at. “Were you at my gig tonight? Did you bring me here?”

“No . . . ” he said slowly. “Cecilia.”

“You know my name? You better be psychic or I’m screaming,” she said, backing away suddenly.

He pointed to the foot of her bed. “Your name is on your clipboard.”

“What do you want from me?” Cecilia asked, holding her punctured arms up as far as the vinyl tubes would stretch, like a medicated marionette. “I can take care of myself. Despite what it looks like.”

“I can see that.” He nodded and tapped her hand gently.

“Who are you?” she asked, immediately pulling away.

“Sebastian,” he said, reaching for her again.

She relaxed into his touch.

He took notice of the hard-shell guitar case leaning upright against the wall beside her bed. It was stickered, stained, chipped, and battered. It had seen better days, but he had the sense it was protecting something precious. “You’re a musician?”

“That’s