The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,5
what I told my parents when I ran away.”
“Everyone’s either running from something or toward something.”
“Well, then,” she said, feeling some camaraderie. “Which way are you headed?”
“Both, I guess.”
“At least one thing we have in common.”
“At least.”
“Seriously, I just always felt like there was something deep inside of me I needed to say,” CeCe tried to explain. “Something . . . ”
“Trying to get out?” he asked.
She looked up at him in surprise. He understood.
“Yeah.”
“Another thing we have in common,” he said.
He moved in even closer. Into the light. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and his breath. To see him. To smell him.
“So, Sebastian . . . ” Even his name appealed to her. It fit him. She knew his type. Devastatingly good-looking guy, nice moves, but probably cheating on his night nurse girlfriend right under her nose. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“A girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Well, you don’t look like a blood farmer, organ broker, or bone thief . . . ,” she said. “Are you one of those dudes who cruises the hospital for sick chicks?”
The loud clang of a tray dropping and some hallway chatter startled them. He’d looked edgy since he’d walked in, but she could sense he was ready to leave. Right then. “You looking for someone or is someone looking for you?”
“I found what I was looking for,” he said, reaching down into his jeans pocket.
“Whoa, what the hell are you doing?” Cecilia reached for the nurse call button. He beat her to it, snatching it away. She immediately extended her hand to grab it, then winced in pain, pulling back as the IV lines stretched to their limit and tugged at her veins. “Point blank, I will hurt you.”
He pulled out a gorgeous bracelet made from what looked to be the oldest, most extraordinary rough ivory beads, and dangling from it, an antique gold sword with a slender cello bow fastened from the handle to the tip.
“Holy shit.” Cecilia marveled at it and was both touched and spooked that a total stranger would give her such a stunning, obviously ridiculously expensive, personal, and unique gift. “Were you the one who brought me here?” she asked. “Were you the one who saved me?”
Sebastian placed the bracelet in her hand and clasped his around it, gently but firmly, and backed away toward the curtain. “Later.”
Something in his voice sounded to her like he meant it literally. She believed him. This was the most honest conversation she’d had with a guy maybe ever. And he was a total stranger. But an old soul. Like her.
“Listen. I have a few gigs this week. Cecilia Trent. Google me. Maybe you’ll find me and come down and check me out minus the IVs.”
“Maybe you’ll find me first,” he said.
“Wait,” Cecilia whispered hoarsely after him, holding up her wrist adorned with the bracelet. “What is this?”
“Something to hold on to.”
7 Sunday morning.
The day of rest. Regret. And cotton mouth.
Lucy was lying on her side when she came to. She listened for a while before opening her eyes, holding on to that serene moment before what she had done the previous night revealed itself to her sober and fully conscious mind. The sliver of time before excuses of a sick grandmother or friend in turmoil emerged, all while performing an underwear scavenger hunt.
Her first reflex was to feel beneath the pillow for her Hermès flask, half gray and half salmon-hued with black leather straps and a sterling silver lid, it resembled an oversize necklace rather than something camouflaging alcohol. The promoters at Sacrifice, an upscale DUMBO nightclub, gave it to her after they hosted an exclusive Hermès party for fashion week . . . along with free top-shelf refills for life, which always kept her coming back, because drink tickets were so last millennium. This morning, however, there was no comfort to be found, under her pillow or anywhere else; she didn’t feel a flask.
The pillowcase had slid partially off and her mouth was in direct contact with the plastic blue cushion. It took an instant before she realized this and panicked, logging a mental inventory of who could have potentially died on it and then lay there for hours, leaking body fluids over it and inside it. Hospital pillows, like airline pillows, were reusable and no one had actually ever seen them changed, she was sure. The plastic cover didn’t fool her one bit—all of its infectious contents were now swirling around her mouth playing a game