God? It’s me, Tommy.
I know we haven’t spoken since my last confession . . . when the blond with the perfect arse was kneeling in the pew ahead of me. I had to say three Hail Mary’s and she had to say three Hail Mary’s, and before we knew it, we were breaking all sorts of Commandments and a few deadly sins at her flat for the rest of the afternoon.
But I’m hoping you’ll look past all that, Lord, because I have a favor to ask.
Please… let Ellie have made it out alive, even if I didn’t. Logan needs her. They need each other.
That’s all for now—perhaps I’ll be seeing you soon.
Cheers. Nanu-nanu. Amen.
As I sign off with the Almighty, a rush of air dusts over my skin, shifting and moving—like an incoming answer to my prayer. That stinging sanitized smell dissipates and is replaced by something infinitely sweeter.
Apples.
A whole orchard of round, red, ripened apples suddenly surrounds me. I breathe in deeper, hungry for more of the delicious scent.
“God, look at him,” a voice sighs from my left. “Tell me you wouldn’t boff his brains out if you had the chance.”
The tone that responds is smooth, refined and distinctly feminine.
“Inappropriate, Henrietta.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know . . . but still. I would ride him like a shiny new bicycle from here to Scotland and back again.”
The silky voice groans, “Etta . . .”
“I bet he knows how to ring a girl’s bell too. He’s got that look about him. Ding-ding.”
I like Henrietta. She seems like my type of girl. Or angel or demon, depending on what the hell is actually going on. It’s probably time I find out.
The polished tone takes a turn toward authoritative. “Hush now, I have to record his vitals for Doctor Milkerson.”
It’s the kind of voice I wouldn’t mind taking orders from—the best kind—lower Tommy, more Tommy, harder Tommy. The imaginings cause a pleasant, stirring sensation in my groin and apparently, even if I’m dead, my cock is still in full working order.
That’s comforting.
“Speaking of Milkerson, have you noticed the way he looks at you? I bet he’d give his cutting hand to take a peek at your vitals. Maybe you’d have a clue about that if you ever bothered coming out for drinks with us after shift.”
“I don’t have time for drinks. There’s too much to do—too much to learn.”
“Oh, for Saint Arnulf’s sake, Abby,” Henrietta gripes. “Why do you have to be so stuffy all the time?”
“Saint Arnulf?” she asks.
“He’s the patron saint of beer, everyone knows that. Heathen.”
“All right, that’s it—out. You’re distracting me,” Abby returns crisply. “If you’re not going to focus, you need to go.”
Henrietta’s voice retreats, “You know what does wonders for focus? Letting your hair down once in a while—and your knickers!”
The air around me rustles again, before settling back into a quiet stillness. Then, slowly, the scent of apples returns. But it’s even better now. More intense. Closer.
A gentle little sigh floats just beside my ear and the satiny, lilting voice goes low—as sweet and soft as the stroke of petal blossom along my skin.
“I’d never tell Etta this, but she wasn’t even a little bit wrong. You are a beautiful man, aren’t you?”
And I have to know. I have to see.
I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed, until I’m able to drag them open. The light is bright, blinding at first—I squint against the glowing white halo that frames her.
“Mr. Sullivan? You’re awake.”
She has the face of an angel—high cheekbones, luminous skin, and wide, round, dark green eyes. But her mouth is full and lush, and her hair shines like a golden fire, a mass of deep red, honey and chestnut hues.
There’s just something about a redhead. A passion, a spirit, a strength, that sets them apart. That makes them unforgettable. Irresistible.
She’s too tempting to be angelic.
But still I ask, “Is this heaven?”
If it is, my littlest sister Fiona, who’s been contemplating becoming a nun, would be thrilled to know it smells like apples.
“No, you’re not in heaven.”
I shrug. “I always figured the other spot would be more my scene anyway.”
Her rosy lips curve into a smile, and that’s blinding too.
“You’re not there either.”
I shake my head to clear the fog and hoist myself up, coming fully awake. And I look around. It’s a hospital room—white walls, sterile chairs, wires connected to a bleeping machine behind me. I touch my chest, my arms to make sure they’re still there. I wiggle my toes beneath the sheet because