Page 9 of Loving Leila
“Ms. Asherton, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you.”
“I’m sorry, lovely, you need to speak up. I can’t hear you. Do you need help?”
“Gonna be sick.”
“You’re going to be sick?”
What the hell is this? A bizarre game of Broken Telephone?
“Yes.”
“Up you come then. We don’t want you accidentally choking.” I feel hands slide in under both my arms. “Slowly does it.”
Oh my God! I’ve heard the expression about heads exploding, but this is the first time I’ve ever actually experienced it myself. If it doesn’t explode, at the very least, it’s going to drop off my shoulders and roll across the floor. Stars dance behind my eyelids, and my stomach rebels. Where the hell is my kidney bowl?
“That’s it. Just rest your weight on us; we’ve got you. Here you go.”
I feel the cold of a metal bowl being pushed into my palms before warm hands wrap around mine. I can’t hold it back anymore and am more violently ill than I have ever been in my entire life. Even the night Kyle left me and I got so blind drunk I thought I might die from alcohol poisoning.
The more I retch, the more my head protests. The more my head protests, the more I’m sick. Just kill me now. It’ll be a great mercy, and I’d be ever so grateful. Finally, I run out of steam, and when there’s nothing left, those gentle hands lower me back to the bed, ever so carefully, but don’t let go.
“I’ll go call doc and let him know you’re awake.”
I want to nod but think better of it. “Thank you,” I whisper instead.
I hear the nurse leave, and it takes me a moment to realize that those warm hands are still holding mine. I’m terrified of opening my eyes again but also freaked out by the unknown hands – a thumb now gently rubbing over my inner wrist. It also suddenly occurs to me that the nurse said “us”, but I’ve only heard one voice. Hers.
On that thought, my eyes pop open of their own accord and crash into the concerned gaze of none other than Kyle. I haven’t seen the man in five years. Now I see him at every turn.
“Hey.”
I slam my eyes shut. Not only does my head hurt, but now my heart hurts too. Why couldn’t this man just stay gone? Of all the SEAL teams, why did they have to send his in to save the ship?Why? What have I done to piss the gods off that I’m being punished like this?
“Why are you here, Kyle?” is all I manage to whisper before I feel hot tears drip down the sides of my face and onto my neck.
“Shit, sweetness, don’t cry. Please?” I can feel him peppering tiny kisses on my hand closest to him.
He never did like it when I cried.
Now that they’ve started, I can’t stop them. And those kisses aren’t helping any either. God, I’ve missed this man, like an essential limb. For all his size and macho appearance, Kyle isn’t afraid of public displays of affection. The kind of boyfriend women dream of.
But he’s not mine anymore. He made that abundantly clear the day he left without so much as a backward glance. Yet here he is, ripping that barely covered-over wound on my heart wide open, leaving it bloody and vulnerable. In my current state, it’s too much to deal with. And so the tears keep coming.
I try to tug my hands out of his, but he’s not having any of it. He merely tightens his grip. Not so much that he’s hurting me, yet enough for me to understand he’s not letting go. I’m torn between feeling cherished and wanting to scream at him to release me.
Just then, I hear the door and the nurse asks, “Everything okay here?”
I hiccup and nod. Kyle doesn’t say a word. Simply continues that tender, mesmerizing rubbing on my arm.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake, Ms. Asherton. We were a little concerned at how long you were unconscious,” I hear an unfamiliar female voice say. I’m guessing this is the doctor. “Let’s have a look at those eyes and see where we’re at.”
Mentally sighing, I brace and once again pry my eyes open. Only to wince in pain when she shines a small flashlight into them. Fuck, that smarts. I try to keep still but can’t help eventually turning my head to escape the bright beam.
“Pupils are responding nicely; I’m happy with that. All the tests and scans have come back clean too, so I’m certain that we’re dealing with a nasty concussion,” she continues. “I’m going to keep you overnight, just for observation, and if all is still looking good in the morning, you can go home.”
That thought alone makes me happy. It feels like I left home a lifetime ago. But then my heart sinks again when she says, “That is, if you have someone at home to take care of you. It would be irresponsible of me to release you with no one to watch over you. A relapse isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”
