Page 12 of True Abandon

The Davis children were required to excel in music. Ella learned the piano while Jax took up the guitar. They played at all of their father’s political soirees as a showcase of the well-rounded children Senator Davis was raising. I never dreamed he’d make a career of it.

A beeping sounds from the machine on the other side of the bed, followed by a humming noise, and the blood pressure cuff around his bicep squeezes his arm. I don’t know much about this equipment, but there are no alarms going off, so I assume his vitals are stable. My eyes jump from one thing to the next, unable to focus on any of it long.

There are two bags of fluids being fed into his body through an IV that rests in his forearm while the other is set in a cast. Not the plaster kind, but more of a splint.

Ella didn’t specify what his injuries were so I do my own examination, taking note of a large bruise on his torso that stretches over his ribs and the tattoo of a woman’s mouth. The left side of his face is banged up, too, and dried blood is sitting at the top of his hairline and another bruise cascades down his temple.

I pull the sheet more to further expose his body, but then quickly put it back when I realize, Jax is naked.

My pulse speeds up and I can feel my face flush. I look over my shoulder to see if anyone saw me and then realize I’m alone in a hospital room.

I run my palm over my face and consider if I should continue. I don’t know what I expected. Even if he had on a hospital gown, he’d still be naked from the waist down. And I set out to make sure he’s okay. There’s only one way to do that.

Taking a moment to gather my composure, clear my throat, I push my shoulders back and continue with my task.

My eyes widen at the bruising that continues down his side and large bandage on his hip and the lotus flower that’s been tattooed between his pelvic bones.

When I examine his legs I gasp at the site of his calf that is virtually open. And as soon as I see bone and cartilage, I jerk the sheet back over his leg and jump away as if his injuries were contagious.

My mouth waters the way it does right before I’m about to vomit. I gag a little, waiting for the feeling to pass.

I’ve never seen a broken leg before. It’s quite possibly the most disgusting thing I’ve ever witnessed. It appears to have been reset and in a splint, but I wonder what they plan to do with it next—surgery possibly, or maybe a cast? Let it sit in the open, so he gets infected with MRSA?

I bolt out the room and pull over, rather forcefully, the first nurse I come across. “Excuse me, I need information on my brother. Is he scheduled for surgery?”

“Who’s your brother?”

“Jackson Davis. His leg looks really bad.”

“Yes, I believe he’s scheduled with the surgeon. I’ll find out for you,” she promises before walking down the hallway and turning a corner.

Looking up and down the corridor, all I see are doors to other rooms, and I assume she must have gone down to the nurse’s station. I cross my arms and wait in plain view as not to be missed on her return. It’s quiet, unlike the chaos I walked through to get here. I don’t hear the echo of feet or even the whisper of someone coming my way. I don’t know what else to do with myself so I pace, my wet sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, as I wait for the nurse to return.

When I reach the end of the hall, I come to an alcove, and in it is a computer on a cart. I glance back down the way I came and see it is still empty before I tip-toe to the keyboard side. I look at the screen, and the swirling windows icon prances around as a screensaver.

I’m violating a million HIPAA laws, but being complacent and waiting for people to give me information was never my strong suit. It makes me wonder what they’re hiding.

I bite my bottom lip and contemplate whether breaking into a hospital’s database is something I should do. It only takes a moment to make my decision.

I tap a key on the keyboard, and the desktop comes to life. The program is logged in, and against my better judgment, I go about searching for Jackson’s file.

Twenty-seven-year-old. Male. Found unresponsive when paramedics answered the call at eight-sixteen in the evening. Picked up at Treble Night Club in Harlem. Arrived with a broken arm and leg, fractured ribs, and a concussion.

He’s already had a CT scan and is awaiting a consult with the surgeon about his leg. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, but he could be high on narcotics right now.

I drum my fingers vigorously on the metal as my stomach clenches with worry. The idea of a wound going untreated doesn’t sit right with me.

I double-click an icon and look for the name of the surgeon who was paged for the consult. Dr. Louis Abler. I tap the button next to his name to page the physician and a sub-screen pops up for me to type in the message to be sent to his pager. I type in Jackson’s name and room number followed by the word “STAT” because that’s what they say on TV. Hopefully, it gets him to the top of the doctor’s need-to-see list.

Pushing the cart toward the wall where I found it, I creep out of the alcove and back into Jax’s room, unnoticed.

I cross my arms and try to fight off the chill that's sitting in my bones. I know he’s not wet like I am, but it is cold in here, so I adjust his blankets to make sure he’s warm.

The blood pressure cuff goes off again, and the heart rate monitor blinks steadily. I place the back of my hand on his head to check for a temperature—his skin is smooth and a little clammy—but there’s no sign of a fever. I allow the back of my hand to travel down his temple, close to the piercing on his brow, careful of the blood and bruising.

I can’t believe he’s lying here in front of me. I can’t believe I’m standing here in front of him.

The realization forces me to draw in a deep breath, my chest heaving out. I release the air and a chill curls down to my toes. My nails gently trace Jackson’s once familiar jaw, the pads of my fingers feathering down his neck, just before stopping at the top of his chest.