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Somehow, every time she was on the edge of leaving forever and losing the energy to care what people would say about it, he'd fall out of his bed, or he'd need a sponge bath. Or worse yet, her mother would call and remind her of exactly what a disappointment she was.
It was always something.
Something to prove she couldn’t leave him here, sick and alone. That would be all too cold, even if it was only a tenth of what he deserved.
So here she was, three years later. Stuck. Engaged to a man she hated if only to ensure that his healthcare expenses didn’t continue to drain every last penny she had. As much as she’d tried to convince herself that things would change, they were the same from day one. Even confined to one room, one way or another he found a way to be completely unavailable, and that was the only way he would ever be dependable.
She shook her head, clearing the dark cloud of tho
ughts that always fogged her mind, and approached Lance’s room. The thuds were louder still, and even more rapid.
Was the equipment broken? Was he trying to get the nurse's attention? And where was the freaking nurse? A thousand bucks a week and this was what Rachael got for it?
She made a mental note to call the agency before rushing in, not bothering to knock before banging the door against the wall.
But that wasn't the only thing banging against the wall.
Her breath caught as she tried to take it in. So, he could walk.
What a fucking miracle.
In fact, he could stand so well that he had the redheaded nurse pinned against the wall beside his bed. Rachael wasn't sure what affronted her more—the fact that her fiancé was still mid-nurse when he turned to look at her, or that he was wearing the nurse's white cotton uniform and a pair of red heels while he was doing the deed.
"Rachie," he said. Still inside the nurse. Did he not at least have the decency to unsheathe himself?
"Feeling better?" she asked. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, sticking to her cheeks and resting there while the remainder of her effort focused on not leaping across the room and strangling him.
"This isn't what it looks like," he finally slid out of the nurse and dropped the uniform to the ground, turning to face her full on. Apparently, surprise made him flaccid. Not that there had ever been a big difference between the two states of wiener-hood for him.
"It looks like physical therapy. Am I paying you overtime?" She craned her neck to talk to the woman who was rushing to collect her clothing from the ground. At least the redhead had the decency not to look up.
"Leave her alone," he demanded.
Rachael let out a short laugh, stunned that he had the balls to come at her, now. "Because she's an innocent victim? Tell me, how long have you been disease-free?"
"I think I should be leaving," a mousy whisper came from the woman cowering by the bedside, fastening the last of her buttons.
"Oh, good idea. You should probably head to the dry cleaner's," Rachael replied.
"The dry cleaners?" The woman knitted her brow as she attempted to side-step Rachael on her way out the door. It was the perfect chance. Rachael tossed the entire contents of her wine glass onto the front of Nurse Betty's white uniform, and the blood-red liquid dripped from the hem onto her bare legs.
"I hear wine stains are pretty tough to get out," Rachael said.
The woman was smarter than Rachael thought, though, because she didn't bother to fight back before she left, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.
"That wasn't really necessary, Rachie." Lance's pants were back on, at least. One less thing to remind her of what had just happened. Though the wine stain on the rug would be a bitch to deal with later.
"I think you're not really in a position to lecture me." She placed her fists on her hips and stared him down, waiting for the groveling. The 'please don't leave' that she would expect of any normal person who had been found boning the nurse their fiancé had been paying for.
But she'd forgotten that Lance was an anomaly of human, the missing link. The ass-hole-asaurus.
"I wouldn't have needed to do that if you didn't work so much," he settled back onto his sick bed, hooking himself back up to the multitudes of beeping machines that surrounded him. He sighed and reached for the remote, as if he'd settled the whole situation. As if he couldn't see the steam that was practically pouring from her ears and the heat rushing to her face.
"You mean if I didn't work so much to cover your medical expenses? Because you can't work? Even though you're a freelance editor? And let's forget about your naughty nurse for a minute. Why don't you go ahead and explain to me how the hell you can suddenly get out of bed? Not only that, did you take some kind of super drug so you can finally muster the energy to fuck somebody?"
"Do you really think there's a need for language like that?" He wore his go-to holier-than-thou simper, his long nose wrinkled as if he'd smelled his bedpan. The worst part was that he hadn't even bothered to look at her. He just flipped through the channels, finally settling on The Young and the Restless. "Can we discuss this when you're a little more rational? My show is on."
"Your show is on?" Her voice had roared like a volcano before, but now it was an ant in the middle of a giant field. Quiet. Almost unnoticeable.
