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“When did that happen?” Betty asked, biting her bottom lip as she pushed her plate of food away. “Shit.”
Beau had a bad feeling. It seemed as if their nice little cocoon had cracked wide open.
“I’m fine, Bobbi. How is she?” Betty exhaled and rubbed her fingers across her forehead, eyes closed as she listened to her sister. “Okay. Hang tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Is everything alright?” he asked hesitantly, when she ended the call.
“No,” she said, her eyes flying to his. “No. We need to get back to New Waterford right away.”
She was already sliding off the chair, tucking her cell back into her bra. “It’s Billie.” She ran fingers through her tangled hair, her face white and pinched. “She’s in the hospital. Something about the baby.”
“Baby?” Beau grabbed his wallet and slapped some bills onto the table as he got up from his seat. “But the baby’s not…she’s not due for a few months, right?”
Betty didn’t answer. She was already halfway to the door.
Chapter Twenty-five
BETTY JO HATED HOSPITALS. The smell. The sterile colors. The hushed tones.
The life and death.
Years ago she’d been on a photo shoot in Belize and had cut her foot on coral. It had become infected and she’d ended up feverish and sick. Even then, she’d refused to go to the hospital—insisting a doctor could come to her. She was Betty Jo Barker, after all.
It hadn’t been her ego talking though that’s what everyone assumed—hell, the story had made the papers in the US. Her therapist had told her it was because she associated hospitals with the death of her mother.
She’d been five when Chantal Barker had succumbed to the cancer that had slowly taken her away from the girls. And their father had brought them to the hospital to say their goodbyes.
It was something she still remembered, though the pictures had long faded. It was the smells. The sensations that stayed with her. The feelings of fear and utter hopelessness.
It was ironic, really, that a place that saw so much death and suffering, also celebrated life.
New Waterford wasn’t big enough to support its own hospital so Billie had been admitted to The General located in the next county over. By the time Betty got there, it was nearly ten in the morning, the sun was high in the sky, and Michigan was well on its way to another scorching summer day.
Beau pulled the Harley up to the front entrance and let her off. She slid off the bike unsure how to proceed and offered him a small wave, like she was the Queen of England or something.
A stupid wave.
But what else was she supposed to do? Shove her tongue down his throat? She wasn’t used to this…this situation. In the past when she had sex with someone, she left before they woke up. It had always been her rule. Never sleep over.
The only guy she ever slept with was Matt and that was because all they did was cuddle. It was about comfort not sex.
“I’ll…I’ll call you later,” she said slowly as she slipped off her helmet and handed it to him.
“I can come in with you. If you want.”
“No,” Betty said quickly. “This is family shit and you’d only get in the way.” She gestured to the folks near the hospital entrance who were already gawking.
Okay,” Beau replied. His large aviators covered his eyes and with his long blond hair poking out from under his helmet, the substantial stubble on his chin, he looked incredibly hot in a dangerous bad boy biker kind of way. “Keep me in the loop. I hope everyone stays healthy.”
She nodded and then ran up the steps, ignoring the gasps from a few of the people milling around out front. One man near the entrance had his phone out and turned it toward her, as she moved past him and through the doors. No doubt pictures of her would hit the Internet before she’d even managed to find her sister.
Betty caught a glimpse of herself in the glass door and winced. She looked as if she’d spent the night in Sin City and was doing the ultimate walk of shame. Her hair was a mess, her mouth swollen from all the sexin’ she’d had—not to mention the whisker burns on her face and most likely her thighs. Her clothes looked as if she was coming down from a twenty-four hour bender. Which, she supposed, in a way she was.
“Whatever,” she muttered as she approached reception.
The lady behind the computer glanced up and she caught the exact moment when she recognized Betty. She was older than Betty, say in her mid to late forties, with hair scraped off her head in a tight ponytail. She wore no makeup or accessories, wore puke green scrubs—which was ridiculous, the woman was in reception, she wasn’t a nurse—and the judgmental gleam in her eye told Betty everything.
A slight sneer touched the corner of the woman’s mouth and her big brown eyes took their time moving over Betty from head to foot.
