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Chapter 3
I woke again to voices, several of them, all speaking loudly over my body. I lay in the dark, eyes shut, while they slowly separated through the fog of pain relievers and head injury.
"Honestly, Cory, I don't even know what you're doing here. Just tell the donors that I'm caught up with a family affair. They'll understand."
"Exactly, boss. A family affair. This girl isn't your family. You're throwing away your political future over a good time."
"Cory, I swear to fuckin' God, you need to stop right there."
After the CT, the hospital had wanted to keep me another day for observation, and I had slept for most of it. They had been weaning me off the Percocet to see if I would be more alert when I woke up next. My ankle throbbed. The shrill voice of Cory Stewart, Brandon's campaign manager, general pessimist, and one of the people I liked least in the world, lanced through my head like an arrow. Oh, I was definitely alert. And hungry. And really fucking grumpy.
My eyes opened, and I saw Brandon sitting stalk-straight in the hospital chair, still wearing the same T-shirt and baseball hat as before. His stubble was almost a full-on beard at this point, and I smiled a little, wishing I could run my fingers through it. I'd never seen him with a full beard. He looked hot. A little bit savage.
Cory stood at the end of my bed, arms crossed in a plain gray suit. His sharp, beady eyes found me looking at him, and the snide expression morphed to outright dislike. The man was a genius at maneuvering other people through public relations nightmares, but I hadn't seen any indication that he had the slightest bit of people skills himself.
"You can ask her yourself," Cory said with a nod. "She's finally awake."
Brandon swiveled toward me, and his gaze softened. He offered me a half-smile, but made no move to touch me.
"Hey," he said. "You're up."
"Ask me what?" I struggled to sit up. Wow, I was weak. I clutched the hospital gown to my neck. I had no desire for Cory's judgmental stare to evaluate my bruised body.
"Nothing," Brandon said with another sharp look at Cory. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
"Oh, right," Cory retorted. "I forgot, I'm just the fuckin' campaign manager here. And that optics doesn't mean shit in politics. Excuse me, what fuckin' alternate universe are we living in, man?"
"Cory! I said, can it."
Brandon gave his manager the kind of look that would have turned anyone else to stone. I had seen that look before. It was terrifying. Cory shrunk slightly away from the bed, but managed to keep his ground.
"Fine," he said. "Just fuckin' fine. I'll cancel the appearance tonight, but next week, you are getting back out there. Otherwise you have to find yourself a different campaign manager, because I don't waste my time with half-assed projects." His gaze darted back to me with only slightly masked contempt. "Sorry about getting kidnapped. Hope you feel better soon." Then he left.
Brandon sighed and turned to me with a sheepish, but guarded expression. He pulled off his hat, revealing a head full of messy blond waves that badly needed to be combed. I was dying to run my fingers through them.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Cory's an asshole. But he's just trying to do his job, and I'm making it difficult for him." He gave me a rueful look. "Can I get you anything?" He nodded at a covered tray next to the bed. "They brought breakfast, but you were asleep."
My stomach growled. I had been subsisting on IV fluids for days. I was starving.
"What time is it?" I asked as I pulled the tray in front of me. I removed the lid. Cold pancakes, but not terrible, as far as hospital food goes.
"About ten. You've been asleep since yesterday afternoon."
I paused, mid-bite of pancake, and looked Brandon over. "Have you been here the entire time?"
He sighed, but didn't answer, just folded his hands together and stared out the window.
I chewed my pancake and took a sip of orange juice. "So, what was that about? He thinks you need to leave?"
Brandon perched his chin on his clasped palms and nodded. "You don't need to worry about what Cory thinks."
"Cory hates my guts."
Brandon's strong features softened. "He doesn't hate your guts."
"He thinks I'm going to kill your campaign. Same thing. And he's probably right."
Brandon sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. He still looked incredibly tired, as one would after sleeping for three nights in a hospital chair.
