Slave to the Rhythm (27 page)

“Laney! What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

“Ev-everywhere!” she cried out.

I half-knelt on the bed trying to put my arms around her but she screamed in agony.

“Don’t touch me!”

I felt her pulse hammering under my hand, her heart beating so wildly I was afraid she’d have a heart attack. I’d never felt anything like it, and my own anxiety went into overdrive.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” I shouted as I leapt off the bed.

“No! Drugs! I n-need my drugs!”

Sranje! Which drugs? Where were they?

I tried to speak calmly.

“Okay, I’ll get them. Where?”

Her sobbing was so uncontrolled, her gasps so fast, it was impossible to understand her. And even when I made out the words, the long, medical name meant nothing to me.

“Yellow ones!” she begged. “Bathroom!”

I ransacked her bathroom cabinet until I found some that were a pale yellow—her anti-inflammatory drugs.

“These?”

“Y-yes!”

I needed to get her upright so she could drink some water with them, but every time I tried to touch her or move her, she screamed.

“It burns!” she cried out, sobbing, her chest heaving.

I didn’t know what to do. We needed help, but she begged me not to call an ambulance. I even thought about calling the prick—he must have seen this before so he’d know how to help her. But if I moved an inch from Laney she cried out.

“Don’t leave me! Ash! Ash!”

I lay on the bed next to her, trying to wedge my body under hers so she could sit up. That didn’t work, so in the end, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her up, wincing as her piercing shrieks knifed through me.

I popped out one of the large pills, and pushed into Laney’s mouth. She nearly bit my finger and I had to pull free quickly.

Trying to hold a glass of water to her mouth caused most of it to go over her and the bed, her hands shook and she gasped and coughed, retching as water went down the wrong way. After three tries, she managed to swallow the pill and I laid her down, her crying almost as wild as before.

Fifteen long and terrifying minutes later, her breaths began to slow, and her panic began to ease. Another half-an-hour, and she was able to rest in a normal position, instead of twisted and contorted as if she’d been dropped from a great height.

I rubbed her arm softly, trying to give comfort because there was nothing else I could do.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged, her voice shaking.

My chest ached at the desperation and fear I heard in her voice.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Stay with me. Don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving you, Laney.”

Moving slowly and carefully so I didn’t jostle her, I eased myself into the bed next to her, covering us both with the quilt.

She gripped my hand and pulled it against her stomach.

“Don’t leave me.”

When I woke the next morning, I was confused. It was darker than I was used to. I never closed the drapes in the living room, so I should be seeing either daylight or street lamps. I rolled over and heard a soft, female gasp.

Memory came flooding back.

“Laney! Are you . . . how are you? Did I hurt you?”

Her head turned slowly to look in my direction. “I’m okay. Sorry about last night.”

I sat up cautiously, staring down at her.

“That was scary. Are you really okay?”

Her lips turned upward in a sad smile. “I can’t move, but I’m okay.”

“You . . . you can’t move?!”

“Well, a little, but it hurts. Could you get me another of those pills, please?”

I rolled out of bed and quickly moved to the bathroom, stopping a second to yank the curtains open, then bringing her another of the yellow pills.

She gave a small giggle, her gaze dipping to my briefs. I was too worried to be embarrassed that my dick was saluting the morning, right at Laney’s eye level.

“Can you sit up?”

“No. If you could just get me a little upright, I’ll be able to take the pill.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, grimacing as I pulled her up, giving small gasps as if she was trying to keep her breaths as shallow as possible.

She took the pill, washing it down with several mouthfuls of water.

“You can put me back now,” she said softly.

Her face scrunched even though I was moving as slowly as I could. And I watched her for several seconds until it smoothed out again.

“Does that happen often?” I asked at last.

Her expression was exasperated.

“No, hardly ever. Only once before. Why it had to happen now . . .” and her voice trailed off.

“You had a panic attack,” I said flatly.

“I know,” and she closed her eyes. “The pain was so intense. It feels like every part of your body is on fire. It was so sudden, waking up like that—it’s what made me panic.”

She turned her head to smile at me.

“You were great. Thank you.”

I flopped back on the bed next to her.

“I was so scared, I nearly called the pr—Collin.”

She poked me in the side, making me jump.

“Don’t call him that. He can’t help being . . .”

“ . . . an asshole?”

“Ash!” She paused. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t call him, or I’d be waking up in hospital right now.” Then she gave me a big smile. “It’s much nicer waking up next to you. Don’t tell Collin,” and she laughed happily.

I shook my head, awed by this amazing woman. The only parts of her that she could move without pain were her head and her arms, and here she was teasing me, joking with me.

Then she frowned. “You look very serious. What are you thinking?”

I chose to lie.

“I was thinking that I should probably go shower in case Collin decides on a Sunday morning visit and finds us in bed together.”

“Good point. But at least the monster in your pants has gone back to his cave.”

I nearly choked on a laugh. “Monster?”

Her cheeks bloomed pink. “Go. Shower.”

Laughing loudly, I headed for the bathroom.

“I can’t believe I said that,” she muttered.

In the shower, my mood sobered. I worried that stress had caused this flare-up and the scary as hell panic attack. Maybe she’d reconsidered the whole marriage idea. I still didn’t believe that she’d be getting anything out of it, no matter which way she argued it. All the benefit was on my side, and I’d be a selfish douche to let her do this.

Sighing, I dried myself with a towel, determined to persuade Laney to change her mind. But when I walked out into the bedroom, she was working her cell, still flat on her back.

She beamed up at me.

“Locked and loaded!”

“Excuse me?”

“All the paperwork is fairly straightforward. Your Consular ID will be sufficient, but I’ll need to get a copy of your entry visa. Then we have to go to the clerk’s office, take a number and wait. We could drop by one morning before you go to the theater. So . . . how do you feel about getting married on Friday afternoon?”

“Laney, I don’t know . . .”

“Ash, stop. I can guess what you’re going to say, but don’t.”

“We agree this crazy scheme and then you get sick with a panic attack and . . . this!” I said roughly, jerking a thumb at her prone body.

Her expression softened fractionally.

“It’s not related.”

“It must be!”

“I know my own body better than you.”

I ran my hands over my wet hair in frustration.

“Don’t you want this?” she asked.

“Not if it makes you ill!”

“Is that your only concern?”

“Not really. What would happen if your family or the prick find out, or if someone realizes it’s a fake marriage? How much trouble will you be in? I figure I’ll just be deported.”

“Oh, is that all?” she laughed. “You should live a little, Ash.”

Laney

By Thursday, I still hadn’t gotten over my flare-up, which was annoying. God, the stares when I explained that we were there for a marriage license. I breezed through that on a wave of indignation. I’m not sure Ash noticed—he was too busy trying to talk himself into doing it. I wished I could convince him that it was the only solution.

But on Friday afternoon, waiting to get married, I was nervous and starting to fidget. It had suddenly occurred to me that I might run into someone I knew who might understandably be curious. After all, I was wearing a dress instead of my usual jeans and sitting with my so-called roommate, a seriously hot guy that other women definitely noticed, in the anteroom to where the wedding ceremonies took place.

Ash had been full of confidence first thing this morning, dismissing my concerns.

“You can’t spend your life worrying
what if
. We all die and feed the chickens.”

“You mean worms?”

“Chickens, worms, we all end up in the dirt, yeah? ‘What if it rains?’ I’ll get you an umbrella.”

But now, he looked like he was about to be sick.

It was warm inside, the old heating system cranking out plenty of hot air, and the press of bodies was making me feel sweaty and uncomfortable.

Despite the heat, Ash looked unwrinkled and chic in a pair of black chinos, crisp white shirt that he’d ironed himself this morning, and a dark navy tie, all found in thrift stores. Although his usually golden complexion was verging on green. I hoped he made it to the end of the ceremony before puking. But then I figured lots of grooms get nervous.

As he’d insisted we dress up, I’d wanted to buy him something new, but he refused. Did I mention he was stubborn?

I’d planned to wear a cute little black dress that had been hanging in my closet for such an occasion. Well, not a secret marriage, obviously, but something that required being fancy.

But Ash said we looked as if we were going to a funeral not a wedding and no one would believe it, so at the last minute I changed into a pale lemon sundress that got Ash’s nod of approval. It was completely inappropriate for October in Chicago, but he liked it.

When our names were called, Ash made everyone clear out of the way as he eased my wheelchair through the door, ignoring the pitying glances of the happy and loud
real
wedding party. I could tell that they felt sorry for Ash—sorry because he was marrying a woman in a wheelchair, who was obviously no prize.

No matter how many times I told myself that I didn’t care what strangers thought, I did care—just a little. Ash said nothing.

It wasn’t how I’d imagined my wedding day. Not that I was one of those women who planned everything from the dress to the food to the guests, impatient only to meet a man who would complete the picture. But I had imagined that my family would be with me.

And it was all a lie—we weren’t passionately in love, we hadn’t declared our need to live together for the rest of our lives, I’d never said I loved him.

But now . . . I swear it had started with wanting to help, but his quiet kindness, his sensitivity, his potential for sheer joy, all those emotions had tunneled toward my heart. And against all reason, all reality, I was falling for this frustrating, flawed, broken, battered and beautiful man. Why was I so careful with my health . . . and so reckless with my heart?

The ceremony was short, and Ash surprised me with a simple gold ring that must have cost him every penny of the money he’d saved from his hated construction job. Then we heard the words, “You may kiss the bride,” and I offered him my cheek.

But instead he kneeled in front of the wheelchair and carefully held my face between his hands, as if he was holding a precious jewel, and his lips came down on mine, soft at first, and then increasingly passionate until I gasped and felt my face heat up.

A camera flash surprised us both, and the wedding officiant smiled.

“Perhaps not one to show the grandkids,” she chuckled.

With a photo on my phone showing us in a very steamy embrace, we tumbled from the building into bright Fall sunshine.

“What was that?” I demanded, as soon as we were out of earshot.

Ash laughed, far more relaxed than I’d seen him in days.

“What was what?” he asked slyly, knowing exactly what I was talking about.

“That . . . that kiss!”

“Had to make it look real,” he said off-handedly.

Which was the right answer, but now it felt so wrong.

He’d slipped away early from rehearsals today, telling the director that he had a prior appointment.

Now the short ceremony was over, we had our first evening as man and wife.

“Where should we go to celebrate, Mrs. Novak?”

“Don’t call me that,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“Why not? I have a piece of paper that says you are my wife,” he teased.

“Yes, very funny.”

“There is nothing funny about the sanctity of marriage,” he said, leaning over and kissing the top of my head.

“You definitely shouldn’t joke about that with a good Catholic girl.”

“But I’m a good Catholic boy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, why are you surprised?”

“I don’t know, I just am. Do you ever go to church?”

“I used to go with Mama, at all the big festivals, Easter, Christmas. She gave me a St. Christopher for my 8
th
birthday. I used to wear it for her.” He frowned. “I don’t have it anymore.”