Something To Dream On (4 page)

Ah crap, my head hurts!

Where am I, and why am I wadded up like crumpled paper? Every molecule is throbbing.

My eyes open, and the brightness coming through the door makes me slam them shut. Am I on the floor of a bathroom?

Oh. Yeah. The motel …

I peer through my lids again and look up at a showerhead. My foot slips, and my head slams back on to the rim of a bathtub when I try to stand. It wasn’t just a hangover that caused that fall. What did I slip on?

I look down at puddles of red. Shit!

There are streaks and globs of yellow mixed in. Ketchup and mustard? I’m naked and decorated like a giant hot dog. Where are my clothes?

On the third try, I’m able to stand without slipping like a dork in a comedy show and rinse off. Where are the towels? What kind of crappy motel has no towels?

My room is nowhere near the semi-clean way I left it. Red and yellow stained sheets cover a lump. Instead of finding Laura, three naked guys are in there—also coated up like hotdogs and looking like they had a raunchy time. My stomach twists and nearly spews. Holy shit in hell, what the fuck happened? Last I remember, I was drinking and …

My arm looks like someone attacked it. That’s no scratch mark, and this isn’t my room.

I grab the nearest set of clothes, which is some other guy’s shirt and boxers, and head out. The thought of wearing some guy’s dirty shorts is vile, but not nearly as bad as the reason why I may be naked. I fight down the contents of my stomach again. That life is fine for someone else, but I’ve got zero interest in any man’s swingy parts other than my own.

After I spend about five minutes pounding on the door of what I am pretty sure is my own room, Larry answers. He looks worse than I do, and I woke looking like I’d been run over by a gay condiment truck. Larry moans something unintelligible and crawls back into
my
bed with some girl. Instantly he’s out, snoring his way to dreamland.

My brain slows as I pan the room. All I notice is carnage, bodies, and my clothes. That means I went across the hall without them, and then got covered in goo, just like those guys in the bed. Oh God, did I …

I can’t do this any more.

With my guitar in hand, I make for the door but stop when I trip on Laura. She’s so pale that if I didn’t see her chest moving, I’d swear she was dead. I drop to my knees and try to wake her. Nothing happens. It’s cruel to leave her like this, especially since I’m the only one around here who actually gives a shit about her.
 

Eventually she groans. How much did she have? She started drinking long before I did. In fact, when she brought me the rig …

Fuck! I promised I’d never cross over so far as to let anyone jab a needle into me. Laura knew that! Last night she pulled out that rig, tied me off, tapped my vein, and then introduced me to the other side. I was already so far gone from the booze that I danced on in without a care.

Why am I living like this? Because it’s easy? Because I don’t want to be a lone wolf? I’ve always told myself I was here for the music, but I’m also here because I want a family. I had one. Nearly all of it died before I emotionally beat the last member standing and she threw me out. Everyone in this room has been a placeholder. Larry fills in for my brother. The band takes on the role of friends. The girl in my arms is only a pseudo girlfriend because I want someone to love me, and she does.

My heart breaks for her as I place her head back on the ground with a kiss.
Goodbye, Laura. Please forgive me for being yet another person to hurt you, but we are both on our own now.

Screw my clothes. Putting them on would give me time to talk myself out of bailing. Without pondering any more of the hell that may have occurred, I drive to Larry’s house—my home since Mom kicked me out—grab my stuff, and leave behind a trail of destruction.

Life isn’t about obtaining the ideal of perfection; it is about embracing the perfection that is in front of you.

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, April 4

“Ouch! Son of a beetle!”

My jerk isn’t fast enough, and the fangs of the vicious creature graze my hand. I can’t blame her. I certainly don’t want anyone sticking a thermometer up my caboose either. During one last attempt, Poopsie the poodle (whom I think of as Poojo) nips at me again. I set down the thermometer so that her mom can calm her, but before I step away, the vampiric thing—I mean, the sweet angel—bites me. It’s the icing on the cake as my previous patient scratched my arm to the point of needing bandages.

Outside of the exam room, I gather the remaining pieces of my sanity. Griffin, my partner in lab-tech crime, comes to the rescue. Our friendship started in 4-H Club when a scrawny kid plopped down next to me while I stared at a pig. “You look depressed,” he said. His tone showed he felt as outcast as I did.

“Some stupid girl at my school made fun of me, again, while I was eating lunch. She said that I felt at home among the cows and pigs because I am fat like one.”

Griffin snickered. “If we are only here because we are like the animals, then this branch will soon fold because all of the animals are gay.”

It took awhile for that to sink in. Griffin’s paused expression told he felt he took a risk in sharing what he had to get off his chest. It made no difference to me. “Great, I hereby dub you my best friend, so I can get your cast offs.”

He smiled and nudged me. “What’s the evil bitch’s name?”

“Laura Muler.”

He was so amused that he actually slapped his leg while laughing. “Seriously? You need to forgive her.”

I didn’t get where he was going with that.

“Lady Parts, her name has mule in it, which is perfect because she is an ass.” With that comment he sealed the deal on obtaining the title of Best Friend for Life. Nearly a dozen years, several cases of black eye liner (He goes through it faster than I do.), and countless tales of men who wronged us later, this now buffed-out, bald, Goth, black Will keeps my lily-white Grace in check.

Griffin cleans my wound as I get a good look in the mirror. My only clean scrubs this morning were ones in an unflattering shade of slate blue, making my skin look grey. My eyes usually gleam while I am at work, yet now they are dim. Worse, my golden locks droop out of my ponytail the way Mom’s used to at the end of a long day when we kids had been “helping” around the house. I look like someone dragged me through spit.

Griffin finishes bandaging my arm and kisses it. “You need a bath!”

“Gee, thanks. I’ve often wondered why I have nothing in my life other than a TV set, a gay bestie, and animals. Now I’m scratching one of those off the list.”

“Yeah, you’re just jealous of how fabulous I am.”

“You’re about as fabulous as a wolf in a cat pen.” Oh, that was a terrible attempt to keep up with him.

Griffin flicks a hand at me. “Ooh, you must be tired, because that comeback stunk!”

The screech of tires coming from outside makes my eyes cringe shut. Instinct sends me racing out the door. About a half a block down the street, a car speeds off. From behind, another driver jumps out and runs toward the side of the road with swift movements that imply urgency. I start dodging through traffic towards what appears to be an injured Shiloh Shepard.
 

No, not again. This can’t be happening. How can anyone be so cruel as to hit a creature and then drive off without a care? Have people no compassion? I’ve never been a saint but …

My knees go to the ground as I stare down at the poor dog that whimpers a plea for help. Thank God we have been spared the horror of blood. She is curled in the gutter like she is cowering from the cruelness of the world. I don’t blame her in the least. Dirt covers the side of her face that rests in the gutter. How do I help? I know nothing about animals.

Please, God, I can’t handle watching another being die. You have been guiding me for months into doing the right things. Don’t stop now. This dog needs a doctor.

Yes, a doctor. If I can get her to a vet …

I stand to go back to my car for my cell phone and catch sight of a woman in scrubs running toward me. Behind her is a sign reading “Good Samaritan Animal Clinic.”

Thank you!

I need to get the dog out of the street and in to one of those exam rooms.

With a swoop, she is in my arms. “Hold on, girl. Help is on the way.” We head toward the clinic as the blond-haired woman puts her hands out to stop traffic.

Before I can tell him not to move the dog, he is already racing it towards Good Samaritan. “Try not to move her too much. She may have injuries you can't see.” His eyes hit my scrubs, and he nods. “And be calm. Animals pick up on fear.”

The beautiful creature whimpers as the man twists his way through the doors. I call out to Griffin to get Dr. Leopold, to which I get a reply that she is at lunch. Great, I’m on my own. I can barely see the guy around that huge dog. How is he managing to carry it so effortlessly? The thing seems like it’s my size, and that’s kind of saying something.

“The car in front of me suddenly slammed on his brakes, then sped off,” the guy says, sounding defensive. “The jerk must have hit her.”

He sets the dog on the table, and I wrap her in a blanket to ward off shock. “I’ll never understand how people can be so cruel. It was really wonderful of you to stop and help her.”

“Of course. What type of person wouldn’t?” His voice cracks from emotion enough to tell me there is something deeper than the obvious behind his words. The power of it draws my attention away from the patient. I want to say that I am sorry for whatever experience he is recalling, but how he keeps his eyes cast to the ground tells me he’d rather not talk about it. He rattles his head, clearing the memory, and then nods to the dog as she whimpers. “She okay?”

“I’ve no idea.” My soothing voice becomes aimed at her, helping her turn calm. “It’s okay, sweetie. I promise to take really good care of you.” You’re not supposed to scare a dog by looking it in the eyes, yet this one draws mine into her’s. Her eyes droop in a plea that reminds me of Rufus in his cage.

Thankfully, her vitals check out as healthy. “She’s definitely still feeling the scare, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger.” The poor girl. Her teeth are rotting, and her coat is brittle and coarse while her skin is greasy and flaky. She is hurting from more than the accident. I grab the FRID scanner and search for a microchip. I get exactly what I expect. “No ID whatsoever. Have you seen this dog before?”

Finally, I look up to the man. My words may have glided out, but now the blood pumping through my veins is stammering. A rush of adrenaline may have aided him in carrying the dog, but he’s not exactly out of shape. His tight, black T-shirt reveals he’s probably got a gym membership that he actually uses. He is tall with features that are dark; short, nearly onyx, hair, skin that has a permanent tan, and eyes so chocolate-brown that they make me want to dive in and slurp.

Is he Indian? Like American Indian? I’ve no point of reference other than the ones I’ve seen on TV.

Despite the fact that the rest of his skin is smooth and glowing, he has just enough stubble to look like I’ve woken up to him after a wild night of naked party games. And God, those cheek bones! They give him an air of strength that no amount of muscle could.