Page 90 of Fake Dark Vows
“Same as usual: questioning why he can’t get out of bed and go home.”
Damon pushes past us and opens the door. Kelly follows him, glancing at us over her shoulder, her gaze drifting down to my hand. She seems to want to say more, but Damon is already saying, “No more fried shrimp for you for a while, Dad.”
The door closes behind them.
“Brandon, are you okay?” I stand in front of him and force him to make eye contact. Since we arrived, I sense the barriers being raised between us again, and I don’t know where that will leave me once they reach full height.
This morning, in Vegas, on the balcony of our suite in the Venetian, I saw a whole new side to Brandon, a side that I wish I could pin in place so that it doesn’t slip away again. I understand that he’s worried about his dad, but how can I make him understand that he doesn’t need to shut me out?
“Sure. It’s been a long couple of days.” He’s looking directly at me, but the Brandon from this morning has already checked out. “Why don’t you go back to my apartment, Rose? You don’t have to stick around. Here, take my key. The concierge will recognize you.”
He slides the key from his wallet and places it in my hand along with the can of soda.
I stare at them. “I don’t want to go?—”
But he is already heading back into the room. I study the closed door for several moments and sit heavily on a seat in the waiting area.
I can’t go back to his apartment. I can’t leave Brandon. I want to be here for him, to offer him comfort, to remind him that his dad’s life might have to change after this scare, but it won’t stop him. I’m a grown woman in the twenty-first century, and I don’t need my husband’s permission to stand by his side if that’s where I want to be.
Mind made up, I slip Brandon’s key into my purse, get back up, and head over to Harry’s room, Damon’s voice rising above the others inside. He’s a showman. Everything he does and says is an act that he started as a child and has perpetuated into adulthood because he’s comfortable hiding behind it.
My hand closes around the handle when I catch a glimpse of movement from the other end of the corridor. A shudder travels down my spine, all my senses suddenly alert.
I step away from the door and turn slowly to face the corridor. There’s no one there, no nurses striding urgently towards an emergency, no visitors stepping out of a patient’s room. But I saw someone.
Or rather, I sensed someone’s presence. They were dressed all in black, and they were watching me.
Setting the soda can down on the floor, I hurry along the corridor, grateful that I wore sneakers instead of heels. I slap my hand on the exit button and wait for the door to open. Slowly. Juddering on its hinges.
Into the stairwell I stop, listening for the sound of footsteps. Silence. I descend a couple of steps and peer up and down, hoping to catch a glimpse of a hand on the banister, but there’s no movement. Nothing at all.
It will take too long to go back inside and wait for the elevator, so I take the stairs down to ground level, two at a time, stumbling at the bottom of the first flight, my heart lurching sickeningly inside my chest. My pulse is racing. I don’t know what I saw in the corridor, but my head is telling me that it’s no coincidence—time is running out, and I haven’t done what they asked me to do.
Groups of people are milling about in the hospital lobby. Visitors. Patients. Medical staff. Maintenance guys. Those in uniforms are wearing dull green, stark white, or sky-blue. There’s no one dressed in black.
I navigate the throngs and head outside into the muted sunshine of New York City. The parking lot is as busy as ever. Cars are waiting in line at the drop-off point. I wander towards the closest line of cars, skimming the lot for a glimpse of black, knowing that I’m not going to find it.
If I was right, and I’m being watched, these people wanted me to know. It was a reminder. A warning. They’re not careless enough to be found.
I’m filled with a mounting sense of frustration bordering on panic. I saw what they did to Jennifer—will they do the same to me or will they come after Brandon next? I feel sad for him that the two people they targeted to coerce him into giving them what they want, are Jennifer—a business acquaintance—and me, a woman he has barely known for a few weeks.
But at least it means that Ruby is safe. For now.
Riding the elevator back to the cardiac ward, I feel numb. It’s shit timing, but if I try to steer a conversation back to Ron Valentine now, Brandon will know that there’s more to it than curiosity, and if I tell him the truth…
Damon is leaning against the wall outside Harry’s room when I’m buzzed back into the ward. “Where did you get to?” His voice is lazy, typical Damon. His dad is in a hospital bed on the other side of the wall, but he still obviously has his own agenda.
“I thought I saw someone I know.” Not that I owe him an explanation.
He shrugs. “Sticking around in the case the old man croaks?”
I clench my jaw and hold in the retort on the tip of my tongue. “Have you heard from Jennifer?”
“Nah. Fuck her. I’m sure Brandon got his two cents’ worth in there, warning her against his untrustworthy brother.”
“Don’t you even care what happened to her?”
“Why should I? She’s not my responsibility. Probably hooked up with a sugar daddy who was flashing the cash in the casino.” He pushes himself off the wall, his gaze bypassing me and settling on someone behind me.