Heartstrings (A Rock Star Romance Novel) Page 3

  “Whoa, whoa—” he laughs, “I was just trying to pay you a compliment.”

  “Is that what that was?” I say, “Because from over here it just sounded like rampant sexist and an unchecked ego.”

  “Well...It was probably that, too,” he says, “But mostly I was just trying to tell you that I think you’re very pretty.”

  “Gee, mister!” I squeal sarcastically, clapping my hands together, “I guess I can quit my job and spend the rest of my life trailing you around from seedy hotel to seedy hotel with blow jobs at the ready!”

  “That would be nice,” he says with a smile.

  I open my mouth to tell him that he’s the most despicable, vile, pathetic excuse for a man that I’ve ever laid eyes on, but just at that moment, Dr. Kelly pokes his head through the door. Of course.

  “You’re up!” the doctor smiles, “That’s great. Mr. Hale, I just want you to know that we are going to give you the best care that we possibly can. I’ve assigned Julia here to be your personal nurse for the duration of your stay. She won’t leave your side once—so if you need anything at any time, don’t hesitate to ask her. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to accommodate your every need.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Slade says, leering at me.

  I stifle a shudder.

  “Fantastic!” Dr. Kelly says, clapping me on the back, “You two carry on! And make sure our man here wants for nothing.”

  He practically skips away, pleased as punch to be housing a rock star for the time being. That makes exactly one of us. I close the door after him and turn back toward Slade, doing my very best to remain professional. But between the overwhelming force of his physical charm and the despicable nonsense that keeps pouring out of his mouth, it’s a rather herculean effort.

  “Is there anything you need that I can actually get you?” I ask.

  “Not anything that you’d be willing to give up. Yet,” Slade says, tucking his hands behind his head. I try not to stare as his biceps bulge beneath his tanned skin, his tattoos flexing and stretching under the duress.

  “How did you get hurt?” I ask, trying to focus on something besides what my patient might look like naked.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he says.

  “How can that be possible?” I ask. “You showed up here bleeding internally, with a head wound. Events that lead to that kind of injury generally warrant notice.”

  “I don’t exactly live a safe life,” Slade said, “I don’t keep score of head wounds.”

  “Still,” I pressed, “You must remember what you were doing right before you woke up here.”

  “Sure,” he says with a sigh, “My band was a playing a midsized venue in town. A one-off sort of deal, before we hit the road for the real tour. It was a pretty rambunctious crowd, more so than usual. Someone started a pretty epic mosh pit toward the end of our set, and I decided to join in the fray. One thing led to another...”

  “Can you be a little more specific?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says, “I noticed that there was a scrawny little kid trying to hold his own in the pit. He must have been, like, fourteen or something. Toothpick arms, the whole thing. He accidentally hit some big guy—grazed his arm or whatever. The big dude gets his buddies and turns on the kid. Just brutal stuff, totally uncalled for. So, what am I supposed to do? Let this poor little dude get the shit kicked out of him at my band’s show? No way. So I went in after him.”

  “Against three guys?” I ask, amazed.

  “Yeah,” he says, “They landed a few good punches, obviously.”

  “That seems uncharacteristically chivalrous of you,” I say suspiciously.

  “Hey,” Slade says, sitting up straight, “You don’t know the first thing about me, kiddo. We’ve known each other for all of five minutes.”

  “First impressions are pretty powerful,” I tell him, “And yours was pretty subpar.”

  “Yeah?” he says, “How did I come across?”

  “Like a misogynistic man-child,” I say.

  “Huh,” he says, “Well, you came off as an uppity elitist ice queen whose box hasn’t been opened in so long that there’s probably dust collecting in it.”

  “That’s right,” I say, refusing to let him get the last word, “Go ahead with the Madonna/whore thing. A binary is probably the most complicated idea you can wrap your head around. Black and white. Man and woman. Slut or prude.”

  “I just call em like I see em,” he says. “No need to get all hysterical on me.”

  “Hysterical!” I exclaim, “Going old school sexist, are we? I like the vintage flair.”

  “Thanks,” he smiles, “I like your big blue eyes. And a couple other parts of you that I won’t mention by name.”

  “I’m not a collection of parts for you to admire,” I tell him, taking a menacing step toward the bed, “For the time being, I’m the person in charge of your sorry ass. So if you have any hopes of being discharged by the time your precious tour leaves, I would suggest that you be a little nicer to me. You really have a lot of—”

  His sudden outcry cuts me off, and I let my sentence go unfinished as his face twists into a mask of pain. I switch into nurse mode at once, and draw back the bed sheets to check out his surgery wound. As I tear away the blankets, I notice that he's not wearing any underwear, leaving his groin uncovered. I try very hard not to gape, but can’t quite tear my eyes away from the impressive specimen resting between his legs. Convinced that I’ve officially left professional tact by the wayside, I peer at his stitches. Everything looks OK, but he’s practically writhing on the bed.

  I reach for the morphine drip, hit the button, and let another dose course into his body. In a matter of moments, his tensed muscles begin to relax. Beads of sweat stand out on his smooth forehead, and as he looks over at me, a new expression settles onto his face for just a minute—it looks very much like fear. For a second, I forget his arrogant swagger, and his offensive remarks. I remember that he is my patient. And just like with any other patient, I’m going to do my best to help him.

  “It’s OK,” I say, placing my hand on top of his. A warm pulse runs up my arm as my skin brushes against his. I just hope that I’m not blushing too obviously this time.

  “Thanks,” Slade smiles, the morphine dulling his edges for the moment, “That feels good.”

  I don’t know whether he’s talking about the drugs or my hand on his. I smile kindly at him, having regained my professional composure. Dr. Kelly doesn’t seem ready to let me leave Slade’s side, so I might as well make the best of the situation. I pull over a chair with my free hand and sit down beside the rock star.

  “You’re going to be fine, you know,” I tell him.

  “That’s good,” he says, “I’m not quite done living yet.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I say, “Though your kind has a pretty high mortality rate, truth be told.”

  “My kind?” he asks.

  “Rock stars,” I say.

  “Oh,” he says, “Right.”

  “What, did you forget?” I laugh, “That morphine must be pretty good stuff.”

  “I haven’t exactly been famous for very long,” he tells me, loopy on the drugs, “We just sort of...happened. My band, I mean.”

  “Sorry I’ve never heard of you before,” I say.

  “It’s cool...” he drawls, “Now you have.”

  “What’s your music like?” I ask.

  “It’s pretty heavy,” he says, “Just short of hardcore, I’d say.”

  “So, a lot of screaming?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  “Some screaming,” he admits, “But not too much. I don’t write lyrics just so they can get lost entirely.”

  “You write the lyrics, huh?” I ask.

  “Yep,” he says, closing his eyes happily, “And the music.”

  “Well, look at you,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his hand perhaps a bit more than I should.

  “I’m a man of many talents,” he says, turning toward m
e. He blinks one eye sluggishly, and I let out a bark of laughter. I take it that he’s trying to wink at me, but the morphine makes his attempt clumsy.

  “Easy, tiger,” I tell him, taking my hand away. “It’s no fun to berate you while you’re under the influence. Save your bullshit for when I can yell at you properly.”

  “You...” he says, on the brink of another nap, “Are what I like to call...a buzz kill.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I remark.

  Slade lets out a soft little laugh and lets his head rest against the pillow. In an instant, he’s asleep again. I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath. It’s too bad he can’t be so angelic while he’s awake. I’m at once tempted to run my fingers through his curls as well as slap him across the face for all the manly bullshit he’s heaped on me in the last ten minutes. I manage to resist both urges, though it takes sitting on my hands to dissuade me entirely. I can only hope that he heals quickly and gets out of my life as soon as possible.

  Chapter Three

  * * * * *

  The hours of my shift tick slowly by with me on rock star watch. Sitting still, tending to Slade Hale, is driving me absolutely insane. I watch the other doctors and nurses pass by the room, rushing here and there, seeing to other patients, and I itch to join them. I didn’t become a nurse to babysit full grown men. If I wanted to do that, I would have kept a boyfriend instead. I try to remind myself that Slade is a person too, and deserves to be taken care of...by why do I have to be the one doing it?

  There’s a knock at the door, and I look up to see Penny hovering there. Her face is flushed from running from patient to patient, and I’m a little jealous. She looks across the room toward Slade and lets out a little sigh. “He’s still asleep?”

  I get up and walk over to the door, careful not to wake him. “Like a baby,” I say, “A big, arrogant, squalling baby.”

  Penny raises an eyebrow at me. “Someone’s feeling uncharitable.”

  “I’m not uncharitable!” I say, “I’m just a little bummed about having to be this guy’s serving wench until he’s all better.”

  “Why are you not absolutely thrilled about this assignment?” she asks, giving Slade a not-so-subtle once over. “Most women would kill to be in the same room with this guy.”

  “He’s not my type,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

  “What is your type, Julia?” Penny asks.

  “Battery operated,” I mutter. “Look, I just don’t like his attitude. He’s got this swagger going on that I just find deplorable.”

  “Well of course he does,” Penny says, exasperated, “He’s a rock star! Don’t you think that kind of thing is expected of him? Encouraged in him?”

  “I really don’t see how that changes anything,” I tell her, “I’m supposed to feel sorry for him because he’s under pressure?”

  “Maybe a little,” Penny says, “Would it kill you to try and look past the bravado?”

  “It might,” I say.

  “Well, at least you’re already at the hospital. You can attempt it and know that help is nearby.”

  “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You know, you’re very adamant about liking this guy. Why are you so eager to give him a break?”

  “I think he’s got a touching story,” she says, leaning against the door frame.

  “What story?” I ask, checking to see that he’s still asleep. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and there’s a little half smile still lingering on his lips. I feel a rush of sensation pass through me, like what happens the minute you start down a roller coaster. I’d better get all this out of my system before he wakes up again.

  “You really don’t know anything about him?” Penny asks, “About the band, or the music, or anything?”

  “Honestly, no,” I say, “He looked really familiar when they wheeled him in. I’m sure I’ve seen pictures or whatever, but you know I don’t pay attention to any of that stuff.”

  “Right,” Penny says, “Who needs the Top 40 when you’ve got Carly Simon?”

  “Carly Simon is a goddess,” I say, “Don’t knock Carly Simon.”

  “Anyway,” Penny says, “Slade Hale’s band, Flagrant Disregard, have been together forever. Like, started in high school, started playing local shows, all that. It’s Slade on vocals, Dodge Bailey on guitar, Joe Wegman on bass, and Annabelle Walsh on drums.”

  “There’s a girl in the band?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Penny says, “How much of a sexist can he really be if there’s a girl behind the drum kit? I think he’s just messing with you.”

  “It remains to be seen,” I say.

  “So, they started out playing in Dodge’s garage when they were, like, fifteen. They all lived in South Jersey, and grew up with really heavy rock. Hardcore is really big around there, lots of screaming and all—”

  “Ugh,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “Is that the music that sounds like a bunch of vacuum cleaners going at once?”

  “Well...Yeah,” Penny says, “But that’s not what Flagrant Disregard does. Anyway, they started playing at battles of the bands, and around their hometown, and then around the state. There are all these great stories about the venues they would end up at—old pool halls, exotic bird stores, the works. They started building up a following, which was surprising to everyone at first. See, what they did was take the hardcore sound they liked themselves and brought back in the emotional element that everyone reviled so much. They dared to be lyrical and even darkly romantic when all the other bands were screaming about hate and anger exclusively. People didn’t know what to do with them at first, but they started to win over the hardcore scene and the emo and indie scenes. They’re the perfect mix, you know?

  So, they started getting all of this attention, and soon the record labels in New York were taking notice. After a while, one of these executive types shows up to a concert they were playing, unbeknownst to them. Afterwards, the guy comes up to Slade and offers him a contract, but there’s a catch. He only wants Slade, not the band. They had this big plan to make him into a solo artist, like Jeff Buckley. And Slade looked his guy in the eye and told him to get lost. He said that the band was a unit, and that it was totally out of the question. He turned down an entire career because he was so loyal to his band. And it’s not like he didn’t need the money, either. He doesn’t exactly come from a family of means.”

  “How do you know all this?” I ask.

  “I read a lot of magazines,” Penny shrugs.

  “What do you mean about his family?” I ask. I’m actually getting wrapped up in this yarn Penny’s spinning.

  Penny looks sadly toward Slade. “His dad died when he was ten,” she says softly, “He worked on a construction site. There was an accident. His mom was totally destroyed and never really recovered emotionally. She bounced around from job to job a lot. The worst part is that Slade has two little sisters, so money was super short. He started working from the time we was twelve to help out, and apparently all but raised his sisters himself. He had an entire family relying on him ever since he was a kid. It’s pretty remarkable. Even now, he gives most of the money he makes back to his mom. So, I’d cut the guy some slack, if I were you.”

  “How does someone who’s done such wonderful things become such a pompous jerk?” I wonder aloud.

  “I wouldn’t say pompous,” Slade slurs sleepily. Penny and I gasp, meeting each other’s gaze as Slade resurfaces from his slumber.

  “Have you been awake this whole time?” I ask, turning back toward him. He stretches a little, the tanned skin of his neck going taut. I have the sudden, mad desire to run my hands over his chest, hoist myself onto the bed on top of him. This is getting nuts, it's been way too long.

  “I just caught that last bit,” he says, looking up at Penny and I. His eyes light up when he sees that we’re both in the room together. “Goody,” he smiles, “You’re back.”

  “How are you feeling?” Penny asks brightly.

  �
��Better now that you’re here,” he says, “Nurse Ratched over here has been busting my balls ever since I got here.”

  “That is an exaggeration,” I say pointedly.

  “She’s been beating me while the doctors’ backs are turned,” Slade says, pouting dramatically, “She pummels me with a bed pan and makes me call her ‘El Capitan’.”

  “Could you do me a favor and be a little less funny when my bosses come in to check on you?” I say, speaking over Penny’s giggling. “I take my job seriously.”

  “Well then,” Slade says, “This is just a little constructive criticism, but you could definitely stand to work on your bedside manner. You haven’t offered to sit on my lap once since I got in here.”

  “Nor will I,” I say firmly.

  “I bet Red here would,” Slade beams at Penny.

  “Mr. Hale,” Penny says, laying a hand on her chest like a good old southern belle, “I’m flattered. Really I am. But I’m afraid it’s Julia who’s been assigned to you.”

  “Maybe you could at least show her how it’s done before you leave?” Slade presses, “I promise I don’t bite. Not unless that’s what you’re into, of course.”

  “Of course,” I mutter.

  “Maybe some other time,” Penny smiles, turning to go. “You two play nice, now. You’re stuck with each other, you know.”

  She closes the door behind her, leaving Slade and I alone together once again. He heaves a big sigh and leans back in his bed, shooting his gaze toward me.

  “Give it to me straight,” he says, “How much longer is this healing process going to take?”

  “Like I told you,” I say, “A week or so, tops.”

  Slade lets out a groan and closes his eyes. “I don’t want to think about that anymore. I am issuing a ban on that subject.”

  “Yes sir,” I scoff.

  “Since we’ve been forced into each other’s company,” Slade says, “It’s up to you to help me pass the time.”

  “It’s up to me to make sure that you’re medicated and, you know, not dead,” I correct him.