Heartstrings (A Rock Star Romance Novel) Read online

  “I require entertainment!” he says dramatically, “You there! Entertain me.”

  “I’m not your court jester,” I say, “And besides, aren’t you supposed to be the entertainer here?”

  “I can’t exactly serenade you from my hospital bed,” Slade says. “It’s all up to you, kiddo.”

  “I don’t think so, sport,” I shoot back. I sit down on the chair next to his bed and cross my arms and legs.

  “Come on,” Slade moans. He lays a hand on my knee, imploringly. I stare down at the sudden contact, bewildered. My body temperature must be skyrocketing. I look up into Slade’s face and see that his expression has shifted. He’s not sneering, for once. Just meeting my gaze steadily, honestly. I feel like I’m going to pitch forward and get sucked into those dark eyes forever. Talk about occupational hazards.

  “How, exactly, would you like to pass the time?” I ask, alarmed at how raspy my voice has become. All of a sudden, I’m playing the smoldering seductress? That won’t do. I clear my throat anxiously, wishing that Slade would take his hand off me. His touch is distracting.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he says, clasping his hands across his stomach as if he had heard my unspoken wish.

  “That’s not a very interesting subject,” I say dryly. “Not with the life you lead, I’m sure.”

  “Hey now!” he says, “Don’t put yourself down. I’m sure that your life is very interesting. Tell me all about it. Regale me with tales of your youth.”

  “My youth is kind of still occurring,” I remind him.

  “Very true, little one,” he ribs.

  I ignore the bait. “Well,” I begin, “I live around here, obviously. Not far, anyway.”

  “Not too far from my old stomping grounds,” he says, “I’m from Jersey.”

  “I know,” I say, “Penny filled me in on your history. You know, this is dangerous place for you to be, as a Jersey native. Pennsylvanians have very strong opinions about people from New Jersey.”

  “And vice versa,” Slade says. “Don’t tell me you’re a Philly girl?”

  “I’m an outside of Philly girl,” I say, “Born and bred.”

  “Gross,” he says.

  “You should talk!” I exclaim, “I bet you even call New York ‘The City’.”

  “Of course I do,” Slade says, “I’m not like you Pennsylvania people who say that Philly is actually ‘The City’. That’s straight up blasphemy.”

  “New York’s got nothing on Philly,” I say heatedly, “Philly is cleaner, cooler, friendlier—”

  “And lamer, and smaller, and less connected,” Slade says. “New York is the biggest, most outrageous, most exciting place in the entire world.”

  “We have cheese steaks!” I say.

  “We have bagels!” Slade shoots back.

  “I’m not having this argument with you,” I say, folding my arms. “God, I can’t believe I’m sitting here arguing the merits of New Jersey.”

  “Don’t be a snob,” he says, “South Jersey and Central Pennsylvania are on pretty even footing.”

  “I suppose we can agree on that, anyway,” I admit.

  “So, other than the fact that you’re delusional enough to think that Philly is better than New York, and overlooking the fact that you’re probably a goddamn Flyers fan, what else is there to know about you?” Slade asks.

  “First of all, I like the Penguins,” I say, “Don’t be a heathen. What else is there...Well, I’m an only child. There’s that. It was a little lonely, but the haul at Christmas was worth it, I suppose.”

  “What do you do when you’re not being a nurse?” Slade asks.

  “What do you mean?” I reply, “I’m always a nurse.”

  “In your free time, then,” he says, “What do you like to do?”

  “Sleep,” I say immediately.

  “And eat and breathe, I’m sure,” Slade says, “But what do you do for fun?”

  I stare at him blankly. The concept of fun has become a little fuzzy for me over the past couple of years. I rack my brain, trying to remember what interests me...It’s alarmingly difficult. “Well,” I say, “I like to hang out with my cat, Gustav. I know how that sounds, but I’m really not a cat lady. I only have the one. And I like fixing my house up. Do it yourself projects, that kind of thing. I’m going to make an up-cycled laundry hamper this weekend.”

  “Living in the edge,” Slade says.

  “Don’t make fun,” I say.

  “A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be stuck at home knitting things out of cat hair, in my opinion,” Slade says.

  “I don’t—I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, flustered. He used the “b” word. No one ever said that to me before. I’d been called cute and adorable all my life, but it was the rare occasion that someone called me beautiful.

  “Got a boyfriend?” Slade asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie. I don’t want him getting any ideas.

  “What’s his name?” he asks.

  “Bernard,” I mumble, standing up from my chair. “Do you need anything? You must be hungry by now.”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he says, letting his eyes wander up and down my body. “Are you sure you don’t have special sexy uniforms that you only bust out for company parties? I can see a hell of a figure hidden under that jump suit.”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “Damn,” he sighs. “Fine, then. I guess I’d like something to eat.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  I hurry out of the room, and am surprised to find that I’ve gone all shaky. My every nerve is poised for something—the only problem is, I have no idea what that something is. This guy is getting to me, that’s for sure. I take a deep breath as I lean against the wall, steadying myself. I just have to make it through a few more days of this, and then I’ll be cruising across the country all by myself. I’ve never needed a vacation more in my entire life, and Slade’s not helping matters. I can take him, though. He may be the rock star, but as a nurse, I’m still the one calling the shots.

  Chapter Four

  * * * * *

  “This is an outrage,” Slade rages, his fists balled up on the crisp white sheets of his hospital bed. I take a deep breath and level my gaze at the rock star. It’s been forty eight hours, and the sheer intensity of his good looks has yet to diminish. It would be difficult to be stern with him, if it weren’t for the ridiculous things that fall out of his mouth every time he opens it.

  “It’s absolutely against the rules,” I tell him, “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “But it’s totally unfair!” he insisted, his full, firm lips pulled into a sexy pout. “This is a hospital, isn’t it? A place of rest and relaxation? Why are you running it like Gitmo?”

  “Slade,” I say, “You can’t. Have whiskey. In your room.”

  “But why not?” he moans, falling back hard against his pillows.

  “You’re injured,” I remind him.

  “Exactly,” he says, “I could use a little relief.”

  “That’s what the morphine is for,” I remind him.

  “It’s lost its edge,” he sniffs, turning his gorgeous face away from me.

  “You’re not used to being told ‘no’, are you Slade?” I ask, sitting down in the chair beside his bed. He swings his eyes back toward me.

  “I’m not,” he says suggestively, “Especially not by lovely young women like yourself.”

  “You’ve never met anyone like me,” I smile.

  “That...is a good point,” he admits.

  We’ve been going back and forth like this for two days, now. My shifts at the hospital have been devoted solely to the care and keeping of our rock star patient. My supervisor, Dr. Kelly, has forbidden me to see any other patients, insisting that Slade’s routine recovery requires constant vigilance. It’s completely ridiculous, and I tried to rally against the situation at first. But I have to admit, I’ve started to enjoy the banter. It’s nice to talk to someon
e sharp for once, given that most of the people I deal with at work are either in critical condition, crazy, on drugs, or don’t have time for small talk.

  “I thought I’d get off easy, watching you during the night shift,” I tell him, “I figured you’d be asleep most of the time, you know, like a normal human being.”

  “You realize that I’m a professional musician, right?” he drawls, “I live between five in the afternoon and six in the morning.”

  “Funny,” I say, “Me too.”

  “We’re just meant to be, I guess,” he sighs, fluttering his eyelashes goofily.

  I let a little giggle escape my lips. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with Slade for very long. It’s also impossible to get any sort of handle on what he’s thinking. In the short time I’ve known him, I feel like I’ve seen eighteen different aspects of his personality. I wish I could tell which version was the authentic one—then I could try and figure out how I feel about this patient of mine. For the time being, though, it’s just fun keeping up with his verbal acrobatics, crude though they may sometimes be.

  “My shift is almost over for the night,” I say, “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Besides a glass of whiskey,” I tell him.

  “I need you to stay,” he says.

  “Stay?” I ask, “As in, for another shift?”

  “Yeah,” he says, “The day nurse is no good.”

  “Rachel?” I ask, “What’s wrong with Rachel?”

  “She’s not as nice to look at as you are,” he smiles.

  I hope I’m not blushing as I respond, “Rachel has been working here for ten years. She knows everything there is to know about everything.”

  “But she seems immune to my charms,” he says.

  “And I’m not?” I challenge.

  “I don’t think you are,” he says, “Though you’re putting up a very good fight, I must say.”

  “Why thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, can I get you anything?”

  “A kiss?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “A French kiss?” he asks.

  “Why would—? Never mind. I’m just going to sit here and wait until my shift is over. Let’s both just take a minute and be nice and quiet, so—”

  The door flies open, slamming hard against the wall. I nearly jump out of my skin as I whip around to see what’s happened. My mouth falls open as I spot a motley crew of unwashed hooligans streaming into the hospital room. I recognize these people. They’re the ones I kicked out of the way when Slade first got here. I should have known they’d be back.

  “Looking good, Slade!” howls the short, somewhat jowly man I spoke with in the waiting room while Slade was being admitted.

  “You’re the manager, right?” I ask.

  “That’s me,” he says, offering his hand to me, “Eddie Bayonne, pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’m Julia,” I say, shaking his proffered hand, “I’m Slade’s night nurse.”

  “He’s a lucky guy, to be taken care of by someone as lovely as you,” Eddie grins, holding onto my hand for longer than is necessary.

  “I’m rather good at my job, if that’s what you mean,” I say coolly.

  “Sure,” Eddie says with a wink. He crosses the room to Slade and leans over the hospital bed. “So what’s the story, big guy?” he asks, “You fixed yet or what?”

  “Who knows?” Slade shrugs.

  A man who looks like he could be Slade’s younger brother steps up earnestly. “What about the show in two days?” he asks, “Are they going to let you play? The fans are going to kill us if we miss another show.”

  “This is Dodge,” Slade tells me, nodding toward the man, “Our guitarist. And something of an alarmist, as it would happen.”

  “Do you blame him?” says a thick, shaggy man beside me. I recognize him from the waiting room as well. “We’ve all been worried about you.”

  “Joe, I’m fine,” Slade insists. “Tell them I’m fine, Julia.”

  “He’s fine,” I confirm, “A royal pain in the ass, but he’s going to be out of here soon I think.”

  “Sounds like our boy,” says the lone woman of the group. I can’t help but give her a long once-over. I assume that this is Annabelle, the drummer of Flagrant Disregard. She’s got a good three inches on me, and probably about ten fewer pounds. She looks like some kind of nymph—with long, jet black hair and bright blue eyes. The features of her face are almost impossibly delicate, and even the simple cotton dress she’s wearing looks elegant on her.

  I give my head a little shake, trying to dislodge the judgmental thoughts from my mind. Why am I comparing myself to this woman I’ve never met? It’s not like I have anything to prove to these people.

  The four visitors take over the hospital room, perching on chairs and equipment, wherever they land on first. They’re chattering up a storm, filling Slade in on the buzz that’s been happening since his hospitalization. Apparently, some fan managed to get a video of the whole fight, and Slade’s brave defense of some young audience member against a few big thugs. The video had gone viral overnight, 50,000 views in 10 hours, and the few remaining tickets for the band’s American tour started selling out like crazy.

  “Now you know what to do if ticket sales ever start to slump,” I say “Just get beat up and hospitalized, and you’ll be back on track in no time.”

  “I wasn’t beat up,” Slade says, “I was overwhelmed.”

  “I thought we could celebrate our sold out tour a little early,” Eddie says, grinning. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a small bottle of booze. The band mates cheer and clap excitedly, but I lunge forward and snatch the bottle out of his hand. “Hey!” he cries, “That’s mine!”

  “What is the matter with you people?” I demand, all but wagging my finger at them, “Slade’s recovering from internal bleeding. The last thing he needs is a shot.”

  “Don’t be such a hard ass!” groans Joe, the thickset bassist. “Just a little sip of this sweet Kentucky bourbon is just what the doc…”

  “No, that’s—hey!” I cry, as the guitarist Dodge pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What, you’re telling me we can’t smoke in here, either?” he asks.

  “Of course that’s what I’m telling you!” I cry, snatching the cigarette out of his hand and putting it out in the sink. “What planet do you people come from? There’s concentrated oxygen in these rooms, and it’s extremely flammable. Have you never been in a hospital before?”

  “Not while I’ve been conscious,” Annabelle smiles, crossing her thin arms.

  “I think you guys had better go,” Slade says, “Julia’s getting all steamed.”

  “I’m not steamed,” I snap, “I am at a loss.”

  “We’ll hit the road,” Eddie says, “We just wanted to tell you the good news.”

  “Get better as fast as you can,” Dodge says, “We don’t want to cancel on the fans again if we don’t have to!”

  “Don’t count on him being out by tomorrow,” I warn.

  “Nothing wrong with hoping,” Annabelle says. She leans over Slade and gives him a kiss on the forehead. A hot rush of jealousy courses through my veins. I’m taken aback by the sensation, and for a moment I find it hard to breathe. What the hell is the matter with me?

  The band members file out of the room, waving to Slade over their shoulders. I look around the room at the displaced equipment and tools, marveling at how much room a mere four people can take up in the world. I guess that’s what you get with musicians—larger than life personalities. Slade Hale is pretty good proof of that. He looks up at me with his hands folded across his chest. His eyes are gleaming with excitement.

  “This’ll be our first sold out tour,” he tells me. I can’t help but smile at how happy he sounds. Like a little boy who got everything he wanted for his birthday.

  “It’
s kind of cute how stoked you are,” I tell him.

  “Oh?” he says, “I’m cute to you, now?”

  “Sure,” I saw, sitting down on the side of his bed, “You could say that.”

  “Well I’ll be damned if this isn’t the best day in recent memory,” he says.

  “You’re in the hospital,” I remind him.

  “Still,” he says, reaching for my hand. Our fingers entwine on the bed sheet, and again I’m overcome by the warm sensation that gushes through me at our slightest contact. “Thanks for taking such good care of me,” he says.

  “It’s...nothing,” I say, my words staggered. “I mean...It’s my job. To take care of people.”

  “But still,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

  “You...You haven’t been such a terrible patient, after all” I say, taking my hand back lest it catch on fire or something.

  “Yes I have,” he laughs.

  “OK, maybe,” I admit. “But I’ve had worse. At my last job, there was one woman who woke up in the middle of the night convinced that I was her daughter and that the year was 1960. She nearly strangled me to death. She got right up out of her bed and got me by the throat, screaming, ‘Elsie, you little slut’ over and over again.”

  “That’s insane,” Slade said, “Do you have to deal with that kind of thing all the time?”

  “Not all the time,” I say, “Not here, anyway. Now it’s mostly just stab wounds and car accidents.”

  “God,” he said quietly, “I can’t imagine doing what you do every day.”

  “It’s rewarding,” I say, “But I’m sure it’s not nearly as exciting as your life.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he says. “You deal with life and death on a daily basis. You’re responsible for people’s very existence you know. What you do is actually important.”

  “Music is important too,” I tell him, “A lot of people would say that a certain song or band saved their lives. Or at least changed them, in some way.”

  “Has that happened to you?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I shrug, “I’d say so.”

  “What was the album?” he asks.

  “You’re just looking for a new way to make fun of me,” I say, crossing my arms.