Cardinal (8 page)

“What’s that?”

“Go home.” I shove his leg. “Hug Jules. Get
some rest. I plan on sleeping until they wheel me into the operating room.”

He stretches. “Are you sure?  I don’t want to
leave you if you’re nervous.”

I am a little anxious, but there’s nothing he
can do about it. “I’m sure. I’ll see you tomorrow when they prep me for
dissection.”

He scowls. “That’s gross. You’re not a frog.”

I grin. “I promise I won’t
croak.”

Pete rolls his eyes.

“Hopefully the anesthesia won’t make me sick. I
mean,
green.”

“Stop.”

“Just think. I’ll feel
toad
-ally new
again in a few days.”

“Really?”

“Then I’ll be able to
jump
right into
work.”

“You’re pathetic.”

I laugh. “I’ll keep going if you don’t –”

“Fine.” My brother stands and holds his hands
up in surrender. “I’m leaving.”

“Say hi to Jules for me.”

“Will do.” He gives my shoulder a nudge before
he walks toward the door. “I’ll see you later. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay. See you later.”

The door closes behind him and I decide to get
comfortable. I’m finally alone for a few hours. I’ve had someone poking,
scanning, or talking to me since I fell over. I find the control pad that
adjusts my bed and start to play with it.

“I forgot.”

“Geez!”  I jump as the door opens.

Pete points. “The nurse button is right there. Call
them – or me – if you need anything.”

I sigh. “I got it.”

He waves. “Okay. Bye.”

“
Gooooodbye
,” I drag out the word.

The door closes again.

That boy is worse than my parents. I pity his
kids, if he ever has any. Which reminds me: I need to call my mom and dad
before surgery. Pete called them when I was admitted, but I haven’t spoken to
them personally.

The door opens again.

“Now what?” I groan. “This is getting –”

Latson sticks his head inside the room and
looks around. “Is he gone?”

My stomach does a little flip. “Yes,” I say,
uncertain. “Did you need Pete?  He just left.”

“No.” Latson steps inside. “I came to see you.”

Really?  I take in my tall, handsome, tattooed neighbor-boss.
He walks over to the chair my brother occupied and pulls it closer to my bed. “Is
it just me or does Pete get weird when you’re around guys?”

“He gets weird,” I confirm. I gather my hair
and pull it over one shoulder. I’m sure I look like crap with a capital C.

Latson gives me a lopsided smile and takes a
seat. “So, how are you?”

“I’m good. Just a little clogged.”

He laughs. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“It is.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Gallbladder,” I explain. “Your father plans to
take it out around noon.”

Latson nods like he understands. “I’m sorry I
left earlier. I would have hung around, but you had Pete. I knew you were in
good hands.”

I would never have expected him to stay and I
find it odd he would think so. “I’m not your responsibility,” I tell him. “You
shouldn’t apologize. You helped me so much.”

Suddenly, it dawns on me how much. I remember
the conversation from the car.  “Have you really not spoken to your father in
two years?”

Latson leans back against the seat with a
resigned slump. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

I realize I asked a very personal question when
he lets out a heavy breath and runs his hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That is none of my
business. In case you haven’t noticed, I embarrass myself a lot. I trip, I get
trapped in gym equipment, and I speak before I think.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you dance in your
underwear.”

My cheeks turn red. “That, too.”

Latson leans forward and sets his elbows on his
knees. “I’m kidding. You shouldn’t be embarrassed about the dancing.” He
catches my eyes with his and smiles. “You’re gorgeous.”

Is it hot in here?  I feel hot. I resist the urge
to fan myself. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”

“Why would you punch me?” He looks shocked. “I complimented
you.”

“Because!  You scared me that day. My goal
wasn’t to give you a free show.”

“What was it?”

“To relax. Unwind. Be carefree. Forget.”

“Did it work?  I mean, until you saw me?”

“Well, yeah.”

Latson looks impressed. “Maybe I should try it sometime.”

An image of him doing the sprinkler or some other
lame dance pops into my head. I laugh. “You’ll have to let me know when the
pressures of Torque get to be too much. I’ll remind you about Stripper
Therapy.”

“It has a name?”

“It does now.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever met
anyone who unwinds the way you do.”

I shrug. “What can I say?  I’m unique.”

There’s a knock on the door. Before I can
answer, a nurse appears. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry to interrupt. I just need to check
your IV.” She rounds my bed. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Much better than when I first
got here.”

She smiles. She checks the tube taped to my arm
and the level of fluid in the IV bag. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“A bacon double cheeseburger.” Now that the pain
has subsided and I’ve slept, I’m starving.

She shakes her head. “No food after midnight
before surgery. I meant a blanket or an extra pillow. Or water. You can have
that.”

I frown. “Water it is then.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She leaves and Latson watches her go. When the
door closes, he turns to me. “If I could, I would sneak you in a burger.”

I shift my weight in the bed. “I might have to
take you up on that. I’m not supposed to eat like I used to, at least not right
away. Pete’s going to watch me like a hawk. I’m sure he’ll have me eating tofu
until I go back to Michigan.” I make a face.

“That’s no fun,” Latson agrees. He pulls out
his phone. “I’ve been meaning to get your number.”

I’m skeptical and he notices. “For work,” he
clarifies. “But, now I have another reason. Covert ops.” He flashes the
one-dimple smile. “What is it?”

I want to give him my number. It makes sense. However,
he’s wearing a very non-business like expression. “This is for work only,
right?”

“And the occasional smuggling of food,” he says
as he opens his contact list. He looks up at me expectantly and when I don’t
give him what he’s waiting for his smile fades. “Why are you fighting my
friendship?”

I try to answer and nothing comes out. I don’t
know what to say. There is no logical reason, other than Derek’s cheating put a
sour taste in my mouth.

A realization settles over Latson’s features
and his lips form a thin line. “You know, don’t you.”

His words are a statement, not a question. “Know
what?”

“Who told you?” His tone is accusatory. “Pete? 
Or was it Jules?”   

I’m lost. I can’t answer him.

His eyes harden. “Or was it Google?”

Whoa. Where is this coming from?  “I have no
idea what you’re talking about.”

He stands. “Never mind.” He shoves his phone in
his pocket and turns to leave. “Let me know if you still want the job.”

What the hell?  Why is he mad?

He walks to the door and grabs the handle.

“Wait,” I stop him. I’m so confused. “What just
happened here?”

He yanks open the door. “Goodbye, Jen.”

I pluck the guitar strings in a mess of notes. The
lyrics I wrote at the beach came so easily. The music, on the other hand, is
giving me a tough time.

“Everything okay in there?” Jules calls from
the kitchen.

“Yeah.” I lean over to look at my notebook and
wince. “I can’t seem to think straight.”

“That’s probably because you’re hopped up on
paid meds.” She rounds the corner. “Are you sure you don’t want something else
besides green tea?  Like food?”

I lift my pencil and shake my head. I’m sore. Five
tiny incisions dot my stomach, ranging from my bellybutton to my side to just
beneath my ribs. The thought of digesting anything makes me queasy. “I think
I’ll stick with liquids, at least for today.”

Jules walks over and sets a steaming mug on the
coffee table. “Well, you should try to get some chicken broth down later. Or
one of those vitamin drinks Pete bought. You need nutrition.”

I look up at her. I’d rather not choke down
some chalky concoction, either. “I promise I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says as her eyes narrow. “Don’t
think I’ll forget. While Pete’s at work it’s my job to take care of you.” She
takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch and tucks her legs beneath her. “What
are you working on?”

“A song I came up with the other day. I was
watching a couple and they were arguing. When the woman walked away, I asked her
if she was okay. She told me her fairytale had ended. It struck me.”

“I’ll say.” Jules reaches for my notebook. “May
I?”

“Go for it.”

I strum the strings while she reads my song. Since
my mind doesn’t want to come up with anything original, I start to play “Hey
There Delilah” by the The Plain White T’s. I hum the words and make it to the
second verse before I realize the band’s name reminds me of Latson.

Jerk.

I stop singing and just play. I don’t know what
got into him at the hospital. One minute everything was fine and the next he
was pissed. Since then, I haven’t spent much time awake to think about what he
said. Do I still want the job?  Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know if I can handle
working for someone who refuses to communicate.

“You’re really good,” Jules interrupts my
thoughts.

I stop playing. “Thanks. I have fun with it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with your new song.”
She slides my notebook back to me. “When it comes to music, I’m illiterate.”

“That’s okay.” I smile. “You can be taught,
though. Maybe you should ask Pete for a guitar for your birthday.”

She tips her head, considering it. “I think the
triangle would be better. Or the tambourine.” Her eyes light up. “We could be a
two-woman show!  Jules and Jen. J and J.”

I start to laugh, but stop because it hurts. “We
could combine it and be Jenniferana. Or Juliffer.”

“I like it.” Jules grabs my notebook and rips
out a clean sheet of paper. “I’m in charge of designing our album cover.” She
shoots me a sly look. “And hiring the roadies.”

I get the feeling they would end up being Pete
and his crew. “It’s not like we don’t know a bunch of guys,” I say. I adjust the
guitar on my lap. “Now all we need is a tour bus.”

“Latson could help with that,” she says as she
sketches. “He has all kinds of connections.” She looks up. “You know, he could help
you write your song too, if you’re stuck.”

She must be joking. “I’m not that desperate.”

Jules eyes me suspiciously and lowers her art
project. “Do I detect a hint of irritation in that statement?”

I shrug.

“I thought you guys were getting along.” She
frowns. “Especially after you met Oliver.”

“I thought so, too.” I pluck a few strings. “But,
he got all weird at the hospital.”

“Weird how?”

“He asked for my number. When I hesitated to
give it to him he got moody. He accused me of knowing something, but wouldn’t tell
me what it was. He said to let him know if I still wanted the job and walked
out.”

Jules chews on her bottom lip as I replay the
conversation in my head. “He asked me if I found out from you or Pete. Then he
accused me of Googling him.” I scoff. “Like I would do that.”

Jules sets her art project down. She leans
forward to snag her phone off the coffee table. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Googled him.”

“No.” I look at her like she’s crazy. “I’ve
been a little busy getting cut up and sewn back together. Why would I?”

Her expression tells me she thinks I’m the
crazy one. “Two reasons. One, you know his first name. And two, he specifically
mentioned Google. Aren’t you curious?”

Now I am. “What are you trying to say?”

She flips her phone to me. “Here. Go for it.”

“You’re serious.”

She nods.

Setting down my guitar, I start to type
Latson’s name, then stop. “I feel like I’m violating his privacy.”

“Its public record,” she says, then looks
annoyed. “Although, most of the reports are false.”

Okay. Now I need to know. I type ‘Gunnar Latson’
into Google and hit search. A sidebar pops up with pictures. I read the words
beneath them aloud:  “Gunnar Oliver Latson is an American musician best known
as the lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist for the American rock band Sacred
Sin.”

My eyes snap to Jules.

“Keep going,” she says.

I tap the link for the Wikipedia article. It
says he was born in Peoria, Illinois, and he’s twenty-eight years old. Further
down, I find information on the band. Sacred Sin started as a garage band ten
years ago, when Latson was eighteen. They hit mainstream radio a year later
with their single “Easy”, which I vaguely remember. I was sixteen at the time and
wasn’t following rock music. Back then, if it wasn’t pop, it wasn’t on my
radar.

The website goes on to say the band was
together for eight years, producing three albums and embarking on two
nationwide tours. They broke up a couple of years ago.

“Why did they break up?” I ask Jules.

She gestures with her hand, rolling it in a
“continue reading” kind of way.

I scroll down to a section entitled ‘Personal
Life’. “Gunnar Latson has been linked to supermodels Amberly Higgins and
Vanessa Cromwell. He also dated professional beach volleyball player Kristi Owens
and singer-songwriter Ariel Allyn.”

I let out a low whistle. I assume one of his women
was the reason for the band’s demise. “Which one was the Yoko?”

Jules rolls her eyes as I continue. “In the
spring of 2012, Audrey Latson, Gunnar’s sister and band manager, died of a drug
overdose leaving behind a five-year-old son.”

I wasn’t expecting that. A lump forms in my
throat. Poor Oliver.

“The singer was granted temporary custody until
allegations implicated him in his sister’s death. Sacred Sin was dropped from
their label, Snare Records, and a custody case was settled out of court. The
terms of the settlement were never disclosed.”

The news takes a moment to sink in. I lower the
phone and look at Jules. “I know I just met him, but I can’t believe he was
involved in his sister’s death. Which part of that was false?”

“None of it,” she says. “Look up the other
links. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

I close Wikipedia and use my thumb to scroll
through the search hits. Headlines like
“Sacred Sin Dropped Amid
Controversy”
and
“Security Cameras Capture Gunnar Latson At Sister’s Hotel”
catch my attention. Then,
“Agent Confirms Singer’s Role in Manager’s
Overdose”
and
“Brother Sits Back and Watches Sister Die.”

My stomach twists. “These are horrible.”

I read further and it gets worse.
“Singer’s
Father Fights for Custody of Grandson – Accuses Son of Murder.”

“Oh my God.” I stare at Jules wide-eyed. “No
wonder they haven’t spoken.”

“Are you talking about his dad?” She moves over
to peer at the phone. “Yeah. It’s not pretty. Yet … ”  She pauses and cocks an
eyebrow. “Latson broke his silence for you.”

The weight of what he did settles on my
shoulders. “Why?” I ask in disbelief. “Any doctor could have helped me.”

“Apparently he felt you deserved the best. His
father is the best.”

My mind swirls. No one has ever put themselves
out there like that for me. No one.

I hand her the phone. “I’ve seen enough.”

She turns it off and tosses it aside. “Do you
understand why he would assume the worst?  He thinks you found out and hate
him.”

“First of all, I had no idea who he was to even
think about researching his past. I was never a fan. Besides, even if I was
familiar with the band, he’s changed from those pictures.” The few photos posted
with the article showed a much younger and less tattooed version of Latson. Plus,
he had a grunge look going on, with long hair that fell to his chin.

“Second, I’m not that judgmental. Obviously the
allegations were false. He’s not in jail and he gets to see his nephew.”

“Correction,” Jules says. “He has full custody
of his nephew.”                     

“See?” I point at her. “He shouldn’t jump to
conclusions. I never believe stories reported by TMZ.”

“He doesn’t know that,” Jules defends him. “What
would you think if your family turned on you?  What’s to stop him from thinking
you would, too?”

“Because I’m Pete’s sister and your friend. I
trust you guys. You wouldn’t let me around him otherwise.”

Jules concedes my point with a nod. “Okay, maybe
he did overreact. But, he’s been through a lot.”

“I see that now.” I reach for the mug on the
table and it pulls at my stitches. “Ow.”

Jules hands it to me. “Once you’re feeling up
to it you should talk to him. Tell him I told you about his past. Working at
Torque won’t be easy if he thinks you’re afraid of him.”

I blow on the tea just in case it’s still hot. “I
would never be afraid of Latson. I’ve seen him with Oliver. He’s a big softy.”

“Isn’t he though?” Jules squishes up her nose. “He’s
cute, talented, good with kids … ”  She drifts off. “Husband material.”

I almost spit out my tea. “Are you thinking of
proposing?”

“No.” She smiles. “But you might want to.”

“Please. My track record is awful.” I take
another drink. “I’m not his type anyway. I’m neither a supermodel nor an
athlete.”

“But you’re a musician.”

I shake my head and ignore her. Then, a thought
occurs to me. “Is this why Pete didn’t want me working at the bar?  Does he
believe those rumors?”

Jules scowls. “Absolutely not. It has more to
do with Latson’s rock star past. Late nights, hard parties, trashed hotel
rooms, groupies like Heidi. You get my drift.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Heidi was a groupie?”

“Was?” Jules pretends to gag. “She still is.”

I try to laugh with my mouth shut so it won’t
hurt. I fail.

“I know!  We should watch YouTube videos of the
band.” Jules stands. “I’ll get my iPad.”

She skips out of the room before I can stop her.
I’m sure she’s trying to bring out my inner fan girl. I should tell her only
one singer makes me weak in the knees. Ed Sheeran. My Eddie. Well, technically
he’s not mine, but a girl can dream. If he showed up and asked me to run away
with him, I would. He could teach me to play all his songs and sing me to sleep
each night.

While Jules is gone I sip my tea like a good
patient and stretch my legs out in front of me. My feet land by Jules’ phone and
my thoughts turn to what I learned. Not only did Latson lose his career, he
lost his sister. That had to be devastating, especially to lose her to something
like drugs, something that could have been prevented. I think of Oliver and my
arms ache to hug him.

“What are you thinking?” Jules appears in the
living room. “You look like you’re lost in la-la land.”

“I was thinking about Oliver. How could Audrey
risk her life when she had a son?  It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know.” Jules gently pushes my legs
over and takes a seat. “It was accidental, I’m sure.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door. Jules
shoots me a confused look and I shrug. She hands me her iPad and walks over to
answer it.

“Speak of the devil,” she says. “Mr. Oliver. What
can I do for you?”

“I made a card. Uncle Gunnar said Jen wasn’t
feeling good. Mrs. Gibson helped me.”

“He was adamant about bringing it down,” I hear
an unfamiliar voice say. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Jules says. “Come on in.”

She steps out of the way to let Oliver and the
woman inside. The couch is in view from the front door and Oliver’s eyes light
up when he sees me. “Jen!” he says and runs over. “I made this for you.” He
holds out a folded sheet of white paper.