Defining Moments (24 page)

Buried in the bottom of the bag the hospital gave me with all my stuff in it, I find the card. Detective Michael Sampson. I call the number, which goes straight to voicemail. I leave him my name and number and the reason for my call. I enjoy my coffee and watch the news, which quickly turns into a political debate, so I flip to the Food Network. I’m just about to get up to grab another cup of coffee when my phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Ms. Harper, this is Detective Sampson. I’m sorry I missed your call. I was with one of the witnesses to your accident.” He pauses before he continues. “Do you think you could come down to the station to talk to me sometime this afternoon?”

“We can’t just do this over the phone?” I ask, shock evident in my voice. Why do I need to go down there?

“Well, we arrested the man who hit you a few hours after your accident, and we wanted to see if you could identify him,” he tells me.

“I’m sorry Detective Sampson, did you say arrested him? I’m confused. I thought I walked out in front of him. I’d had a lot on my mind and wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” I tell him honestly.

“Ms. Harper, you didn’t walk out in front of him. According to the witnesses, it looked like you took off running to avoid him, but he jumped the curb, hit you, then a lamp post, and drove off. When we found him, he was in a car matching the description with front end damage. He was passed out in the still-running car, and he was way over the legal limit for driving.” His voice is soft like he’s talking to a child.

“Are you telling me I got hit by a drunk driver?” I shriek.

“Yes, ma’am. We assumed you saw him coming and that’s why you were running,” he says more in question than in statement.

“I didn’t see him. I was running because that’s what I do when I’m upset. I’ve thought this whole time that I was so lost in my head that I ran out in front of someone’s car,” I reply, emotion filling my voice. Not only was I hit by a car, but I was hit by a drunk driver.

“Ms. Harper, are you okay?” he asks with concern.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t think I’m going to be much help in the investigation. I never saw the car or him,” I reply honestly.

“Okay. Well, if you do remember anything about what happened, please let me know. At this point, I think we have enough evidence without you ID’ing him. The guy who was closest to you when you got hit identified the car immediately,” he responds. “We’ll let you know when he gets to trial because you’ll have the opportunity to make a victim impact statement at his sentencing.”

I tell him thank you and hang up.

Wow. I got hit by a drunk driver.

CORD COMES BARRELING
through my door just as I finish up making a sandwich.

“Hey, do you need help with that?” I shake my head because he has at least ten bags on each hand. Must be a guy thing. Eli is the same way. He’d rather the bags cut off his circulation than make two trips.

“Nope, I got this,” he huffs out.

“Are you planning to feed an army? That’s a lot of food,” I laugh out.

“Actually, I do plan to feed an army. I invited the twins, Claire, and Tyler over for dinner tonight. The boys are still worried, Destry threatened them bodily harm if they didn’t keep an eye on you, and Claire called me earlier to see if you were up for visitors. I just figured having them over for dinner would be a good distraction for you.”

“That’s very sweet, babe. I appreciate that.” I stop long enough to stare at the muscles flexing in his forearms as he lifts the bags to the counter. Yum.

“Stop it,” he growls.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Staring at me like you want to eat me for lunch,” he smiles, eye-brow lifted.

Cocky bastard.

“Did you know I got hit by a drunk driver?”

“I sort of figured it out. The officer who was initially at the hospital kept mentioning witnesses saying a man in a dark sedan jumped the curb, hit you, and drove off,” he grinds out. I can tell this conversation is pissing him off completely, so I need to end it.

“They caught him a few hours later. He was drunk and passed out when they found him,” I tell him, to which he nods, his jaw clenching in anger, and returns to putting away groceries.

I let that conversation die.

“How were things at Saint?”

He smiles brightly as he replies, “Good, although once again I found Bishop and Sami doing freaky shit in my office.” He goes still and then shudders, making me laugh. Those two are just so insanely in love it amazes me.

We chat about Destry being able to attend UC next semester and how the twins are going to drive one of their trucks to Boise to get him as soon as the semester is over, which is only a few weeks away.

About 3 p.m., Saint tells me I should take a nap before everyone gets to the house for dinner and I think he’s probably right. Although I feel good, I am more tired than usual for obvious reasons, and so I take his advice and head to my room. Curling up in bed, Saint’s smell hovers all around me and it doesn’t take me long to pass out.

I WAKE TO MY
phone ringing in the living room, but I just can’t make myself get up. My wrist is throbbing and I realize I’m lying on my left side. Oh hell. My whole left side is screaming in pain as I roll to my back.

The ringing stops, and then I hear Saint’s muffled voice. He must’ve answered it. Probably one of the boys. I roll to my right side and try to sit up but shriek and lay back down. I’ve got to figure out a way to keep from rolling onto my left side while I’m asleep. I’m definitely going to need a pain pill to get this under control.

I slowly get to my feet and start toward the bedroom door, pausing just as I start to open it when I hear Saint’s raised voice.

“No, you listen. Leave her alone. I’m pretty sure she made it perfectly clear she has nothing more to say to you unless it’s about the kids,” he bites out.

Oh shit. It’s Justin.

I wait to hear the rest of this conversation, but the silence continues. I push the door open and walk slowly toward Saint, who has his back to me. When he starts to talk again, I stop my movement.

“Justin, Justin, Justin. You don’t get it. She has no desire to talk to you, or to be with you ever again. She’s not going to care—” He stops, turning quickly like he sensed I was behind him.

When his eyes meet mine, they soften and I smile at him. I walk to him slowly, hearing Justin yelling through the phone.

I gently take the phone from his hand and bring it to my ear.

“Justin,” I bite out, never removing my eyes from Saint’s.

“Ell, God, baby, I needed to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

“What do you want, Justin? Didn’t I make it completely clear to you that I don’t want to talk to you? Do I need to call the police and file harassment charges against you to get you to stop?” My stomach starting to roll from the pain in my wrist and shoulder.

“Wait, I need to tell you something before you hang up on me. After I tell you, if you still don’t want to talk to me anymore, I’ll hate it, but I’ll respect it,” he pleads.

Still looking into Saint’s eyes, I agree, “You have thirty seconds, Justin, and I’m hanging up. Say what you need to say.”

“I left her, Ell. I left Julia and moved into a hotel,” he rushes out, making my eyes bug out. What the actual fuck? “I know I did wrong by you, but I’ve been going to counseling, and the therapist I’m seeing thinks I have a sex addiction.”

I snort so loud even Saint’s eyes bug out and he smirks. “Did you just tell me you have an addiction to sex?” I laugh out.

“Yes, I did. It’s true. I tried to tell you at the hospital but you kicked me out. It’s the reason for the cheating. It was never about me not loving you. It was about the high I get from the act of sex with someone new. It’s called hypersexuality and I am starting treatment for it. I can fix it and then we can start over.” He is absolutely serious.

I start laughing but then cut it short when my shoulder and wrist remind me I got hit by a car a few days ago. That pisses me off.

“Justin, I need for you to hear me because, apparently, you didn’t last time we had this discussion. NOTHING YOU SAY WILL FIX WHAT YOU DID!” I scream into the phone. “I don’t give a fuck what your addiction is to. It’s not my problem anymore.
You
are not my problem.”

My chest is heaving because I’m so mad I feel like I could burst. I want to hurt him so bad I can taste it.

“Go back to Julia. She’s the one you should be begging forgiveness from because that ship sailed for us a long time ago. If you call me again, I’m filing a police report and a restraining order,” I snap. I pull the phone from my ear, still hearing him talking, and just as I’m about to hit End, I think of one last thing I want to say to him. Something I know will absolutely hammer it home for him that I’m done with him.

“Justin,” I shout, making him halt mid-sentence. “Just so you know, I have a new addiction too.” I smirk, looking right into Saint’s eyes. “I’m addicted to having Saint Cordero being buried inside my body every single night, making me scream his name over and over again. You should pick a different addiction, Justin. You’re no good at the one you’re claiming.”

I hit End, and when I return my eyes to Saint’s face, my heart stops. He looks furious and I immediately feel bad. I didn’t mean to upset him.

“Why did you say that?” he snarls. “Is that what this is to you?” he asks, pointing between the two of us. He’s pissed.

“I just wanted to hurt him like he hurt me,” I reply honestly, wondering why he is so upset.

He shakes his head and starts walking toward the door, and my confusion grows. What the hell?

When his hand hits the doorknob, he stops but doesn’t turn to look at me. “Ya know what, Ellie, I really thought you were over what happened between you and Justin, but I can see now you aren’t. Using our relationship to lie to him, just to hurt him, proves to me you are not ready for us,” he scolds. “Dinner is in the oven. Timer will go off when it’s ready and Ben and Eli will be here in a few minutes. Have a good night.”

And before I can reply, he slams the door and is gone.

What the hell just happened?

ELI IS THE FIRST ONE
to arrive and I’m still reeling from Saint storming out of my apartment.

“Hey, Mama.” He hands me a stack of mail. “Sorry. I’ve been picking up your mail and just tossing it in my passenger seat. It just dawned on me today that I hadn’t given it to you.” He shakes his head when he drops to a stool at the kitchen bar.

I make my way over and sit beside him, starting on the stack. Eli goes to the fridge and starts grumbling about how everything is healthy and where is the good stuff. I laugh and shake my head before telling him, “Cord went crazy on my pantry and fridge when I got out of the hospital. No processed food. Lots of veggies and fruit.”

“Crazy is an understatement,” he mumbles, making me laugh. The buzzer goes off on the stove and Eli goes over and removes it, setting it gently on top.

When I pull a large manila envelope from the stack and look at the return address, my stomach drops into my toes.

Italia Culinary Art School