Losing You (Stars On Fire Book 4) (22 page)

Tom

May 23, 2008

Blink.

Fuck. His head hurt.

Blink.

At least he’d slept some.

Blink.

How much was the question.

With his eyes now open, Tom looked around. TV was still on from last night. His faithful girl, Foxy, was curled up at his side. And his alarm clock told him that it was five in the morning. Three hours of sleep. A little better than the previous nights.

After running his hands over his face, he pushed himself up. Today, he’d get out of his bed and out of his house.

“Foxy, want to go to the shop today?” The dog lifted her head slightly, looked at him then put her head back down.

“Guess that's a no,” Tom said, turning his attention to the television and saw Mia's picture on the screen. Curious . . . his eyes flicked to the scrolling words beneath her picture. And the one word he saw stole the breath right out of him. Overdose?

Tom scrambled for the remote and when he found it, he pounded at the volume button until he could hear the news. “
. . . Not much more is known at this time, but it appears Mia Devereux, lead singer of Last Star, has been brought to a local Chicago hospital because of a suspected drug overdose. The 29-year-old . . .”

“What hospital?” he yelled at the television, searching for his phone. Spotting it on the nightstand, he swiped it and immediately called Mia's number.

“Come on, baby girl. Answer! Fuck!” he cursed when it went right to voicemail. He took the phone away from his ear. As he thought about what to do next, he stared down at his hands . . . his shaking hands. With tears filling his eyes, he willed the shaking to stop.

“Get a grip. Take a breath and breathe. Just breathe,” he told himself. “Think of who you’d call next.”

Marc. But he wasn't there.

Clark!

With the phone to his ear held by his shoulder, Tom grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor and jumped into them while he waited for Clark to answer. On the third ring, the man answered.

“Tell me the news is wrong,” Tom ordered.

“I wish I could—”

“
Fuck
! Where is she?”

“Northwestern,” Clark answered.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm here now with Marty.”

“Okay. She's . . .”

“She's not dead if that's what you're asking, but she's far from okay. I look at her hooked up to all these tubes and wires and all these damn fucking machines telling us she’s still alive and I see my brother in her place. Both of them . . .” Clark broke off, his emotions clearly overwhelming him.

“It's not Marc. That's not him, Clark. He's in rehab. That’s not him on that bed.”

“No, it’s not, but it’s Mia. She . . . she looks so broken.”

In that moment, Tom was so glad Marc was far away from this, even if he hurt them all in the process. He was in rehab. Not on a hospital bed. He was safe, unlike Mia.

After making sure to get her room number, Tom hung up with Clark and finished getting dressed. Then he was off on his motorcycle towards the city . . . and ran into fucking rush hour traffic. He didn’t give a flying fuck if he was an asshole as he wove in and out of the cars. He needed to get to Mia.

When he finally arrived at the hospital, Tom parked his bike and raced up to her room. He slowed up as he drew near. A tall man stood in the doorway to her room, looking in. When the man dragged his hand through his hair, Tom caught a glimpse of his face—Ethan Christopher, Mia’s ex-fiancé.

Shit.

Tom wasn’t sure if he was up to meeting the man that had stolen Mia away from him. Looking around, Tom found a little waiting area and sat down so he could watch her room. He wasn’t leaving.

Waiting paid off. Ethan eventually left the area and Tom took the opportunity to sneak in and see her.

He had thought he’d prepared himself for when he saw her in the hospital but it was still a fucking shock. The woman he loved had tubes and wires connected everywhere.

Sitting down by her bedside, he took her hand in his, mindful of the IV and brought it up to his lips. “Hey, baby girl,” he began, praying that somehow she’d hear what he had to say. “Looks like you got yourself in a bit of a mess.”

It’d been only four days since he’d last seen her but she looked so different . . . so small—fragile. Her skin looked sickly and pale. He'd been so ignorant to this, wrapped up in the world where she was finally his that he hadn’t seen what was happening to her. Though he had seen it . . . the drinking, the goddamn depressed state he’d found her in a couple times.

Fuck.

Could he have prevented this?

He racked his brain for one definitive thing, but came up empty. One thing he could do was make sure she fought to stay alive. “I don't want you to give up, Mia. I need you to fight. You left me because you wanted a different life . . . fight for that. This, right here, is you giving up. Please don't—” he stopped, swallowing the threatening tears. “Please don't give up, baby girl. I need you alive and you need to do whatever you need to stay that way. Join Marc in rehab, talk to someone, anything, but please get off this path.
Please
. . .” he begged quietly, watching her chest barely rise and fall with each breath. He needed to feel it to make sure it wasn’t a trick of the eye. Placing his hand on her exposed chest right in between her breasts, her heart raced beneath his palm, her breaths shallow. In the past this would have brought them both pleasure. Now, it was just confirmation that Mia was still alive.

“If you didn’t know . . . Ethan’s here. He’s been watching over you, so I don’t know how long I have in here before he or someone else shows up. I’m going to make this quick. I love you,” he said before leaning in to place his lips upon hers, holding her face with his hand. “Fight, baby girl. Don’t give up. Fight for everything you want. Do not let go.”

Then he let her go.

As he walked out of the room, he bumped right into Clark.

“Hey, Tom. You came,” he said.

“Yeah . . . how you doing with all this?” Tom asked.

“Wishing I could talk to my brother. I messaged him about Mia, but I don’t know if he even has his phone or if they take it away while in there . . .”

“He’ll let us know when he can,” Tom said, trying to impart some optimism to Clark. “He’s going to be fine,” Tom added, wrapping Clark in a hug, feeling terrible for all that Clark was going through right now between Mia and his brother.

“I need you to do something for me, Clark. I need you to make sure she doesn’t end up back here. Watch her. Please . . . do this for me,” Tom asked, his voice breaking and the tears rushing to his eyes.

“Of course,” Clark said.

Tom stepped away from the other man, swiping at his eyes. He didn’t care about the realization of what he’d said dawning on Clark’s face.

“I’ve got to go,” Tom quietly said.

“Stay,” Clark countered, gripping his arm.

Tom looked to the ground and shook his head. “No, man. I’ve got to walk away,” he said, retreating from his friend.

Lifting his head, Tom met the brown eyes of Ethan who stood a good ten feet away. Tom nodded his head once at the quarterback in acknowledgment then headed towards the elevators, away from his heart. Curiosity gripped him, and Tom turned from the elevator and watched as Ethan returned to the room. Again, the quarterback didn’t go in. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, just like he had before he’d left. His face was awash in pain. Tom understood it and his face probably mirrored the other man’s. Tom recognized the frustration on his face. The man didn’t know what to do for Mia and he felt an increasing need to come up with something—anything—before it was too late.

When the elevator doors opened, Tom entered and frowned. He feared that this might not be the last of her battles. He was beginning to realize Mia was a very troubled soul.

Lizzie

June 16, 2008

It’d been a month since Marc had left . . . and she had absolutely no word from him. To forget, she’d been throwing herself into her work, but today, Lizzie just couldn’t do it. She had nothing left. The need to get out of there had her pushing herself from her desk and down the hall to Parker’s office.

Luckily he had just returned from a meeting. “Hi, Lizzie. What’s up?”

“Would you mind if I left early?”

“You okay?” he asked, cocking his head, his eyes studying her.

“Just drained,” she told him. What else could she say? She didn’t want to lay out her troubles for her boss.

“I’m surprised it took this long for you to get this point. You’ve been a machine the past month.”

He was right. Machines didn’t have feelings and she didn’t want them. “Was just on a roll,” she replied.

“Well, take today and tomorrow and enjoy some time off. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“Thanks, Parker.”

“Any time, Lizzie.”

After quickly gathering her things, Lizzie left the office and was lucky enough to catch one of the early trains. The walk home taxed her. It was hot and muggy and her clothes stuck to her skin. The temperature in her house was really no better. She jacked up the air conditioning then went upstairs to change out of her clothes.

Her skirt went first, then her blouse, but it put up resistance. She tugged again, and when she heard the clink of jewelry hitting the floor, she realized what was caught—the necklace from Marc. Scrambling to the floor to find it, she frantically looked around until she spotted it just under her bed. After swiping it up, she held it in her hand and then started to cry over the only thing she had left of him. She knew she could get the necklace fixed but still . . .

“Of course, this would happen today,” she said out loud to herself.

One month since Marc had left and tomorrow would’ve been their two-year anniversary.

She’d been ignoring the upcoming date—trying to work herself to the point of collapse so she didn’t know, but she did. It hung over her regardless of everything she’d done otherwise.

Her future was broken just like that damn necklace. Difference being that she knew how to fix the jewelry, but her life . . . that was a little harder.

Because even though she missed Marc, Lizzie knew she couldn’t go on missing him. He was gone and hadn’t talked to her since he’d entered rehab four weeks ago—absolutely no contact with her since that letter, despite all her messages to him.

And there’d been many.

She would send one more—the one she’d been dreading but needed to send.

Grabbing her phone out of her bag, she began to type.

I hate that I even have to send this message. I had hoped to hear from you but that hasn’t happened. Not only does that hurt, it makes me angry.

I can’t go on like this anymore. I need to do for me like you did for you.

So, I’m saying goodbye. I need to move on. This place I’m in . . . it’s not healthy for me.

I can’t go on hoping that I’ll hear from you . . . maybe tomorrow or the day after that. I just can’t anymore.

I deserve better than that. You even said it yourself.

And so do you.

You deserve to have a life without those demons of yours bringing you down.

Don’t stop working on you, on fixing those things that have had an unhealthy hold upon you.

This time with you has forever changed my life. I’ll never forget it—any of it.

I love you.

Lizzie hit send then broke into a fresh batch of tears. This was her last cry about this. Tomorrow she’d board the moving-on train.

A thought came to her . . . she was actually already on it. Lizzie got on when she sent that message. All she needed to do now was start the train’s engine so she could proceed to the next stop—her future.