“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my . . .” I shrugged. “He’s trying to sign me to his record label.”
She nodded and then went on about numbers for a counselor. They finished up their questioning, said they’d check out the cemetery to see if my attacker “Johnny” was there. By the time I’d given them detailed descriptions of the boys, the doctor returned with X-rays of my wrist—it was fractured. He put it in a cast, something I knew would worry me in the morning, but I was so exhausted from the attack, my brain was too foggy to care. By that point O’Dea had returned, watching the process with a permanent dark scowl on his face.
The doctor stared at me with a furrowed brow. “Now that I know you’ve been sleeping in a tent, Skylar, I’m a little worried about your overall health. You’re slightly underweight and that might not be enough for concern normally, but considering how you’ve been living, I am concerned about possible malnourishment. I’m pushing your blood work through so we should get results in twenty-four hours. I’d feel better if we kept you here overnight and put you on a vitamin and hydration drip.”
Panic suffused me at the thought of being stuck in the hospital overnight. “I don’t need that. I’m fine, honest. I drink lots of water.”
“Do you have somewhere warm to stay tonight?”
“I’ll make sure my client has someplace safe to stay,” O’Dea chipped in and then proceeded to lie. “I had no idea she was homeless.”
The police took O’Dea’s number since I didn’t have one and told us they would be in touch. “Your guitar is one of a kind and the boys don’t know it. As soon as they try to sell it, it’ll make it easier to find them.”
I nodded, hoping I’d get my guitar back in one piece.
“And I’ll be in touch with your results,” the doctor said, still not pleased I’d refused to stay overnight. “We’ll talk.”
Once we got out of there, I was on pain meds and a little out of it as O’Dea drove us into the city. As my eyes drifted closed, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I mumbled.
“For not shaking your foolish head out of your arse and getting you off the streets. None of this would have happened if I’d tried harder.”
“I was warned,” I yawned. “They told me something like this could happen. I thought I knew better. I thought I was smarter than them.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. Can I just sleep first?”
He was silent a moment. Then, “Aye, Skylar, you can sleep first.”
My last thought before I drifted off was how strange and scary it was to be Skylar again.
* * *
PAIN.
It was the first thing I felt. Horrible, restless pain originating from my left wrist. The pain seeped into my subconscious and I floated out of a dreamless state. My eyes reluctantly tried to open and panic momentarily seized hold of me when my left one struggled with the action.
When my vision cleared and I took in the airy white room around me, I grew more alarmed and scrambled upwards in the bed I was in, only to cry out when I pressed down on my left hand. I raised it, everything coming back to me as I saw the cast around my wrist.
I was attacked last night.
It hadn’t been a dream.
Images of Johnny bearing down on me, his spittle hitting my face, made my chest constrict with anxiety. I shook my head, trying to shake out the memory, reminding myself I was safe.
My head throbbed, the ache no doubt coming from my swollen eye. Glancing around, my head felt heavy on my shoulders. I was in a bedroom. The walls were white, the carpet a soft gray. Gray curtains were drawn across the window and the bed covers were a soft gray too. The only color in the room was in a beautiful, somewhat abstract, framed print of a pretty girl’s face. The artist had painted the lines and motifs that framed her face in hot pinks and turquoise.
I remembered O’Dea taking me to the hospital. I even remembered getting back in his car once we were done. But that was it.
Where the hell was I?
My body ached all over, like I’d been in a car accident. I swung out of bed, relieved to see I was still in my jeans and T-shirt. The thought of O’Dea undressing me for bed was more than I could take.
As I stood, dizziness knocked me back on my ass again and I took a couple of seconds to gather myself. When I felt my head clear, I got back on my feet and slowly made my way toward the door. Stepping out of the bedroom, I found myself looking into a small but perfectly formed open-plan living space. The kitchen was modern with traditional influences—slate-gray, shaker-style cabinets, thick oak countertops, and glossy, lemon-yellow, brick-style tiles as a backsplash. It had a large range cooker with a fancy chimney cooker hood. There was also an island with more counter space, lemon-yellow stools, and beautiful drop ceiling lights with copper shades.
The sitting area had a soft gray corner sofa, a TV mounted on the wall, and a yellow button-back chair.
Beside the chair were French doors that led out onto a balcony. I immediately moved toward it, opening the doors and feeling the chilled wind whip through my hair as I stepped out in my bare feet.
We were on the River Clyde. I knew that from the walks I’d taken down there. On the opposite river bank was a huge rusty-red corrugated iron building that looked like a warehouse. There were more industrial-type units on either side of it. To the left of those was what looked like a couple of apartment buildings and next to that a church.
Stepping in out of the cold, I shut the doors and looked back around the beautiful little apartment. Where the hell was I?
As if on cue, a door slammed down the hall. Footsteps padded toward the living space and my heart started pounding.
I let out a shaky breath, not sure I felt relief or the opposite, as O’Dea appeared. He stopped short at the sight of me, drinking me in from head to foot. Finally, after I’d been subjected to his visual assessment, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Like I went a couple of rounds with a creepy Glaswegian kid.”
“I put your painkillers in the cupboard.” He headed into the kitchen and that’s when I noted the carrier bag in his hand.
“So . . . any chance you’re going to tell me where I am or are you enjoying discombobulating me?” I took one small step toward him.
Whatever he heard in my voice made him stop in his tracks. He frowned at me. “You don’t remember getting here?”
I shook my head.
He frowned harder. “I explained last night but you were pretty out of it. This,” he gestured around the room, “is a one-bed flat that belongs to the record label. We own a few flats in this building so we have places to put up our artists. The record label’s building is about a twenty-minute walk down the river bank from here.”
For some weird reason, I felt utter relief that I wasn’t in O’Dea’s apartment. It was bad enough that he pretty much blackmailed me in exchange for his help. I didn’t want his charity. He’d made it clear that this was only business between us and I’d prefer it to remain that way.
“Discombobulating.” He looked impressed. “Big word. Glad to see what’s left of your faculties are still intact.”
“What’s left of my faculties?”
“You’re a multimillionaire, Skylar, and you’ve been sleeping on the streets. That doesn’t exactly say you’re in possession of all your faculties. Now eat something before taking the painkillers,” he said as he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a little white bag I assumed my meds were in. Then he turned back to the carrier bag he’d put on the counter and began pulling out groceries, including milk and eggs. “Do you like omelet?”
I could try to kill him, or I could eat. Choices, choices.
I hadn’t had an omelet in a while and killing him would be messy. “Omelet’s fine. Although I take mine with a pinch less condescension.”