Shortly after I’d admitted to semi-stalking Hailey, the physician came into the room and asked me to leave while he examined her. So while I waited, I paced the hallway, pretending not to notice the nurses at their station watching me.
I was used to my life being splashed around the tabloids and by the media. It was part of the job. Okay, it wasn’t exactly my real life that was talked about. Everything about it from before I met Jared was fiction. What little I chose to reveal, that is. I didn’t have a cheat sheet in my pocket I could refer to, helping me remember details about the life I’d fabricated. I was still pretty elusive about my life prior to forming the band. I gave just enough details to satisfy most people’s curiosity. But as lucky as I had been so far, I knew my secret wouldn’t last forever. I knew eventually the media would find out the truth about my father. I was surprised they hadn’t already.
Being pursued by fans and the media was commonplace for anyone in the spotlight. But admitting to Hailey that I had watched her soccer games from afar had felt awkward, and I was unsure if my actions had flattered or repulsed her. Shocked might have been a better word to describe her reaction. Brandon had done a good job keeping secret what I’d been up to when it came to Hailey.
I continued pacing the hallway, waiting to be allowed back in Hailey’s room, waiting to find out how she was doing physically, and waiting to find out when her memory would return.
Right now an attacker was out there, and I had no idea why he had hurt Hailey. Nor did I have any idea if he would return to finish off the job. It could’ve been a random attack—Hailey might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the attack also could have been planned. Maybe Hailey had found out something she shouldn’t have. Maybe the attacker would try tracking her down to ensure she couldn’t talk. Permanently.
I swallowed back the sour taste of irony. Both of us were dealing with amnesia. But while Hailey wanted to remember the past—I wanted her to remember her past—my memory was something that needed to stay buried in the three coffins where it belonged. Forgotten. By everyone.
Until Hailey remembered that night or recalled who might’ve wanted to hurt her, or until we knew if it had been a random attack or not, she wasn’t safe. I had two options. The first one was to bring her back to L.A. Then I could work on songs with Jared for the upcoming album. But after we finished recording the album, there would be the promo blitz in anticipation of the release of the first single. Following that would be the exhaustive touring. I couldn’t drag her along just to keep her safe. What was I even saying? No way would she agree to it. She had a life. She didn’t need to make it any more complicated than it already was by moving to L.A.
The second option was to stay with Hailey and see if I could help her jog her memory and be there for her while she recovered. Keep an eye on her as much as I could. But if she didn’t remember what happened by the time I had to leave, then what?
“Hi.” A female voice snapped me from my thoughts. Two girls in pink scrubs and with name tags identifying them as nursing students grinned at me.
“Aren’t you Tyler Erickson?” the shorter girl squeaked. The second girl stared at me like someone had performed a tongue-ectomy on her.
“I am.”
“Oh my God! We loooove your music. I didn’t know you were doing a concert here tonight.”
Every muscle fiber in my body stiffened. The last thing I wanted was to bump into fans while I was in town. Too many questions would start circulating, and the risk was always there that someone would remember who I really was and leak it to the media. “I’m not,” I said, inwardly cursing myself for not having the foresight to wear my hat and sunglasses in the hallway.
“So why are you here?”
“What? In the hospital?” I asked. They nodded. I didn’t want to talk about Hailey, or at least share about our past together. “I’m visiting a fan.” It wouldn’t be the first time since the band’s debut album had climbed the charts that I had been asked to visit a fan in the hospital. So this lie was plausible.
“That’s so sweet,” the taller girl said, finally finding her voice. “Can we get your autograph?”
“Absolutely.”
Both produced notebooks from their pockets for me to sign. I’d just finished signing for the second girl when a woman with a perma-frown etched on her face approached. “Ladies, you’re not here to harass patients and their visitors.”
“But this is Tyler Erickson. The lead singer of Pushing Limits,” the short girl gushed.
The scowl on the woman’s face hardened. “I don’t care who he is. But if you don’t have enough work to do, I can find you some.” Her tone made it clear that whatever she came up with would be far from pleasant.
Both girls hung their heads. “Yes, ma’am.” Before she could respond, they scurried down the hall.
“Sorry about that,” was all she said to me before following them, not giving me a chance to explain that it was all right, I hadn’t minded.