Page 82 of The Cruiser
I stand up and walk, to shake off the jitters. “We’re fine, but they won’t give us any updates.”
“Khaled’s on the phone with the hospital right now,” he says, tension hardening his voice. “Tell me what happened so I can relay.” I give him the rundown and of all things, the first question out of his mouth is, “Perla drove you?”
I glance over. Perla’s not close enough to hear but trying her damndest to do just that. “She’s been helpful. Just get here in one piece, okay?”
Knowing he’s on his way, my beating heart starts to slow inside its crumpled cage. I drink deeply from a water fountain and rejoin Perla, filling her in. In the stretch of silence after, I take stock of the emergency room, the whole evening turned on its head. How any of this will play out is a crapshoot. I hope it doesn’t blow Morgan’s chances.
“I read your press release about his award,” Perla says, out of the blue. “Very good piece.”
“Thank you.” Note to self: she reads more than Instagram feeds.
“Sounds like things run smooth with him?”
“So far,” I say. “Tonight’s the only blip.”
She fiddles with a giant hoop earring. I know what she’s really asking, but nope. Not giving it to her. “Well, I think you good fit for Morgan. He need someone strong.”
“I have a lot of experience handling tough personalities.”
She shoots me an equally sly look. “Yes, I’m aware.”
I smile and rest a hand on her leg, girl code for we’re cool. “Thank you for driving me. I appreciate it.”
“Welcome.” She touches up her askew wig, clearly not ready for female bonding. Not with me, anyway. But like I said, sometimes all it takes is one person. “So you know,” she continues. “Nothing happen with Morgan and me. I mean, yes, I like him, but sometimes not meant to be. He was drunk and not good mood at party… I offer drive him home. One kiss. That all.”
She shrugs it off, but I know it’s not easy, admitting defeat to the competition. I’ve been there.
“I’m sure he appreciated the gesture,” I say, gently.
Toying with her cocktail ring, she smiles, a little bittersweet, a little self-conscious.
And that’s how Monaco’s gossip queen and I bury our swords.
For now.
* * *
In my mind, I built Khaled into an imposing Middle Eastern figure. All-powerful, infused with centuries of male superiority, a permanent trench between blazing coal eyes. Instead, a man shorter than June rushes through the emergency doors, looking more like a lost trick-or-treater in a ghost costume two sizes too big.
Morgan’s right behind him, the worry in his face retreating when I approach him. He embraces me hard, our collective anxiousness draining away in a small gesture of comfort.
“What a fright for you,” he says, talking into my hair. “You’re okay?”
“Yes. A little rattled.”
“Morgan!” Khaled waves him over. “Can you help translate?”
“It’s Prince Khaled, by the way,” Morgan whispers as we walk over. “He has some questions for you.”
Khaled wears the traditional white gown and headdress of Saudi men and nods politely but vacantly when introduced. He’s got other things on his mind and Morgan jumps in to translate French into English. Ayasha isn’t out of the weeds yet, but not in critical condition either. A doctor will arrive shortly to fill in the gaps. Visibly relieved, Khaled turns to me. Skin like leather, but no longer pinched with anguish, he lifts both hands into prayer position.
“I cannot thank you enough. My mother loves The Bay. Insists on staying there despite my wishes. Next time I’m keeping her with me.” He shakes his head and I guess parents are the same everywhere—frustrating their children. “Your act of kindness and fearlessness will be generously rewarded,” he adds.
“Oh god, no,” I say. “Please. I don’t need any reward. I did what any human would do.”
But Khaled’s having none of it and overrules me by addressing Morgan instead. “You and I will discuss how to handle this. I’m very sorry our evening was interrupted. It’s been a great pleasure getting to know you. And if this is the woman you mentioned,” he smiles at me, “your team is rock solid.”
At this point, the doctor on duty appears through a set of sliding doors. Bleary but poker-faced, blue scrubs stained with blood, he treks straight for us in his Air Jordans. Introduces himself as Dr. Broussard.
