Page 108 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I slid from the bed and wobbled on my feet.
Shelly snickered softly. “Nice ass.”
I waved my hand at her, leaving my hospital gown to gape open as I shuffled to the bathroom and shut the door. I only came in to use the toilet, but now that I was here, a shower seemed even nicer. I should probably have gone back to my own room, but walking was so hard today.
I stood under the hot spray for a long time. Just how big was the water heater of a hospital? It was a question that needed an answer, I decided. So I stood under the steamy spray even longer, letting the warmth seep into my bruises.
The hot water hadn’t run out when I heard voices murmuring outside. A knock sounded on the bathroom door. I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a thin towel small enough to be a hand towel for Colin.
Ah, my jailer, come to cart me back to my cell.
He stared at my body. His gaze lifted, paused, drifted down, then snapped up to my face. Red bloomed across his smooth cheeks when he saw me watching him.
“I, ah, Detective Cameron told me you were here,” he stammered. “And…I thought you might need this.” He waved a small brown bag, presumably containing a morning-after pill I didn’t need, but just as quickly withdrew, as if realizing the proximity of his hand to my almost naked body.
It was cute, really, but I yearned for Colin’s unshakeable composure. “Thank you. I’ll also probably need clothes.”
I took the bag from him. “Bye, Shelly.”
“Bye, hon.” She waved me away.
I walked through the hospital halls in the thin, short towel. My personal cop danced attendance behind me, making strangled sounds of protest at my state of undress.
Inside my room I paused, forcing myself to appear steady. A bag lay on the side table, one that hadn’t been there before. Rape Victim Advocates, it said. Gee, what rape victim wouldn’t want to carry this around? At least the puffy shape of the bag meant it contained clothes.
“Ask and you shall receive,” I said to him where he hovered at the open door. I held the bag up to show him.
His cheeks flaming red, he shut the door just before I let the towel drop.
I dressed in the oversize sweats from the bag, trying not to let the memories take me. My little therapy session with the good detective had helped, but it wasn’t magic.
After a meek knock, the cop outside my room, still looking a tad pink, informed me I was to be released. A credible witness had come forward and accounted for my whereabouts in the hours before the blast, though not directly during, which means I likely did not set up the explosion. I refrained from saying I’d already told them that, because it appeared that credible meant someone not affiliated with Philip.
Linda wrapped me in a big bear hug before I could even process her appearance. Her perfume gripped my lungs in a vise even as her arms squeezed my body, but I welcomed it all. When she finally pulled back, I gasped. And then coughed as I inhaled a fog of perfume.
She wore a wine-colored suit with a rose-blush blouse and matching heels. Her hair had been pulled back into some sort of updo and topped with a maroon cap. Between her clothes and her makeup, she exuded glamour, like some sort of old-fashioned movie star.
“You look fabulous,” I said. “Don’t tell me you got all dolled up for me.”
“Of course not,” she said as she ushered me down the hallway. She lowered her voice as if to impart a secret. “It’s the policemen, dear. I know it goes against all those liberation ideas you young girls have, but sometimes you have to work what you got.”
Linked arm in arm, we took the elevator down. “How did you know to come get me?”
“A little birdie called and told me to go down to the station and make a statement. He told me who to talk to, what to say, and he was very specific. After that I came here to bring you home.”
A little birdie named Detective Cameron was my guess.
The sliding doors opened, and we entered the parking lot. Her necklace glinted in the sunlight, almost blinding me. “Are those real diamonds?” I asked, gawking at the rocks the size of dimes.
“Of course,” she said. “I told you William did well doing elevator service. When he died, his company had contracts with all the big skyscraper buildings and just a whole bunch of employees. I sold it then, of course, but he did real well for himself, he did.”
I could only laugh at that. Done well, my ass. Maybe it was, like she’d said, a happy story after all.
On the ride home Linda said, “Let me tell you a story.”
I shot her a dubious look.
“Now, now,” she said. “Don’t you worry. This story does have a happy ending. It’s not even a real story, it’s made-up. Like a fairy tale, only shorter.”
