“Good thing I don't have to point it out, then!” I yelled after her.
While I waited to be connected to Jessica's room,
I pondered the odd series of events that led to my mother babysitting her dead rival's youngest child. I hadn’t wanted to call Mom—I wasn't entirely insensitive. On that topic, anyway. And I hadn't been able to reach Laura. . . most likely because she was busy calling my mom. It sounded like they'd already had at least one conversation today, topic: Babyjon.
But it just wasn't safe around here for Babyjon right now. Shit, it wasn't safe for me. I'd take a lot of chances with my own safety, no problem.
But not Babyjon's, possibly the only baby, ever, who was going to be really mine.
Chapter 23
Some jerk of a male nurse wouldn't connect me (why oh why didn't my vampire mojo work over phone lines?), so I disobeyed Tina (hey, it was that kind of week), hopped in one of Sinclair's Volkswagens (my Ford was in the shop—it needed a new starter), and was at Minneapolis General in fifteen minutes. (One of the blessings of being undead? I never faced rush hour anymore.)
Sure, at 10:00 p.m. it was way past visiting hours, like I gave a rat fuck. Even when I was alive, I wouldn't have cared. Because I, Betsy Taylor, was. . . an ex-model!
The key to not getting kicked out of a given restricted area is to stride briskly and look like you have every right to be there. (I learned this my first week as a model. . . in fact, I got backstage passes to Aerosmith that way.) Being tall helped, too. And pretty.
Look, I've never made a secret of the fact that I was genetically blessed. To ignore said blessings would be like a great painter throwing away her brushes. Or Jessica not using any of her money just because she inherited it from her scumbag father. Why make life harder by not using what you had?
Anyway, I was striding down the hall toward Jessica's room, having made it past reception to the elevator bank, past several nurse's stations, and I was about thirty feet away from being home—
“Excuse me? Visiting hours are over.”
I turned and smiled. Visiting Hour Enforcer smiled back. My smile broadened when I noticed the lack of wedding ring on Nurse Guy's finger. He was a cutie, too—about five ten, curly black hair cut short, flawless dark skin the color of expensive coffee. Big, gorgeous dark eyes, the whites almost bluish with health. He smelled like cotton candy and French fries. Two of my favorites!
So we were grinning at each other like a couple of idiots, when I remembered I had a mission, and he remembered the same.
“Listen, sorry to be a dick, but visiting hours were over a while ago. But if you want to leave your phone number, I could call you when we're back up for guests.”
I laughed at his audacity. T. Starr, R.N., his name tag read. “I'm getting married in a few days, T. Starr,” I replied. “But that's the nicest offer I've had all week.”
“Nuts!” he said, snapping his fingers. “Guess my horoscope was wrong this morning.”
“Stick with the comics,” I advised him, then took off my sunglasses. I blinked painfully at the fluorescents, then caught his gaze and said, “I've got special privileges, T. Starr.”
“Yup.”
“I can come and go no matter how late it is.”
“Yep, you sure can.”
“Tell the charge nurse, will you?”
“I am the charge nurse.”
Finally, a break. “Well, spread the news, T. Starr. Betsy Taylor. Unlimited visiting privileges.”
“Yup, you can come and go whenever you want, everybody knows.”
“And you have a very nice evening.”
“No phone number?” I heard him ask mournfully, and I snickered. Even deep in the thrall of sinister vampire mojo, he was still trying to score. T. Starr was gonna go far.
I pushed open the door to Jessica's room, ignoring the soft sigh of the hydraulic hinges (or whatever made big doors wheeze like that), and stepped inside just in time to hear some pompous asshole say, “—really a very rare form of blood cancer. A fascinating case study, really.”
“No thanks,” Jessica said. Sighed, really. . . her normally strident tone of voice was running at about 15 percent.
“But if my colleagues could read about your case in J.A.M.A., they might be able to help others with your condition.”
I knew from my two-year stint as a medical secretary that J.A.M.A. was the Journal of the American Medical Association. J.A.M.A., along with the Lancet, were two of the biggies for docs to publish the weird and unusual.
“No thanks.”
“Really, Miss Watkins, you're being a little selfish, don't you think?”
A doctor couldn't write up a patient without his or her permission.
“Miss Watkins, don't you think?”
But they were supposed to ask. Not nag. Not guilt trip.
I opened my mouth to leap to Jessica's rescue, when the bathroom door slammed open and Detective Nick Berry snarled, “The lady said no, asshole. Take a walk.”
I was actually glad to see him, but had to wonder. . . when did he sleep? Or work? For that matter, how'd he keep getting up here?
“Detective Berry, it would be a pity to ban you from the floor. Your visits seem to have a positive effect on my patient.”
“No. . .”Jessica's voice was a thread. I could tell it hurt to talk. “Don't do that. . . maybe I could do the. . . the thing. . . ”
“Forget it, baby,” Nick told her.
“Yeah,” I said. I tried to slam the door behind me, but the damned thing just slid slowly shut on those whispery hinges. “Forget it, baby.”
From the way the men jumped (Jessica, obviously, didn't have the strength), I realized they hadn't known I was in the room.
And the dickhead bullying my best friend? When he wasn't flushed red to the eyebrows, he was probably almost normal-looking. Mussed brown hair, cut short. About my height, with bluish-green eyes and a truly heroic nose. Slump-shouldered and too thin for his height. Bony wrists sticking out of the lab coat. A full-on, grown-up geek. And let's not forget about that spectacular blush! I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or angry. I was hoping for embarrassed.
“Hey, shitstain, ever hear that no means no?”
“What are you people doing here after visiting hours?” B. McGill, M.D., Oncology, sputtered.
“Kicking your ass.” I crossed the room in a hurry—Nick had his gun out of his holster, guess I'd startled him, too—and picked B. McGill up. By his throat.
I won't lie. It felt gooooood.
“Don't. Bully. My friend. Ever. Ever! Again.” Each word was punctuated by a teeth-rattling shake. B. McGill's eyes were starting to roll like dice.
“Let go, Betsy, he's mine.”
“Back off, Nick. I’m starving .”
“Awwww.” Jessica smiled. “I hate it when Mom and Dad fight.”
“I can't let you commit felony assault on him, even if he's the biggest dick on the ward.”
“Nick? Sweetie? You couldn't stop me with flamethrower.”
“Rrraaggle,” B. McGill managed.
“Betsy. There are days when I almost don't hate you, so don't make me shoot you.”
“Oh, go ahead and shoot!” I snapped. “The way my week's going? You think I'm scared of your thirty-eight?” And what happened to his Sig? How many guns did the guy have, anyway?
“Kids, kids,” Jessica said.
“Gragggle.”
“Put him down! Now!”
“Make me.”
“Gggkkkk!”
“Kids?”
I heard the click as Nick cocked his gun. I could hear the bullet tumble into the chamber. The barrel looked really big. That was fine. Finally, a foe I could grapple with, a problem I could confront head on. Misplaced aggression, Sinclair whispered in my head, which was irritating. For an undead (possibly all-the-way dead) runaway groom, he had sure made himself at home in my brain.