“What about your leg? And your arm?” Hurley asks me, his eyes narrowing.
I look down and see several scrapes covered with dried blood. “I fell and bashed my shin and elbow. But that happened before David ever showed up.”
Hurley seems to weigh the facts for several seconds, then sighs heavily. “You got lucky this time, Doc,” he says bitterly. “But I think you should leave.”
“Why should I leave? Who the hell invited you here?” David snaps.
Hurley glowers at him and I’m afraid things are going to get messy soon if I don’t do something. “David, please go,” I say.
He stares at me in disbelief.
“You heard the lady,” Hurley growls.
David hangs his head for a second, then moves toward the door, which is still open. Hurley steps in behind him and at that moment, I see Rubbish standing just inside the threshold, staring out at the rain. At the sound of the two men moving toward him, he startles, arches his back, and runs outside. Before I can react, the two men step out onto the porch and Hurley pulls the door closed behind him.
I rush over and look out through the window. I don’t see Rubbish anywhere but the two men are standing on the porch, face to face, their fists clenched at their sides. I can hear Hurley’s booming voice over the constant thrum of the rain but I can’t make out any words. I watch the two of them, transfixed by this standoff at the Testosterone Corral, until David turns and stomps off into the night. Hurley watches him get in his car, start it up, and drive away before turning back toward the door.
His face looks as dark and thunderous as the weather outside but when he sees me peering out at him through the window, his expression softens, making my heart do a little flip-flop. I open the door and he comes in, gently pushing me to one side so he can shut the door behind him. He leans against the wall, his flashlight aimed at the floor, his eyes regarding me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“A plunger?” he says finally, cocking one eyebrow. “You hit him with a toilet plunger? What were you trying to do, flush him out?”
Despite the tension I feel, I laugh. Hurley laughs, too, and I am amazed at how it transforms his face.
“Hey, any weapon in a pinch,” I say stupidly.
He walks over, brushes aside the hair on my forehead, and shines his flashlight on my gash. He is so close to me, I can feel heat radiating off his body in a cloud of steam. I realize he is soaked to the bone, his jeans dripping wet as a puddle forms at his feet. And the idea of suggesting he get out of those jeans flashes through my mind.
The rest of me may be in shock, but my hormones are working just fine.
“I think you’re going to need some stitches,” he says. He walks into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a towel, which he uses to dab at the wound. “Want me to drive you to the ER?”
I nod. At the moment, I’d let him drive me pretty much anywhere. “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Checking up on me?”
“Actually, it’s your ex I’m checking up on. I followed him when he left the little hospital soirée and after a few blocks I guessed he was heading home. But then I saw him turn in here and got curious.” He pauses and gives me a sheepish look. “I confess,” he says, “I was trying to peek in through your windows but it was too dark to see anything. And then I heard you scream. When I opened the door I saw the two of you struggling and saw the torn stockings on the floor, the rip in your dress, your banged-up knees and that gash on your head…”
“And you thought he tried to rape me,” I conclude. Now that I am seeing it from Hurley’s perspective, it all makes sense. Inexplicably, I feel a bubble of laughter build deep in my stomach. I fight like hell to keep it there, but it bursts out of me anyway. It has a brittle, demented sound to it and seconds later I start to sob. Hurley’s expression as he watches this little Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde routine goes from startled to horrified, and then to something solicitous and tender that makes my toes tingle and my blood flow hot.
I suspect that when it comes to Hurley, my hormones are like a cockroach. Even a nuclear holocaust won’t keep them down.
Chapter 20
I change out of what’s left of my dress and slip on jeans and a sweater. I towel-dry my hair, run a comb through it, and then pull it into a ponytail—even Barbara’s magical ministrations can’t rescue it now. I’m putting on my jacket when I remember Rubbish.
“Oh, no!”
“What?” Hurley looks instantly tense as I run to the front door and pull it open. He follows me, asking, “What?” about three more times before his finely honed detective mind figures it out after watching me yell, “Here, kitty, kitty,” into the driving wind and rain. I’m heading into the woods when he grabs my arm.
“Come on,” he says. “You need to get to the ER and have that cut looked at. It’s bleeding again. I’m sure the cat will be okay.”
“He will not be okay,” I yell back, shaking my arm loose from his grip. “And he’s not a cat, he’s a kitten. He’s tiny and he’s too young to be out in something like this. Plus, he hasn’t lived here very long. He doesn’t know his way around.”
I’m close to tears again, which apparently scares Hurley enough that he decides to help me look. But after half an hour of fruitless searching, I finally give in. Since I’m soaked, I change my clothes again, drying off as best I can. But even after donning a shirt and two sweaters, I still feel chilled to the bone. By the time I’m ready to leave, my teeth are chattering, partly from the damp cold and partly from the leftover adrenaline I have running around inside me. Hurley takes one look at me and disappears into my bedroom, reappearing a moment later with a blanket from my bed. He drapes it gently around my shoulders and then steers me out to his car.
The ride to the ER is a quiet one, at least in terms of conversation. The rain and thunder are too loud for normal talk, and given the way my teeth are chattering, I’ll be hard-pressed to say anything that doesn’t sound like a stutter from an evilly possessed typewriter.
At the hospital, Hurley pulls up by the ER entrance and escorts me inside, maintaining a light touch on my elbow. Halfway there I begin to feel a little woozy and I let my imagination go Victorian, imagining what would happen if I fainted. My eyes would flutter and I’d let forth with a dainty little whimper just before my knees give way. Hurley, warned by my delicate utterance, would catch me in his big, strong arms and hold me until…
Reality kicks in and my fantasy evaporates as I realize that my weight would likely be enough to break Hurley’s arms or, at the very least, send us both crashing to the ground. That whole fainting scenario is the sole property of those genetically lucky women who shop at the five-seven-nine shops. It doesn’t work well for someone like me, who makes sure to remove every stitch of clothing and jewelry, take in no food or water, and empty my bladder before getting on the scale each morning. Though actually, when I’m truly depressed, I’ll spend a few days weighing with my clothes on, rationalizing in my mind that it isn’t really that bad. Two socks, a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and underwear must weigh at least…oh…eighteen pounds or so, right?
Fortunately I make it inside the ER without keeling over. The fact that I once worked here expedites my admission. The registration clerk lets me go on back right away, asking only for my driver’s license so she can make sure the information in the computer is correct. I look to see if Hurley is impressed by this VIP treatment, but all he does is wave me on, take a cell phone out of his pocket, and mumble something about needing to make a call.