"I think I'll manage." The nurse gave me a gentle pat on the arm to let me know she was finished. I stood up tentatively.
My equilibrium was still off, and I had to lean on Curt for support. "You think this kind of thing ever happened to
Woodward?"
"Not unless Bernstein got frisky with a tire iron. Besides, shadowy parking lots are much safer than the gutters you go digging in. But, hey, Amanda's waiting for you outside," he said. "I swear, that girl gains Hulk-like strength when she needs it. They practically had to handcuff her to the bench to keep her in the waiting room."
"I don't know if I can see her," I said. "Not like this."
"Shut the hell up," Curt snapped. "You still have your hand
'cause of that girl. That shit happened to me I'd be writing parking tickets with a hook. Get your ass out there. Give her a hug. Let her know her big stupid boyfriend appreciates the fact that in a few weeks he'll be able to cop a feel with both hands."
"I got it, now give me a hand."
I wrapped an arm around Curt's shoulder as he led me through the bright white corridors, navigating me around corners and blue-robed doctors until we reached the waiting room.
"I can stand," I said. Curt moved away, then opened the door.
Amanda was sitting in the waiting room, tucked into a beige chair, her feet tapping relentlessly. As soon as she saw me she leapt up, ran over and threw her arms around me. I winced as the blood flowed to my head, but I wrapped my good arm around her and squeezed as hard as I could.
"I'm tired of you being unconscious," she whispered into my ear. I could hear the pain and relief in her voice. I wanted to find the man who'd done this, who made Amanda feel this way.
"I'm okay," I said. "A little banged up. And I might need you to open my soda cans for a few weeks."
"Not a problem," she said. Amanda unwrapped herself and stepped back, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her eyes were red, a clump of tissues falling from her hand. "Let's go home."
I said goodbye to Curt and thanked him for his help. He told me he'd give me a call in a few hours to make sure my brain hadn't started leaking out of my ears. Nothing like a good friend to help cheer you up when you're in pain.
We hailed a cab outside the emergency room of New
York/Columbia Presbyterian hospital. Amanda helped me inside, as I made sure not to grip anything with my maimed appendage. When we pulled up to our apartment, Amanda again held the door and pulled me out of the cab. She paid and all but carried me upstairs.
I fell into the couch as Amanda took off her coat and hung it up. I took deep, slow breaths, closed my eyes, smelled something sweet. There was a mess of dried blood congealed by the radiator along with the twine Amanda had cut from my wrists. She saw what I was looking at and said, "I didn't have time to clean up. I called an ambulance as soon as I found you."
She was standing over me, her face a mess of confusion, fear and relief. "That's the second time you saved me," I said.
"Or is it the third?"
"I don't care," Amanda said, leaning down. Her hands rested on my thighs, sending waves of electricity up my body.
"I'm sorry for leaving the other night. But when I saw you and Mya outside, I-"
"Stop," I said. "You don't have to explain anything." I wanted to stroke her hair with both hands, to hold her face with unscarred palms. "About Mya, it was nothing, it…"
"Stop. I don't want to talk about her. Not now, not ever."
I nodded. She was still wearing her work clothes-a smart black skirt, a white blouse under a fitted black vest. I remembered the first time I met her-Amanda sitting in her car, wearing a simple tank top fit to her toned body, the floor of her Toyota strewn with empty fast-food wrappers. There weren't many girls like her, who could look stunning both in elegant work clothes and pajamas. Who looked beautiful when they tried, and even more so when they didn't.
I mustered up some strength, leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. She was slightly surprised, but after a moment she pressed back hard. I could taste her strawberry lip gloss, felt her hand as it came up to cradle my face. The throbbing in my head and my hand quieted to a dull ache as
Amanda straddled my legs, supported her body against my chest and kissed me harder and more passionately than she had in a long time.
Adrenaline began to kick in, and keeping my injured hand to the side I began to slide my good hand along her body. Up her side, across her chest, between her breasts. I felt her heart beating faster, her breath quickening. She ground against me, started to kiss my neck. I brought my right hand up, careful not to flex it too much, but Amanda took it and held it against the sofa.
"This stays here," she said between ragged breaths. She raised her arms and eased off her vest. I eased off her blouse with my good hand, pressed my palm against her bare skin, ran it up toward her bra, then underneath, cupping her warm breasts in my hand. Amanda sighed, reached behind and unhooked the clasp, letting the clothing fall free.
She stood up, giving me a moment to gaze at her body. A moment later my pants and her skirt were undone and she managed to slip off my boxers. Amanda eased on top of me again until I was inside of her. We both groaned and began to move back and forth, up and down.
"I want to be so close to you." She sighed, her movements growing faster and faster. "I love you, Henry."
"I love you, too," I managed to gasp, as we rocked violently for another minute before collapsing onto the couch,
Amanda's sweat-glistened body rising and falling against mine. Our lips found each other one more time, and then we fell asleep intertwined, as all the pain faded away.
34
Jack O'Donnell sat at his keyboard, fingers flying as he typed away on the only story that currently mattered to him.
When he told Wallace he was going to write it for the
Gazette- they had to cover it, after all, as the crime was committed by a man who'd already killed four people-there was no argument, only a solemn nod and an assumption that the most accurate and unbiased story would be written. Wallace did point out that the Gazette would have an exclusive-the only paper in town to interview the victim, Henry Parker. All the other news organizations would simply have to credit
Jack's piece when they quoted from it.
Jack had arrived at the hospital less than ten minutes after the ambulance arrived with Henry. He'd watched them unload the stretcher. He saw Amanda leap out, doing her best to hold back tears. Jack offered a terse hello, then asked how Henry was doing. She said they didn't know, that he needed a CAT scan and that his hand was hurt something bad. Amanda looked at Jack in a way that made his stomach feel hollow, like somehow he'd been responsible for the attack.
He waited as they made sure there was no cranial bleeding, no fractures. When the tests confirmed a grade one concussion Jack sighed in relief, said goodbye to Amanda, and left.
He went straight back to the office, locked himself in a conference room, pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and drank until his eyes were ruddy and the tears of frustration were sufficiently dammed up.
A year ago, when Henry had recovered after being shot,
Jack had viewed him merely as a young reporter with potential. It was a professional relationship, nothing more, one that could be severed at any time for a multitude of reasons. Over the past twelve months, however, Henry had become more.
For a man in his sixties who hadn't spoken to his own offspring in more than a decade, Henry Parker was the closest thing to a son Jack O'Donnell had ever known.
Jack was a legend. He knew this, but did not brandish his legacy like some vulgar bayonet. Instead he cloaked himself in it, remembered it every time he began a story, every time he followed a lead. Jack had torn through three marriages because he simply could not perform the duties most women expected of a husband. He would not come home when they pleased. He would not offer comfort or solace with any regularity. He stayed out late, drank often, was surly and emotionless depending on how a story was evolving. Every relationship was a bell curve.