Surge

18

I sat at my desk,worried sick. Drake’s face had never been so dull, so lackluster. His skin had always glowed and reminded me of the soothing golden undertones of a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil. His skin usually made me feel like I was on vacation all the time.

In the past few weeks, he’d grown gray underneath, and even though his attitude and outlook seemed to be as optimistic as ever, it was impossible not to worry that he’d just been putting on a brave face. Today, he looked worse than ever.

Maybe that was to be expected. Maybe it was true. Maybe it was always darkest before the dawn.

Still, as I sat at my desk, I couldn’t seem to convince myself that his skin tone was normal. Because it wasn’t just him. His palm had been cold and clammy when I’d held it. This was ruining him. So glad it was nearly over.

I shook my head, hoping some of the worry might tumble out of my ears, and tried to get back to work. It was a near impossible task knowing that behind closed doors only fifty feet away from me, a man I wanted to stab sat near the love of my life. It sucked that Hunter was on the case. I wasn’t the type to hire a hit man. I wanted to take the blow myself.

It’d been hard to press Drake and Hunter to drop a countersuit. But one thing I’d learned from Drake, a lesson worth living, was that anger probably hurts you more than anyone. In the dark of the night, while you seethed and struggled with anxiety as anger strangled the sandman, your worst enemy was likely sleeping like a baby.

I typed the first line of an email to a client. Reread it and realized I had the name of the contact and address mixed up. Shit. Drake wasn’t the only one who needed this all over and done with to get their career back on track.

I’d just started to concentrate when I heard a door fling open.

Hunter’s voice was loud and indiscreet. “Mandy! Mandy!”

He tried to get the receptionist’s attention.

Her head popped over the parapet made of cubicle dividers as she stood to attention.

Hunter’s hand flailed in the air. “Call nine-one-one. Now.”

“Wha…?”

“Just. Do it…” He came thundering out of the room toward her desk.

It was hard to make out from the distance what he said to Mandy, but I made out the only word that mattered: Drake.

Immediately, I shot up. I didn’t care about confidentiality. I didn’t care that I might embarrass myself if he’d actually said ‘make’ and not Drake. I rushed over to the Beacon Hill room and stopped dead in the doorway.

Drake was on the floor. Jacinta was next to him and had propped his head up with a briefcase.

“Oh my God…” I went to Drake’s side, falling to my knees. Thank fuck. His eyes were open. He was breathing but mostly kept his eyes shut.

Jacinta threw me an expression, no, a message: Stay relaxed. Don’t freak out. Keep it together, woman. “He’s fine, Maeve. Just passed out. But he needs to see a doctor.” She spoke to Drake. “We need to just get you checked out. Make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“I’m fine.” Drake tried to sit up further, but some faintness or a dizziness seemed to force his head back to his makeshift pillow. “This is fucking embarrassing,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll go with you. We’ll play hooky together.” I glanced at Jacinta who nodded her verbal sign off.

Drake let out a weak laugh. “That makes it worth it then.”

I stroked his cheek and secured a smile on my lips so that anytime he opened his eyes he’d see it. This was worse than I’d thought. Anxiety had crippled him. It was killing him, and I’d taken his word for it that he’d be fine even though my instincts had said otherwise. I knew long ago he needed to see a doctor. When we got to the hospital, I’d make sure he forced him into therapy, or something, or a spa…

“You should lift his knees up…” a smooth, deep voice tumbled over my shoulder and into my ear.

In my moment of shock, I’d forgotten that Jason Fry was in the room. I actually didn’t know what he looked like. I’d spent an hour one night, way back, just after Uyu, scrolling the internet for an image of him. There weren’t many photos. Certainly not as many as you might expect from someone trying to be a celebrity. The few I’d seen, his head had been tilted down, concentrating on his instrument or turned away from the camera in a dramatic, artistic pose. Effectively, I’d never seen the guy.

Still kneeling next to Drake, I turned my head to face the man I once despised, but now, after this, was my fucking arch enemy. I expected to see the root of all evil. But on Jason’s face was unmistakable concern. Fear. His expression was one of distress and fret. As much as I hated him, he definitely didn’t hate Drake.

He repeated his suggestion. “Put his knees up. It helps with blood flow to the brain.”

After shooting him my most seething death stare, one I hoped he’d been able to interpret in that split second, I turned back to Drake and started to pull one of his knees up.

“Stop, Maeve. I’m not a fucking, baby. I just need to…” he paused, “…I just need to rest here for a minute. Just vertigo or something. Need to let it pass.”