The General (Professionals 4)

“What time is it?” she mumbled, her fingers tracing over my chest.

“Ah… ten.”

“Ten?” she shrieked, shooting upward, eyes suddenly fully awake, almost frantic. “I have to go,” she added, reaching across the bed to snag the sweatshirt, dragging it over her head to hide her body as she gracelessly tried to untangle herself from the sheets.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up, fetching the boxers off the floor, figuring that was what she was looking for.

“I have to go. I have… a standing appointment,” she said cryptically, hopping off the bed, making a mad dash for the bathroom where she snagged mouthwash from under the sink, swishing it around as she tried to finger-comb some order into her hair.

“Jenny, what appointment? We can just call, say you’re running late.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she insisted, finding her dress on a hook behind the door, shucking off the boxers to pull black material up her thighs, turning her back to me as she yanked off her sweatshirt, dropping it to the floor.

Her hands went behind her, desperately trying to grab her zipper, making me step forward, grabbing it, slowly pulling it into place.

“Okay. We’ll go,” I told her, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “Give me two minutes,” I added, going back into the bedroom to throw some clothes on, not sure what had her in such a freakout.

By the time I got dressed and brushed my teeth, she was in her heels and jacket, waiting restlessly by the door.

“I didn’t get a chance to shovel,” I warned her, “so just hold onto me. I don’t want you falling because of those icepick heels you’re walking on,” I told her, locking the door, leading her to her car. “No, let me drive,” I said when she tried to go toward the driver’s side. “You’re worked up, and this car is going to slip all over the place on the way out of this drive. Just give me a destination. I will get you there as quickly as is safe,” I assured her as she reluctantly got into the passenger seat of her own car.

“Jackson Rehabilitation Hospital,” she told me, making my gaze shoot in her direction.

But she didn’t want to talk about it.

Her gaze was fixed out the windshield, her eyes far away, her teeth nipping her lower lip, a nervous habit I had never seen before, something Teddy and the senator had likely broken her off all the years they controlled her. But just away from them for a few weeks, she was slipping into old habits.

And while I didn’t like the idea of her being nervous, I liked that she felt free to show that she was.

So I left her to her thoughts as I focused on not sending us flying into a tree on the snow that was slushy and slippery, making the back tires of her luxury crossover fishtail if I went over ten miles an hour.

It felt like ages before we reemerged to the main drag, turning the car toward the parkway, and going a bit over the speed limit in the hopes that she would feel better as we got close.

I could barely get the car into a space and cut the engine before she was out the door, walking too quickly in those stilts, making me jog to catch up, snagging her elbow gently, but firmly enough to make sure she didn’t end up flat on her face on the choppy concrete and rock salt.

I didn’t know what the Jackson Rehabilitation Hospital was. But any ideas of it being rehab slipped away when we went inside and the security was lax, no one trying to keep junkies or drunks inside like they were court appointed to do.

It was just like any other hospital.

“Mrs. Ericsson,” the kindly nurse in light blue greeted her when she walked up to sign in. “We were worried you weren’t going to make it today. Of course, everyone would have understood,” she added, giving her an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Did I miss him?”

“No. He just went in actually.”

“Good,” she said, turning, rushing away from me.

“Wait,” the nurse said, stopping me. “You need to sign in too.”

I looked down at the form, seeing I was supposed to put my name and the name of the person I was visiting, but Jenny’s writing was so fast and frantic that I could barely make anything out.

“I’m Mrs. Ericsson’s security detail. I’m afraid she forgot to tell me who we are here visiting.”

“Security. Of course. Of course. She’s visiting Bobby Eames,” she supplied in a low voice, knowing she wasn’t supposed to, but doing me – and Jenny – a solid.

“Thank you,” I said, filling the form in.

“Room ten. All the way at the end of the hall,” she told me before dismissing me to answer the phone.