Vale
While I did indeed get eight pure hours of sleep last night, I'm still exhausted. It clearly wasn't enough to catch up on all of the late nights and early mornings I've been suffering through the past few weeks. Still, I went to sleep with a smile on my face last night after Hawke and I had dinner together. It was nice.
Casual.
Fun.
When he first sat down at my table, there was a fleeting moment of awkwardness, and then it was gone as soon as he apologized for what happened at the party. In hindsight, I'm not sure I wanted him to be regretful over what happened in the bathroom, but it was a bit of a balm to know that he seemed truly sorry for making waves with Todd and me. It showed me that despite the anger and secrets and blame, Hawke still has feelings for me.
As I clearly still have feelings for him.
That became evident to me when Todd proposed. While my initial reaction was a general rebellion against the notion of a lifetime with Todd, it was quickly followed with a sad yearning for what I had lost with the man I thought I was supposed to be with the rest of my life.
It was even more evident, and not in a good way, when I woke up this morning in my Chicago hotel room all squirmy with frustration because of a dirty dream I had about Hawke. Call it guilt over showing him my cover-up tattoo job, or the way in which I can all too clearly remember how much I wanted him to touch me in that bathroom, but I dreamt of the night I got his name etched into my inner thigh to be held for all eternity.
We practically tumbled into our apartment. We were drunk, a little stoned, and had just come home from the tattoo shop. Our hands were all over each other, tearing at clothes, deep wet kisses punctuated with groans.
We stumbled into the bedroom, completely naked by the time we fell to the mattress. Well, almost completely naked. I had a sterile pad held in place over Hawke's name with medical tape. He had a matching pad on his right hip, where he had tattooed VALE in a flowing script of dark green ink.
Then he was in me, careful of our bandages, and kissing me hard the entire time.
Hawke and I had sex--and I mean a lot--those first few months after I turned eighteen. But that night was different, almost desperate. What made it so hot, and I'm sure the reason for it infiltrating my dreams, is the way he was so possessive of me. Carefully cradling that leg in the crook of his elbow while he pummeled into me with smooth strokes, he lifted his face and with glittering eyes said, "Need to see it."
"What," I had moaned as he hit me especially deep.
"My name. On you."
He reared up, still seated to the hilt, and carefully peeled the bandage off. Then with the same care, if not more, he held my leg up and out while he fucked me, looking at his name on my tender skin the entire time.
It was the most erotic thing I had ever experienced in my young life, and I was so sure, in that moment, that we were meant for each other forever.
I brooded about that dream the entire flight from Chicago back to Raleigh. When we landed, I called Dad to let him know I was back, but he didn't answer the phone. He's been tiring out quickly since the virus injection so I assumed he was napping.
The rest of the day was spent at the arena, where I did some training with Max and then helped Goose reorganize supplies, but by three p.m. we were out of work to do and I was told to go home. I hadn't seen Hawke since dinner the night before, but I sure was thinking about him, much to my chagrin.
With no training appointments at Xtreme Fit, I'm actually looking forward to a quiet afternoon at home with Dad, and looking forward even more to another full night of sleep before getting back to double duty the next day. I think I'll make spaghetti for us tonight. It's his favorite and it's easy. I could do without the carbs, but with as busy as I've been, they'll get burned up quickly.
When I unlock the door and open it, I'm hit with eerie quiet. The living room is empty and dark, so I turn on one of the floor lamps by Dad's recliner. He must be napping in his bedroom, which is odd, because he normally lives in that damn recliner. He says he doesn't feel like such a wimp in it.
With quiet stealth, I head to the kitchen and dump my purse on the scarred, wooden table that we moved from my small house in Columbus. I had found it at a garage sale a few years ago and I loved the charming farmhouse style. It takes me only a few minutes to pull some hamburger out of the freezer to thaw and cans of sauce that I lay on the counter before I decide to go check on Dad.
His bedroom door is open and when I spot him on his bed, I know immediately something is wrong. My father is a portly fellow and he's a back sleeper, two factors that cause his chest to heave deep in slumber and usually with a resounding snore. It's way too quiet and he's on his side, his back to me.
Absolute terror seizes my body and my heart seems to thud to a dead halt. Then a rush of adrenaline spikes and I reach his bed with a few quick steps. With my hand to his shoulder, I whisper, "Dad?"
I'm immediately relieved when I feel warmth radiating from underneath his white cotton T-shirt and his body jerks from my touch. He lifts his head from the pillow, tries to angle his face toward me, and mutters, "Vale?"
His voice is hoarse and my hand immediately goes to his forehead. It's so hot that fear jolts through me again.
Dad rolls to his back and looks at me blearily. "Hey, honey. I had a headache and was just taking a little nap."
"You're burning up," I tell him as I lift my hand from him, turn it, and place the back against his cheek. Just as hot. "Are you sick? Maybe flu or something?"
"No," he says as he shakes his head and then winces. "I just have a really bad headache. Little nauseous, I guess."
Dave Campbell may be portly, but he's still a strong man. He hauls himself up so he can lean back against the pillows and headboard. His hand gingerly rubs against the side of his head where I assume he's hurting.
"Let me get the thermometer and some Tylenol. Some ice water too," I say as I turn from him, only to have his hand come to rest on my forearm.
"No, I'm good. It's time to get up anyway. I'll come out there."
"Okay," I say guardedly. The fever is freaking me out a bit. "But straight to your recliner. I was going to make spaghetti tonight, but I'm thinking some good old chicken noodle soup. What do you think?"
Dad chuckles then winces again. "Sounds good, honey."
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, puts his hands on the mattress, and pushes himself up. I want to put my arms around his waist to steady him, but I know he wouldn't like that. He gives me a wink as he stands straight, and the pressure in my chest seems to lessen a bit. He looks strong and lucid.
I watch keenly as he takes a step forward, a smile of relief gracing my face.
Then I watch as his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he drops to the floor.
--
My hands are shaking when I dial Hawke. They hadn't been shaking in the past fifteen minutes, but they're sure as shit quaking now. He answers on the second ring.
"Hawke." My voice is piteous, trembling, and weak.
"Vale? What's wrong?" he asks urgently. He can tell something is definitely wrong.
"It's my dad. He's got a fever and he had a seizure."
"Where are you?" I can hear rustling, maybe a drawer sla
mming.
"At our apartment. The EMTs are here. He's conscious, has a really bad headache. They're getting him on the stretcher now."
Fifteen minutes ago, my dad's eyes rolled and his body dropped dead weight. He landed on his side and immediately started convulsing. If ever there was a time I was grateful for my training, it was then. I fell to my knees, held him lightly to keep him on his side should he vomit, and I rode it out. I even had the sense to look at my watch and time the seizure.
Sixty-seven seconds of pure hell and torture.
When his body relaxed and his eyes started to flutter open, I was already on the phone calling 911. Ordinarily, a single-episode seizure may not warrant an ambulance trip to the hospital, but my dad is no ordinary person. He has a brain tumor and an active, live virus attempting to do battle with it. His poor brain is the battlefield, the enemies fighting without regard for the tender tissue surrounding them.
I was cool, calm, and collected. I attended to my father as only a daughter with medical training can do. I kept him assured, watched him carefully, and only left his side to unlock the door when the EMTs arrived. I efficiently filled them in on his medical history, and I even shot off a quick email to Dr. Furhman, his oncologist at Duke. I did all of this without a single quake in my body.
But the minute they started loading him onto the stretcher, an almost shattering weakness gripped my body and I felt my knees buckle. I was fortuitously standing at the foot of Dad's bed and I sat down on it hard and heavy. My hands immediately started shaking, and I thought to myself, I can't do this. I can't just sit by and watch my dad possibly die.
My hands automatically worked to dial Hawke, the one and only person I thought to call.
"Where are they taking him?" Hawke says, and I hear the jingle of car keys.
"To Duke," I whisper. "I've emailed his oncologist."
"Ride in the ambulance with him," Hawke orders me, and I hear the opening and closing of a car door. "Don't you dare get in your car."
As if I'd leave my dad's side, but I understand what he's saying. He can tell by my tone of voice and the mere fact that I reached out to him that I'm in no shape to be driving a car.