As Dust Dances (Play On 2)

“Drop the martyr act, Skylar. We’re going to the hospital and that’s final.”

My breath caught.

“You can drop the fake British accent too. As good as it is.”

Disbelief made my head swim even more. “You know who I am?” I asked in my own accent.

“Almost from the first moment I heard you play.”

“H-how?”

“Music is my business. I know music. At one point Skyscraper were actively on the lookout for a band like Tellurian.” He referred to my band by name. “A social media phenomenon, a commercially successful teen pop-rock band with more substance than most and millions of teenage followers that would make us lots of money.”

“More substance than most?” Despite my current situation, I still had pride. It could still be pricked. Something he had a knack for, it seemed.

“You. You were the substance. You have a four-octave range. Rolling Stone magazine once named you in the top ten greatest singers of the twenty-first century. They never once named your band in the top ten greatest bands of the twenty-first century, mind you. Too many angsty, angry teen love songs to be truly respected. But you were, are, respected. Your talent is respected.” He shot me an assessing look. “And the industry has no idea about your songwriting abilities.”

“I wrote nearly all the songs for Tellurian,” I argued.

“Aye, but those songs are nothing like what I’ve heard you singing lately. The songs you’re writing now can make grown-ups feel, not just preteens who are sick of feeling invisible at school.”

“Wow, you’re really into that ‘hitting them when they’re down’ thing,” I said, disbelieving that he was talking to me about this while I was struggling to stay conscious. “Let me out of your fancy car, Nurse Ratched.”

He ignored me. “Why don’t you want to go to the hospital? Because you don’t want anyone to find you?”

“That, and my visitor visa expires in two weeks.”

“Do you have travel insurance?”

“No.” Even if I wanted to be fixed, I couldn’t afford it.

O’Dea sighed. “Well, we need to get that wrist seen to, no question about it. I’ll explain you’re my client here on business and that you got jumped by thugs. We’ll sort out the medical costs later.”

“I don’t want to be found.” The idea of Micah and the others finding me shoved me further toward passing out.

“We’ll also make sure they know how important your privacy is. Plus, I hate to burst your bubble but no one over thirty will know who you are.”

“Not true,” I muttered sullenly. “We had fans of all ages.”

“Mostly teens though. I know your demographic, Skylar. I researched you.”

I shrugged and then winced as pain radiated down my arm to my wrist.

O’Dea noticed and scowled. “Hospital.”

“And I have no say in this?” My voice sounded shrill with fear.

“You do realize you have a swollen eye, a swollen cheek, split lip, a possibly broken wrist, and some vile little fucker who will get his comeuppance just tried to rape you. But you got away. You’re made of stern stuff, Skylar, so buck up and start facing reality.” He raised an eyebrow at my visible indignation. “You can be pissed off at me all you want, but I’m trying to keep you awake by talking to you and it’s working. Now . . . are you going to pull on your big-girl panties or go back to making bad life decisions?”

I glared at him with my good eye. “Fine. Hospital. I’ll add it to the list to tell the doctor.”

“What?”

“Of injuries. Eye, ribs, wrist, and now this insistent, condescending pain in my ass.”

DESPITE SUGGESTING OTHERWISE, O’DEA MADE me tell the absolute truth about what happened. After an X-ray of my wrist, tests, and blood and urine samples, the hospital did call the police and I found myself explaining to two police officers that I had been sleeping rough in my tent in a cemetery. That the boys had followed me back there to steal my guitar. I gave more detail about the almost rape than I had to O’Dea, confused when he abruptly slammed out of the private room we were in.

“It’s only natural,” the female police officer, Officer Calton, said when she saw my bemused expression. “Your boyfriend will be feeling a different kind of anger than you are.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my . . .” I shrugged. “He’s trying to sign me to his record label.”

She nodded and then went on about numbers for a counselor. They finished up their questioning, said they’d check out the cemetery to see if my attacker “Johnny” was there. By the time I’d given them detailed descriptions of the boys, the doctor returned with X-rays of my wrist—it was fractured. He put it in a cast, something I knew would worry me in the morning, but I was so exhausted from the attack, my brain was too foggy to care. By that point O’Dea had returned, watching the process with a permanent dark scowl on his face.

The doctor stared at me with a furrowed brow. “Now that I know you’ve been sleeping in a tent, Skylar, I’m a little worried about your overall health. You’re slightly underweight and that might not be enough for concern normally, but considering how you’ve been living, I am concerned about possible malnourishment. I’m pushing your blood work through so we should get results in twenty-four hours. I’d feel better if we kept you here overnight and put you on a vitamin and hydration drip.”

Panic suffused me at the thought of being stuck in the hospital overnight. “I don’t need that. I’m fine, honest. I drink lots of water.”

“Do you have somewhere warm to stay tonight?”

“I’ll make sure my client has someplace safe to stay,” O’Dea chipped in and then proceeded to lie. “I had no idea she was homeless.”

The police took O’Dea’s number since I didn’t have one and told us they would be in touch. “Your guitar is one of a kind and the boys don’t know it. As soon as they try to sell it, it’ll make it easier to find them.”

I nodded, hoping I’d get my guitar back in one piece.

“And I’ll be in touch with your results,” the doctor said, still not pleased I’d refused to stay overnight. “We’ll talk.”

Once we got out of there, I was on pain meds and a little out of it as O’Dea drove us into the city. As my eyes drifted closed, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I mumbled.

“For not shaking your foolish head out of your arse and getting you off the streets. None of this would have happened if I’d tried harder.”

“I was warned,” I yawned. “They told me something like this could happen. I thought I knew better. I thought I was smarter than them.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. Can I just sleep first?”

He was silent a moment. Then, “Aye, Skylar, you can sleep first.”

My last thought before I drifted off was how strange and scary it was to be Skylar again.

* * *

PAIN.

It was the first thing I felt. Horrible, restless pain originating from my left wrist. The pain seeped into my subconscious and I floated out of a dreamless state. My eyes reluctantly tried to open and panic momentarily seized hold of me when my left one struggled with the action.

When my vision cleared and I took in the airy white room around me, I grew more alarmed and scrambled upwards in the bed I was in, only to cry out when I pressed down on my left hand. I raised it, everything coming back to me as I saw the cast around my wrist.

I was attacked last night.

It hadn’t been a dream.

Images of Johnny bearing down on me, his spittle hitting my face, made my chest constrict with anxiety. I shook my head, trying to shake out the memory, reminding myself I was safe.

My head throbbed, the ache no doubt coming from my swollen eye. Glancing around, my head felt heavy on my shoulders. I was in a bedroom. The walls were white, the carpet a soft gray. Gray curtains were drawn across the window and the bed covers were a soft gray too. The only color in the room was in a beautiful, somewhat abstract, framed print of a pretty girl’s face. The artist had painted the lines and motifs that framed her face in hot pinks and turquoise.