Beyond Broken (4 page)

I cleared my throat and walked in. He opened his eyes slightly and watched me, but didn’t move.

“No guns,” I murmured as I reached out. “I’m going to take your pulse then your temperature, okay?”

“Fine. Do you have a knife?”

“No,” I said as I counted on my watch.
Still an erratic pulse.

“Sharp object?”

“I have nothing you can use to harm yourself, Mr. Bentley,” I responded with a professional demeanor, trying to be patient.

“Butter knife from the kitchen?” He opened his eyes and gave me a pleading expression.

“No, but thanks for the heads up. I’ll remove those, along with the forks. Anything else I should know about?” I stood and leaned back against the countertop.

“Shit,” he mumbled, then with lightning speed hauled himself to the toilet and dry heaved.

A basket of fresh towels and washcloths sat next to the sink. After selecting a washcloth, I ran it under the warm water. When he finished I handed it to him, watching his body tremble.

“Thanks,” he whispered as he wiped his mouth and face.

“When was the last time you ate anything, Mr. Bentley?”

“I don’t know.”

“Drank any water?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

“Just to throw it back up? Yeah, not a good idea.”

“Better than dry heaving. Your body will actually absorb some of it rather than cause you to become severely dehydrated.”

“Do you always have to have a smart answer for everything? Damn annoying,” he muttered resting his head against the toilet seat.

“No, not always.”

“I can’t wait to see that.”

“When did the vomiting start?” I asked, pulling out my temperature gage.

“I don’t know. Probably about two a.m. Sorry, but I didn’t keep track of how many times I lost it,” he replied in a sarcastic tone. “I fell asleep in the bathroom then hauled my ass to bed around seven. What time is it now?” He rubbed his face and gave me a bloodshot gaze.

“Eight-thirty.”

He groaned and clenched his stomach. I reached for a glass and filled it with lukewarm water. “I have an idea. I’m not sure it will work, but if it does you’ll be in better shape than you are now.” He didn’t respond, so I just left, and headed to the main cafeteria.

Sunshine poured through a bank of windows and splashed across the polished white tile of the cafeteria. Breakfast was over and the place was deserted, so it was easy to locate the condiment counter. I grabbed a handful of salt packets, knowing I probably wouldn’t need that many, but better safe than sorry.

“I’m coming in, Mr. Bentley,” I said as I entered his suite. He hadn’t moved from his earlier position, but his eyes opened slightly and watched me with a wary expression.

“What’s with the salt?” His voice was thick from exhaustion.

“Your current condition is a lot like the flu. An old trick is to drink salt water if you’ve been throwing up frequently. You’ll end up vomiting the salt water, but it will have balanced your stomach pH, and usually you won’t vomit again for a while, giving us a chance to hydrate you.” I shook the packet and emptied it into the water, swirling the cloudy liquid till it cleared.

“That’s your great idea?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“Yes. If it works, you can thank me later. If it doesn’t, then well, you’re no worse off, are you? In fact…” I handed him the glass and he stared at it dubiously. “…it will feel much better to actually vomit something rather than just wish you could.” I leaned back against the counter again and waited.

He took a little sip. “It tastes like shit.” He made a disgusted face.

“Most medicine does.”

“Fine.” He gave me an annoyed expression but drank the water, wincing the whole time.

He handed me the glass. “How long will it take?”

“My best guess is anywhere from five to thirty minutes.”

“In hell,” he mumbled. “Whatever you say, just add ‘in hell’ to the end of it. You know, like when you read a fortune cookie and you tag ‘in bed’ at the end. Only this is hell.”

“Or not.” I clicked on my iPad and began to enter in his current information.

“What. Is. Your. Problem?” He bit off each word.

“Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Treat you like a delicate doll and make a big scene over your aches and pains? What do you want me to do?” I asked, setting my iPad down and crossing my arms.

“I don’t need your sympathy.” A scowl darkened his features, giving him a menacing expression.

“I didn’t offer it.” I said, shrugging.

“Good. I don’t need anything from you, from anyone.” He sank against the side of the tub and heaved a large sigh.

“Okay. But—” I cut myself off. No good would come from my next words.

“But what?”

I could see he was eager for my words, wanting a chance to fight and be angry.

“Nothing. How are you feeling? Is the nausea beginning to—”

“What?” he shouted, throwing the washrag at the mirror directly behind me. It landed with a splat on the blue tile of the countertop. “Don’t sit there with your better-than-me shit and tell me it’s nothing. You have something to say, say it.”

His chest was heaving under his emotional outburst. His gaze was angry, but there was a vulnerable edge that confused me.

“Mr. Bentley—”

“Greyson,” he ground out as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Greyson…I, er, tend to speak without thinking. In this case, I actually stopped myself from speaking out of turn. I don’t know you or your history aside from what’s in your medical chart. I don’t know your personal struggles or what led you down the road that brought you, quite literally, to your knees. But I do know that you’re feeling sorry for yourself, and complaining about your situation will not benefit you or anyone else. You’re suffering, yes. But it’s a consequence of the choices you've made. And sadly, you’re paying dearly for making the wise choice and quitting the drugs, but that doesn’t eliminate the consequences for the poor choice you made in the first place to use them. For you to seem… surprised at your discomfort and pain is… surprising.” I released a deep breath and waited.

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes grew wide and rather he barely made it to the toilet before he lost all the salt water he had just drank. I took out a new washcloth, making a mental note to request more from housekeeping, and ran it under the warm water. I handed it to him again and he took it.

“Go,” he whispered.

“Away?” I finished.

He nodded, directing a hateful glower in my direction. “Now.”

With another shrug, I picked up my iPad, walked out of the bathroom and then out of the suite. Guilt washed over me. There had been no grace, no mercy in my words, but my head warred against my heart over what I should have done differently.

Greyson didn’t strike me as the type who was open to any opinion other than his own. Could I have been kinder? Definitely. But if I had, he likely wouldn’t have understood. Judging by his reaction, he comprehended what I said, but even more clearly, he didn’t appreciate it. I shook my head and went to attend my other patients, making a note to visit housekeeping and then check back with Greyson in a few hours.

****

Sometime later, I knocked on his door once more, hoping he had calmed down since our last encounter. “Hello? Mr.— er… Greyson?”

No answer. After opening the door slowly, I poked my head in and scanned the room. The housekeeping staff had cleaned it, and a light scent of lemon hung in the air. Greyson was sprawled out on his bed on his back with one foot hanging over the edge. The anger and tension in his expression were absent as he slept. Rather, while his jaw was covered in stubble, giving him a dark look, he appeared more relaxed and free. Covering my mouth, I stifled a chuckle at the odd way his dark brown hair stuck up in crazy directions. But nothing took away from the perfection of his face. In that moment I could almost imagine him whole, healed, and past the pain that gripped him so tightly.

“It’s not polite to stare,” he mumbled then rolled over. After blinking a few times, his gaze focused on me.

“I wasn’t staring, I was evaluating.”

“Do you ever switch off the ‘nurse’ button?” Blowing out a long slow breath he raised an eyebrow.

“When I’m at home.”

“Remind me to visit you there.”

“Remind me to never give you my address.”

At this he chuckled, the sound was deeply masculine and alluring. It caught me completely off guard.

“I knew I liked you.” He sat up in bed and stretched. His arms were long and lean, with several tribal tattoos covering his biceps. His stomach was tight with ridged muscle, and his shoulders bunched when he relaxed then rolled them. Averting my eyes, I pulled out my iPad, thankful for his surly demeanor and moody behavior. It was easier to be around him when the attitude overshadowed the perfect body.

“Thanks, by the way.” His soft words caught me off guard.

“For?” I glanced back to him. He was on his side, propped up by his elbow. A slight smile teased his full lips.

“The salt water worked. As much as I really hate to admit it.”

“You’re welcome.” My face heated and I glanced back down to my iPad. Blood roared in my ears blocking out the sound of him rising from bed.

“Taking notes on me?” His voice was close, too close and I glanced up into his eyes as they studied me.

“Yes, actually.” My heart jumped at the unfathomable emotions swirling in his eyes. I told myself it was because he startled me, nothing more.

“All the women do.” He winked and walked to the closet.

Cue attitude.
I was thankful for the remark as it eliminated any slight attraction I felt.

“Or so you think,” I responded with a grin.

“Or so
they
say.”

“Do you think you can stomach anything to eat? For sure you need to drink something.”

He began to take off his sweatpants and I quickly turned away, a blush heating my face.

“No food, yet. I’d kill for a Red Bull right now.”

“That’s a no on the Red Bull. How about water?” I offered, still turned away.

“You’re no fun.”

“I never said I was.”

“She has a point,” he mumbled. “You can turn your innocent little head around now. I’m decent.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon with your drink.”

“A nurse and a waitress.”

“An attitude and… wait. That’s all you’ve got,” I responded with a smile and walked away.

“Shit, I’ve got more than that!” Greyson called out just before the door closed behind me.

Chapter Three

When I got home that night, the first thing I did was grab my laptop.

“How was work?” Bekah asked as she plopped on the couch next to me, offering me a bag of chips.

“Interesting. Hey, have you ever heard of Greyson Bentley?” I asked carefully. I knew I couldn’t disclose to her who was under my care.

“Like, Greyson Bentley, the rich and famous one? Or the guy with the same name that works at Java Jumper down the street?” she asked, watching me curiously.

“The famous one…” I opened up my browser and began to type his name into the search engine.

“If you meet him, let him know I’m single.” She winked and got up, heading to her room.

Immediately my computer was overloaded with images of Greyson. I clicked on the Wikipedia link and began to read.

Greyson Smithsonian Bentley, CEO of Bentley International Transports and Jetliners.

Okay, that was not what I expected. Greyson, a CEO? I tried to wrap my head around it, the idea of Greyson in a power suit. The control idea was easy to grasp, but everything else, was just too much. I continued to read.

At the untimely death of his father,
Silas
Bentley, Greyson Bentley assumed control over the large international company. He has continued the legacy of his father by maintaining the profitability of the company with only one dramatic drop in stock prices over the course of five years.

As I continued to read I learned that Greyson wasn’t just a CEO of a major company, he was the stereotypical bad boy — or golden boy — however you chose to look at it. The social history included relationships with A list actresses and
Sports Illustrated
models, but there was no mention of his drug addiction.

Recently Greyson Bentley has taken a sabbatical from his CEO responsibilities in efforts to recuperate from a medical concern earlier in the year. He is expected to return in full capacity later this year. No other information was given by his publicist.

I sat back and closed my computer.
Huh.
A lot of it made sense. He did come across as the alpha male type. And both Regina and Dr. Solomon had warned me about creating any attachment. They probably didn’t want me getting my hopes up only to find out he had a supermodel girlfriend waiting for him after detox. It didn’t matter though. While Greyson was handsome and compelling, his type usually held no interest to me. For one, he thought far too highly of himself. He wasn’t the type to love a woman selflessly. In five years he had dated more women than I could count at a glance. That didn’t shout
popularity
to me; it shouted beware.

Maybe it was because I was raised away from pop culture, away from the way American media portrayed things, but the more I read and learned about popular culture in the United States, the more I was turned off by it. This was no exception.

As I readied for bed I said a prayer for Greyson. Clearly, he had a lot on his shoulders, and more than anything he needed a way to cope with it without killing himself in the process. Because in the end, cocaine would never be enough.

****

Housekeeping was constantly refreshing the supply of towels and washcloths in Greyson’s bathroom as he continued to suffer from the nausea and flu-like symptoms.

“I thought I was over this…why didn’t the salt water work this time?” he muttered from his prostrate position on the floor as I took his blood pressure.