“No, I guess not.”
“Were the driver’s pants open while your head was on his lap?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“You asked, she answered,” Gina’s attorney warned. “Move on.”
“Fine.”
By that point, I was so pissed off that none of this had to do with the type of treatment she received, that my knuckles were turning white keeping my hands folded. Where were the questions relevant to the woman’s medical care, for Christ’s sake?
“For the record, what was the name of the driver whose lap your head was on—with or without his pants being open?”
The woman whimpered, causing me to look up. Tears were streaming down her red face, and she was doing her best to keep control. She looked distraught and our eyes caught as she spoke. “Ben. Benjamin Valentine.”
The door lock clanked closed. Too exhausted to even turn over and see who was there, I assumed it was a fellow resident coming in to get some sleep. Until lips met the back of my neck. Even if I hadn’t known Bridget’s touch, I was like Pavlov to her smell. Only this dog wasn’t ready to face his master quite yet.
Taking the cowardly way out, I pretended to be asleep. She wasn’t on the schedule for a shift this morning, so I wondered if they called her in because someone called out sick. For a few minutes, I listened as she tiptoed around the dark room and then she brushed her lips on my cheek.
I waited until the door opened and closed to roll over. There was a small nightstand next to the bed I was pretending to be asleep in. Bridget’s handwriting slashed across a folded piece of paper—Simon. Next to it was a brown paper bag. I grabbed the note first.
Simon,
I stopped by after dropping Brendan at school to bring you some treats. Hope everything went well yesterday with the lawyers. Looking forward to seeing you tonight at home. I left something to remind you what’s waiting for you after shift.
-Your luv,
Bridget
P.S. Yes, I am.
Yes, I am? She’d folded the note in half and sealed it with a lipstick kiss along the crease—she’d been wearing the red lipstick. Fuck. My head and heart were in pain, but apparently my cock was chipper this morning. I was growing stiff from a fucking note while I was miserable inside. I blew out a frustrated breath and grabbed for the brown paper bag.
The minute I opened it, the smell of fresh-baked, banana nut bread permeated my nose even though it was wrapped in tin foil. I lifted it from the bag to see what was underneath and found it still warm. She baked me fresh bread. The bag also had an orange juice, coffee, and what I initially thought was some wadded up napkins. But upon closer inspection, I realized that wasn’t what was at the bottom of the sack—it was a pair of Bridget’s knickers.
I pulled them out. Wednesday. Since that was today, the first thought that ran through my mind was Is she walking around commando? It dawned on me that she’d already answered my question. P.S. Yes, I am. The woman knew me so well, that she answered my questions before I even asked them. How the hell was I going to lie to a woman who could do that? She’d see right through my bullshit. I hated the thought of lying to her even if I could get away with it. But I hated the thought of hurting her just as much, if not more.
After getting over the initial shock of finding out that the woman who was suing me was my girlfriend’s dead husband’s mistress, I went into a period of denial. It had to be a coincidence. There could’ve been two Ben Valentines that died in a car accident a couple of years ago. It was a long shot, but I had nothing else to cling to. When the deposition was over, I asked my lawyer some follow-up questions regarding the driver of the car. Of course, sleazy Arnie Schwartz was happy to tell me whatever dirty shit they’d dug up on the plaintiff.
The hospital had hired an investigator to surveil Gina Delmonico in an effort to catch her doing things that a person with a bulging disc shouldn’t be able to do. They’d also done a full background investigation on her, including her relationship with the driver. My heart sank when Arnie mentioned that the driver’s wife was also an employee of the hospital—a nurse, and the two of them had a child together. But I felt sick thinking about the last half of the conversation we had.
“Birth records list the father of Gina’s child as unknown. Doubt the kid will ever know she probably has a brother,” he said.
“A brother?” I was confused, or perhaps it was willful ignorance.
“Wife has a son, girlfriend has a daughter—chances are they share DNA. Hope the two don’t unknowingly meet in college and hit it off.”