Fistful of Benjamins (13 page)

 

“M
alena, bitch, you still here?” Nichelle asks, switching her wide hips behind the nurses' station with her arms loaded with snacks from the vending machine.

“All right now. I got your bitch.” I roll my eyes, but Nichelle ignores me with her rude ass.

“Then why is your ass still here?” she asks, opening a bag of Cheetos. In two seconds that orange-powdered shit is going to be all over every-damn-thing.

“Working a double.”

“Again? Isn't this like the fifth time this week?”

“I don't know. Dawn's kid is still sick or some shit. It's cool, though. My ass got a shoe addiction that is maxing out my damn credit cards.”

“Girl. I hear you. I'm a label ho, too. But purses are my thing. Louis Vuitton is pimping my ass like a bitch.” She laughs and then plops down in her seat so hard it's a wonder that her ass doesn't splat onto the floor.

I conceal my disgust. “I thought you said that you were on a diet?”

Nichelle shrugs. “I fucked up and had
posole
for lunch—so that blew through my calorie count for the day—but damn that shit was good.” She chuckles before adding, “I'll start on Monday.”

“What's wrong with tomorrow?”

“Hubby's birthday. There's no point in me acting like I'm not going to suck up half that chocolate cake I ordered him.”

“Tsk. Why don't you just love your three hundred pound ass and call it a day?”

“Nuh-uh, girl. I'm going to get this weight off and rock a bikini next summer. Watch and see. You're not going to be the only size four up in this place.” Nichelle crams a handful of Cheetos into her mouth and then wipes her orange-stained hands all over her nurse scrubs.

I shake my head.
She spits the same shit every week.

“Have you checked on your boyfriend yet?” Nichelle asks.

“He's
not
my boyfriend,” I snap.

Nichelle's head rocks back with a high-pitched laugh. “Girl, I don't know why you bother denying that you got a thing for our John Doe in room four-ten. Shit. All the nurses and half the resident female doctors do, too. Coma or no coma that man is fine as hell.” She shoves off from her desk and rolls next to me. “You know those sponge baths are the highlight of your night. You ain't fooling nobody. We've all seen that anaconda he got beneath those sheets. Shit. I wouldn't mind surfboarding all over that good-good myself. HA!”

She laughs so close to my ear that I shove her away. “Get the hell on with that shit.” I pop out of my seat. “I got work to do.”

“Uh-huh.” Nichelle reaches for a Snickers bar. “Take your time. Make sure that you get him good and clean.
Ha!
”

I flash a tight rubber-band smile, hoping that it will be enough to shut the bitch up.

It's not.

Nichelle's irritating laugh travels down the hall behind me and then leaps on my last nerve for another wild ride.

“I hope that you fuckin' choke on that damn chocolate bar,” I mumble. What gets under my skin more than anything is that she's right. I've had a few fantasies about our John Doe. But who hasn't? Now that his bruises and bones have healed, there's no denying that John Doe is fine as hell. He's a sexy chocolate combo with a Latin twist: chiseled features, square jaw, broad shoulders, and muscles that ripple from his chest to the V-cut of his hips.
Sweet Jesus.
I'm hot just thinking about him.

The story goes that a couple of beach joggers spotted him washed up on the beach. At first they thought that he was dead, but the emergency responders found a pulse—barely.

He had no identification on him. He was a mass of broken bones, scars and third-degree burns on the left side of his chest. No one knows where he came from, and in the six months that he's been at the hospital only one person has come around who was mildly interested in him—a reporter, but even that was months ago.

I breeze through my rounds, take blood, empty bedpans and up pain medications for my other patients before heading to room four-ten. I pretend that I'm not anxious to see him, but the moment I push open the door, my heart gallops inside my chest.

Get ahold of yourself.
“Hello, handsome. How are you this evening?” I stretch out a genuine smile. “I hope that the other nurses have been treating you well today.”

The heart monitor's steady
Beep! Beep! Beep!
is my usual answer.

“Well. It's that time again.” I head toward the adjoining bathroom door and gather supplies for his sponge bath. It's routine, but every time I pull back the sheets and remove his hospital gown, I flush like a fucking teenager at his model-perfect profile: strong chin, sharp cheekbones, nice nose, and pillowy lips that tempt my ass nightly. Of course my gaze zeroes in on his thick, two-toned dick with its fat mushroom head.
Damn. How long has it been—a year—since I ended my last real relationship? Jesus, please say it hasn't been that long.

I shake myself and get back down to business.

“First things first,” I say. “I got to do your blood draw.” I reach into my pocket and remove the four vials I need to fill from the butterfly needle secured on his right hand. While his blood drips into the small vials, I take note of how well he has healed over the past six months.

“You know that you can't hide here forever,” I whisper. “You're going to have to wake up sooner or later.”

After dipping the sponge into the soapy water, I wash his feet and then proceeded to work my way up. I love touching him. I love how his erect dick stands straight up.

Ten and half inches.
I've measured it a few times. I tsk under my breath and lick my lips. “Damn shame to let all of this to go to waste.”

I slide the soapy sponge around the base of his cock and then down around his nut sack. Before long, I have a good rhythm, daddy-long-stroking his ass. Listening to the soapy sounds of his dick gliding between my fingers gets me wet.
Damn
. What I wouldn't give for this man to wake up, grab my ass and then fuck the shit out of me. Hell. If I'm not careful, I'll wind up with cobwebs on my pussy.

I abandon the sponge and used my soapy hands to slip and slide over the only dick I've held in months. It's wrong but this shit feels so good. “I should get up here and ride this fat muthafucka,” I mumble and I work my hands up and down and around and around.

I glance over my shoulder to the door.
No one is going to come in.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

My pussy is getting wet.
This shit is so wrong.

“Mmmm,” the patient moans.

“Aaahhh!” I jump back, bumping over the bowl of soapy water. I slip and bust my ass, but I keep backing away from the bed. “Aaahhh!”

Nichelle thunders through the door, panting like a racehorse. “What the hell is going on in here?”

I point toward the bed. “He's awake!”

Nichelle looks up at a dazed and confused John Doe with his soapy dick still pointed straight in the air.

“Page the doctor on call!”

I scramble back onto my feet and bolt out of the room. At the nurses' station, I'm out of breath, but manage to punch in the doctor's pager number. While waiting for him to return the page, a slew of questions race through my head. How long had he been awake while I damn near molested his ass? And why didn't he say anything?
Shit. I'm going to lose my damn job over this.

I peek down the long hallway and realize that he could be ratting me out to Nichelle right now.
Fuck.

The phone rings. “Nurses' station.”

“Yes. This is Dr. Woods. Someone paged me?”

“Yes, doctor. John Doe in four-ten is awake.”

“I'll be right there,” he says, disconnecting the call.

Unsure what to do next, I stay put—embarrassed and ashamed. Fuck my job. I could go to jail.
I feel sick.

“Malena,” Nichelle shouts.

Rolling my eyes, I head back down the hall. When I reach room four-ten, Nichelle has tied his gown back on and has tucked him back into bed.

“The doctor is on his way,” I tell her.

John Doe's gaze follows the sound of my voice. His curious eyes land on me and I turn red.

“Call someone to clean that water up,” Nichelle orders.

Nodding, I back out of the room and track down one of the janitors on duty. When I return to room four-ten, Dr. Woods has arrived and is taking the patient's vitals.

“Follow the light,” he instructs, shifting a penlight back and forth.

But John Doe's eyes shifts to me again.

I hold my breath.
Is he going to snitch me out?

The doctor clicks off the light.

“Let me introduce myself. I'm Dr. Woods. Currently, you're in the hospital—and I'm afraid that you've been here for some time. Can you tell us your name?”

Silence.

I lean in close.

Deep lines groove into John Doe's forehead as he shifts his attention back to the doctor. After a few long seconds, panic clouds his eyes. “I—” He erupts into a bad coughing fit.

I rush for the pitcher of water next to the bed and pour him a cup. “Here. Drink this.” I place it up against his lips and tip it up. “Slowly. There you go.”

He follows my directions and stares at me over the rim.

“Th—thanks,” he croaks.

My knees knock at his rich baritone. It's far sexier than I've imagined.

“Now. About that name,” the doctor asks. “Do you remember it?”

Three sets of eyes lock on our patient while he struggles with the question.

“Do you remember anything? Anything at all?” Dr. Woods prods.

John Doe shakes his head, panic-stricken. “No,” he croaks. “I—I don't. I don't know who I am.”

B
lank.

I can't think of a damn thing. How the fuck is something like that possible? I keep trying, but all I get for my troubles is a massive migraine.

“It's all right. Calm down,” Dr. Woods says, placing a hand on my shoulder and flashing me a weak smile. “Don't get yourself worked up. I'm sure that everything will come back to you in due time.”

“That's better. What we're going to do is let you relax for a little while. Get you comfortable—and then first thing in the morning, I'll return with your primary doctor, Dr. Diaz, and one of our staff psychologists. They will update you on your time here and work through any issues that you might have. Okay?”

My gaze slices back over to the nurse at my side.

She flashes a smile that reassures me. “It's going to be all right.”

I relax and nod. “All right.”

“Then we'll let you get some rest. Ladies.” The doctor directs everyone toward the door.

When the nurse next to me sets down the cup and turns to leave, I shoot out my hand and grab her by the wrist.

Startled, she jumps.

“Don't go,” I say, and then add, “Please.”

She relaxes and looks to the doctor for permission.

Dr. Woods nods. “Just for a few minutes.”

The larger nurse speaks up. “If you rather that—”

“No. It's fine. I got this.”

“Uh-huh.” Some kind of static passes between the two nurses. But the other nurse and doctor clear out and the janitor enters the room.

“Uhm. Is there something that I can do for you, Mr . . . Doe?” the nurse asks me.

“Doe?” I frown.
Odd name.

“I'm sorry—but that's what we've named you. Mr. John Doe.”

I let that settle for a moment before I notice her looking down at my hand. “Sorry.” I release her and then erupt into another painful coughing fit.

“Hold on, hold on.” She pours me another cup of water. “Here we go.”

I lean forward and guzzle most of it down. “Thank again Ms . . . ?”

“Castillo,” she supplies. “Malena Castillo.”

“Malena.” I nod, easing on a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Her brown cheeks flush. “It's not a problem. I'm just doing my job.”

“Was that what you were doing earlier, too?”

She drops the cup, soaking the front of my hospital gown. “Shit. I'm so sorry.” She turns and runs into the janitor, who is ear-hustling in on our conversation. “Damn. How long does it take to mop a fuckin' floor?” she snaps.

The janitor gives her a sharp look.

“Sorry. You just—please finish that up.” She steps around him. When she returns from the bathroom, the janitor is rolling his yellow plastic bucket out of the door, but gives her another disapproving look.

Malena ignores him and returns to the bed and struggles to talk. “About what happened earlier—I apologize if you misunderstood what I was doing.”

“Misunderstood? You were jerking me off,” I say flatly.

“No. I—I was bathing you.”

My brows lift to the center of my forehead. “In that case, thank you. My dick is as clean as a whistle.”

Malena backs away. “I should get back to work.”

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No. It's just that—”

“I don't mean to. I—I . . .” I struggle for the right words, but get frustrated when I keep smacking into the brick wall inside my head.

“Okay. Okay. Calm down.” Malena presses me to lie back against the bed. “Whatever it is, it can wait. Don't get yourself worked up.” She smiles.

I nod and then stare at her. My gaze roams over her ink-black hair and something stirs in the shadows of my mind. “You're pretty.”

The compliment catches her off guard. “Uh, thanks.” She moves back, but I grab her hand again. “What's happened to me? Why can't I remember anything?”

“I don't know,” she answers, to my disappointment. “All I know is that some joggers found you lying on the beach six months ago.”

“Six months?”

She panics. “Okay. Okay. I can't stay in here if you're going to keep getting worked up.”

“But—but—I don't understand. How could I have been here for that long? I—I—has no one come looking for me? I have family or something—don't I?”

Malena shrugs. “I don't know.”

Frustrated, I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. Doing so, I catch a whiff of her perfume. “What is that?”

“What?”

“That smell.” I bring her hand up to my nose and inhale. A hazy memory stirs.

“Oh. You mean my perfume? It's Bulgari's Jasmine Noir. You like it?”

“It's . . .” I take another whiff. “Familiar.”

Malena perks up. “Really?”

Serenity washes over me. “It smells wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Malena's smile widens as she relaxes. “Well, uhm.” She clears her throat. “But this is a good sign.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. You have some sensory memory.”

Hope flutters in my chest.

“Get some rest. If you need anything, press this button for the nurses' station.” Gently, she removes her hand from mine. “Everything will be fine. You'll see.”