No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (40 page)

I walk to the table where a gorgeous blond nurse is waiting. “Hi. I’m Mary Kay Landry. I have an appointment at three o’clock.”

She smiles and replies, “Please have a seat. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No. I’m good. Thanks, but I haven’t been here before. Don’t I need to fill out paperwork?”

Her teeth are unnaturally white, like Aaron’s. They could possibly use the same dentist. “No. Mister Knite has taken care of it.”

Zed stands by the door with his arms crossed over his chest while Aaron leans against a window with rounded shoulders, staring into the great beyond. If I was feeling better, I’d remind him of the time that someone was doing exactly what he’s doing and the window gave way and the person plunged to their death.

Instead I take a seat halfway between the two as I try to determine what in the hell is going on here.

Fortunately, the doctor doesn’t keep me waiting long.

A shiny white door opens and another Barbie Doll-appearing nurse walks over to where I’m sitting and introduces herself. “I’m Carissa, and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

I shake her hand and stand as Aaron joins us.

She continues, “I want reassure you it’s only the reception nurse, me, and Doctor Hebert in the office. You have nothing to worry about. Your privacy is our utmost concern.”

“Okay,” I reply. Is this the Twilight Zone?
My privacy is their concern.
I have a cut and a concussion. I really don’t care who knows about my accident. In fact, I’m itching to share it with my followers.

We step into an examining room, which is just as gorgeous as the waiting room. Carissa asks me to sit on a leather table, too pretty to be bleachable. Aaron, wearing a brooding expression, sits in the chair.

The nurse removes the bandages and examines my cut. “Looks like it’s been well taken care of. I’ll grab Doctor Hebert.”

When the door shuts, I ask Aaron, “What’s going on?”

He shrugs and cocks his lip, like I asked a strange question.

I don’t get to ask a follow-up demanding question because the doctor walks in.

They say everyone has a doppelganger. I’m terrible at recognizing people—obviously, I didn’t know Aaron was Johnny Knite, but Doctor Hebert’s is Geraldo Rivera. He even sounds like him.

“Hello, Mary Kay. It’s a pleasure seeing you awake,” he jokes, and I notice he has the same white teeth as the receptionist and Aaron.

I just smile.

He examines my cut. He touches it and gently presses while he makes
hmmm
noises. It hurts a little, but I don’t dare let him know. “Looks good. I think it will heal nicely. Probably will be red for a bit but that’s nothing makeup can’t cover. Stay out of the sun. That’s the most important advice I can give. Internal stitches will dissolve. Now, let’s talk about your head.”

“Feeling so much better,” I reply.

“Headaches? Nausea? Light sensitivity?”

“I still have a bit of a headache, but honestly, it’s not even bad enough that I’ve taken Tylenol today.” I flash my most dashing smile, hoping he gives me the all clear.

“Do you remember what happened around the event?” He parts my hair, examining my scalp.

I shake my head very carefully. “I was asleep. The knocking on the door woke me, and that’s all I remember.”

He takes a pen light out of his medical jacket pocket and examines my pupils. “That’s fairly common.”

Aaron asks, “Is she okay? Like, she’s thinking clearly?”

“Yes. I’d say your girl is absolutely on the road to recovery.” He turns to me. “Take it easy. If you’re doing something and your head starts bothering you, quit. That’s your body’s way of telling you it’s too much. I don’t need to see you again unless you’re concerned about your cut and how it’s healing.”

I’m thrilled.
Freedom
. I keep my composure. Smiling demurely, I reply, “Thank you.”

Doctor Hebert turns to Aaron. “How are the vocal cords?”

Aaron drags his hand down his neck and to his chest where he pushes on his breast bone. He has a strained expression. “Okay.” His head tilts from side to side. “I played a couple of nights ago and they held up fine.”

“Good.” He nods. “Call me if there’s another problem.”

I have no clue what problems Aaron’s had, and I don’t ask in front of the doctor. I thought I was seeing a plastic surgeon. Why would he know anything about Aaron’s vocal cords?

He shakes Doctor Hebert’s hand, and we exit the office without paying. I don’t point it out, assuming the bill with catch up with me eventually.

When we’re on the elevator and headed down, I take Aaron’s hand. “Are your vocal cords okay?”

He stares at the top of the double doors. “No big deal. They’re callused from not warming up properly for a lot of years. Nothing to concern you.”

Nothing to concern me.
Warning bells sound in my head. He asked me to marry him not more than an hour ago, and now he’s telling me I shouldn’t be concerned about something medically wrong with him that could affect his career? I catch myself chewing on my bottom lip. I come from a family of talkers, except for my dad. We say whatever we’re feeling loudly and with color. My life is an open book. I don’t like this feeling I have that Aaron is only allowing me to share in a portion of himself. I want all of him, even if it’s not perfect.

When the elevator doors open to the parking garage, we’re met with a swarm of flashing cameras, screaming people, and total chaos. Aaron squeezes my hand as he yanks me against his chest, yelling, “What the fuck, Zed?”

Zed mashes the “close door” button.

My heart pounds, and I feel as if I’m drowning. I grasp the metal railing that surrounds the elevator for support. Gasping for air, I look up at Aaron. “Why are they here?”

“MK, I’m sorry. I thought this would be private,” Aaron says as he moves my hair to shield the left side of my face. He’s flushed with anger, and gives Zed a look that could melt steel.

With tears in my eyes, I lean into his chest, sounding absolutely defeated as I reply, “I just want to go home. Why are they here?”

Aaron and Zed ignore my question for a second time as a silent conversation takes place between to the two of them. “I’ll keep the press back. You take the girl,” Zed responds.

The elevator doors open.

As I turn to Aaron, he grabs me in a headlock of sorts and whispers, “Keep your face down.”

The noise is deafening. There are loud voices and the sound of camera flashes going off. It’s chaos. I can’t really understand what they’re yelling, but I catch words: Johnny, concussion, injuries, charges, girlfriend.

My body is jostled, and I feel as if I’m being choked. I can’t tell if it’s from Aaron’s grip or the claustrophobia caused by the press. I know my feet move because I’m suddenly in the car, but I don’t remember getting there on my own power. As the car door slams, Aaron begins yelling all sorts of vulgarities and putting pressure on the back of my head, forcing it between my knees. All I see are the black floorboards, and all I hear is the sound of my own heartbeat racing in my ears.

The sound of another car door slams, and the SUV jolts away from the curb.

Finally, his hand relaxes and I sit up, seeing stars for a moment. Aaron turns me towards him and examines me by checking my cut first and then looking deep into my eyes as if they might reveal my health status. Perspiration dots his upper lip, and I can almost hear his heart racing. “You okay?” His nostrils flare.

I nod. “What was that?”

He growls, “What happened, Zed?”

Zed replies, “I have no idea, but I’ll find out.”

“Seamus?” Aaron asks.

He’s quiet for a bit. “I didn’t think they were a big deal.”

Aaron grabs at his hair and yells, “Fuck.”

My heart begins to slow the farther we are from the medical building. Aaron’s odd behavior, plus the extreme privacy in the doctor’s office, and the swarm of paparazzi equals my need to be filled in on what I’m missing.

I reposition myself so I’m straddling Aaron’s lap and take his beautiful face between my palms. “I want answers.” His eyes cut away from mine, and I move my head to meet them. “Fucking tell me what’s going on. What was with the marriage proposal and all the privacy? Why were there reporters with cameras swarming us?”

He smirks, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “You know I can’t stand it when you talk dirty.”

My smile is a sarcastic one. “I’m not laughing.”

His silence speaks volumes.

I climb off of his lap and buckle my seatbelt, telling Seamus, “My place, please.”

Aaron attempts to protest, but I give him the look Grandmother calls my devil eyes. It shuts him up real fast.

My home. My gorgeous carriage house. It’s my nest—my soft place to land.

There are photographers stationed outside of the fence. Even they can’t rain on my parade. Zed doesn’t seem pleased with how long of a walk it is from the street to the stairs which lead to my front door, but he can just get over it. I’m home.

Zed hands me his jacket. “Use this to shield your face.”

I extend my arms over my head and use the coat almost as if it’s an umbrella. Aaron tucks me against his side as Zed ensures the photographers don’t step foot on my private property.

My hand jitters as I shove the key in the lock.
Home!

There’s a desperation in my mind. It’s like if I can just get inside my place with my things inside it, then all of this will make sense. My home territory will give me the strength to compel Aaron to explain what is going on.

But when I step inside, I barely recognize it. “Where’s my chair? And couch? And coffee table?” I stand in the middle of my tiny living room where my furniture once stood. “I’ve been robbed.”

The door shuts, quieting the sound of the snapping cameras and yelled questions.

“There was blood and vomit on everything. I had it disposed of.” His voice projects that he doesn’t believe this is a big deal.

He walks over to where I’m standing and pulls me against him, pushing my hips against his crotch. Surely the man doesn’t have a semi-firm penis when we’ve just been screamed at by the media and I’ve only just discovered that my furniture is gone?

I spin out of his reach and walk around my kitchen island, needing the space. “That was my stuff.” My hands slam against the cold marble. “You didn’t have any right. Did you know that coffee table was over two hundred years old? I found it in a thrift store auction place, and I love it.”

“It hurt you. I’ll buy you something else,” he replies flippantly. “Something with less sharp edges.” His eyebrow raises in an I-told-you-so kind of way.

“I don’t want something else. I want my shit back.” Stomping my foot, I ache to scream. How dare he?

He hops on my kitchen island, placing his behind near my stovetop. “You love me. I love you. We’re moving to Austin anyway. That was just stuff.”

My head begins to throb. “Stop it, Aaron.” I rub my temples. “Doctor Hebert said for me to quit doing things that make my head hurt. You talking about me moving in with you makes my head pound. Tell me where my furniture is.”

He gives me this stony look that makes me want to punch him. Instead, I grab my laptop off the sofa table—he didn’t get rid of that—and walk into my bedroom, slamming the door.

I can’t deal with his inability to answer my direct questions right now. Normal. I just want average, normal, practical. Practical is the life I’m craving. No drama. No reporters. No concussions or cuts on my face. I long for the time before Aaron, when my life could’ve been considered boring. I’m sure I’ll regret wishing for this in a little while, but in this moment I’d settle for my boring human resources job again.

My computer boots. Finally, I’m connected with the outside world once more. I snuggle into my bed, grasping onto the one lifeline I can always count on—my site, NoPinkCaddy.

He won’t give me answers. I bet his precious Google knows all. Once the notifications stop coming in twenty minutes later, I wish I had kept the damn thing off.

I read words like,
unconscious, drug abuser, wife,
and
overdose
. It’s like a car accident on I-10. I can’t look away. The stories are awful, and every one begins the same
Mary Kay Landry, blogger at NoPinkCaddy and girlfriend of Johnny Knite . . .

It’s always something bad. I’m near-death in a New Orleans hospital after overdosing. I’m in ICU suffering a severe brain hemorrhage while Aaron waits by my bedside. My face has suffered severe damage, and he swears to stand by my side.

One lie is worse than the next. But then I read the headline that makes my stomach turn to the point where I have to run to the toilet and lose what little food is in it.
A close source to Mary Kay Landry reports that Johnny Knite is the one who put Miss Landry in the intensive care unit at a New Orleans hospital. After an evening at a local wine bar, in a drunken rage, he hit her so hard she fell into a coffee table, slicing her face open, requiring twenty-four stitches and suffering a concussion.

That story is one of many, and it’s not just being reported on tabloid trash websites. No. Similar versions of it are being reported in reputable entertainment magazines and on their websites. Jeannie shared the story on the Sunday night newscast.

Comments include
why hasn’t he been arrested
and people posting pictures of themselves destroying his CDs with various yard tools.

Of course, every story mentions him beating up an eighteen-year-old male two years ago. Not once does the story include why he acted in such an extreme manner.

Flushing the toilet, I stand up and rinse my mouth out. Aaron has known about this and not said a word. God help him. No wonder Grace was so upset yesterday. She’s worked her whole adult life to protect Aaron, and after only days with me, the world has painted him as an abuser.

We have to fix this. I can issue a statement telling everyone this was just a silly accident. I remember the post I wrote on a stolen sheet of paper and pencil I found in his office. All I need is my flowery bag. I put the sheet of paper in it the same time as I dropped my phone in.

I was clumsy. Aaron wasn’t even in my apartment when it happened. I have to ensure he’s okay and find out what we can do to get the truth out there.