The Penance of Black Betty (2 page)

              Fuck. How could he put her in this situation. “How bad was she hurt?” he asked.

              “She’s in the ICU. Stable, but still unconscious. She was badly beaten, Mr. Ingram.”

             
Fuck.
“I’m on my way.”

              Alistair hung up and grabbed the keys to his rental car. Dashing to the lot, he passed his agent, Kent, chatting up Henry Wallace, the producer. “Where’s the fire?” Kent called, chuckling.

              “There was a break in at my house. Bethany’s in the hospital. I’m going home.” He lifted one hand over his head in farewell.

              “You can’t just leave!” Kent yelled after him. “Alistair!”

              “I told you that woman would be your downfall,” Wallace called.

              They could both kiss his hairy arse and shove this film up theirs.

              Bethany was all that mattered, and he knew he should’ve never left her in LA alone.

             
THREE

              Bethany was having the most beautiful dream. She was in Cozumel with…Alistair Ingram? She must have watched one of his movies before she went to sleep, that was the only explanation for a dream about a hot celebrity. The sun was bright, the water bright blue, and the sand white between her toes. The only irritation was the collar around her neck that was too tight. She kept pulling at it, but couldn’t get it off. It made her throat hurt.

              Alistair kept telling her she was okay. Over and over again he said it. No matter what she said to him in her dream, that was his only reply—you’re okay.

              She drifted toward the surface of consciousness and his voice got louder, but no less soft and caring. Coming to a little more, she realized it wasn’t a dream—at least Alistair wasn’t—he was there with her!

              As Bethany struggled to leave her dream behind, she felt his touch, gentle and light, stroking her hair.

              “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I promise. You’re okay. I’m here now. You’re okay.”

              She fought to crack her eyes open. Blinding light streamed under her eyelids. She closed them again, quickly. “Bethany?” he whispered.

              She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

              “Don’t talk,” he said. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.”

              The hospital? What happened? Alistair Ingram’s here? What the hell? Where was Trent? She lifted her fingers to her neck. Her collar was gone.

              No. Trent would be so pissed if she wasn’t wearing it.

              Anxiety flared through her body. She had to have her collar on before Trent got here!

              She opened her eyes again and let them adjust to the blinding, fluorescent overhead lights. She turned her head to face Alistair and cringed at the excruciating pain radiating through her neck.

              “Stay still,” He said, leaning closer so she could see him better.

              “Wha--” she tried to whisper, but an unintelligible rasp came out of her raw throat.

              Alistair’s eyes told her a horror story she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but how did he know it? Was it a car wreck? Did she run into Alistair Freaking Ingram? What was he doing here in Florida?

              “I’ll get the doctor and tell him you’re awake.” He stood and took a few steps toward the curtain closing her off from the rest of the world before turning back. “I’ll be right here. I’m never leaving you again.”

              He was never leaving… What the hell was he talking about? She’d never met Alistair Ingram in her life.

              Jesus, she must’ve gotten into an accident and hit him, he looked like hell. Like he hadn’t showered in days. His hair stuck up on end like he’d run his hands through it a million times, and the stubble on his face was threatening to become an all-out beard. Maybe he kept it that way, but it didn’t look intentional—groomed. She didn’t think Alistair Ingram would be seen looking so disheveled.

              Trent would kill her for wrecking his car, and for
hitting a celebrity
. Of all the people in the world, she had to run into Alistair Freaking Ingram.

              The doctor pushed through the curtain with Alistair on his heels. “Let’s take a look at you, Ms. Stavars.” He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and shined it in her eyes, making her flinch. It felt like someone had put her head through a meat grinder. She reached back and gingerly touched the bandage covering the crown of her head and followed it to where it wrapped around the front.

              “Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.

              She nodded, closing her eyes against the pain.

              “We’ll get you more pain medication. Lift your chin.” She did—slowly—and the doctor examined her neck, pressing on the sides of her throat. “Does that hurt?”

              She nodded again.

              Alistair hovered over the doctor’s shoulder, biting his fingernail. He looked so guilty, maybe he was the one who ran into
her
.

              She tried not to watch him. Why was he allowed back here with her? Because he was a celebrity and got special treatment? He must not have been hurt in their collision.

              “Can you speak?” the doctor asked.

              She opened her mouth to try.

              “You don’t have to,” Alistair said. “If it hurts too much, you don’t have to.”

              The doctor shot him an irritated look.

              “Your CT Scan came back normal, just a bit of swelling. That’s normal with head injuries. It’s gone down considerably in the past two days.”

              She tried to sit up—got her shoulders off the bed, then collapsed back down. “T--”  Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow. “Two days?” Her voice was unrecognizable, a hoarse, raw sound, and the effort to speak drew blood in the back of  her throat.

              Alistair grabbed a cup of water from the rolling table beside the bed and handed it to her. “Don’t talk. Let yourself heal.”

              “Now that you’re awake, we’ll move you out of the ICU and into a private room.”

              ICU? Two days?

              Had Alistair Ingram been here all that time? Why? And where the hell was Trent? Probably drugged out of his mind somewhere.

              As soon as the doctor left, a nurse hustled in and began taking her vitals. “I’m going to give you more pain medication. It’ll make you drowsy,” the nurse said. “Do you need anything else?”

              Bethany moved her hand in a motion like she was writing, using her other hand to mimic a piece of paper.

              “Paper and pen!” Alistair said. “Please,” he added, smiling at the nurse.

              “I’ll be right back with some,” she said, and left Bethany’s curtained area.

              Alone now, Alistair sank back into the chair beside her bed and took her hand. He kissed her wrist, her palm and each finger. She yanked her hand back and stared at him in disbelief.

              “Please don’t be mad at me for not being there,” he said. “You have no idea how scared I was when I got the call that you were hurt. I knew I should’ve never left LA and taken that role.”

              What the hell?

              The nurse came back and handed Bethany a pen and pad of paper. Bethany smiled a thank you. When the nurse was gone again, she studied Alistair’s face for a moment thinking of how to best write what had to be said:

             
I don’t know you.

             
FOUR

              Alistair read her words and was unable to breathe. Flickers of light flashed before his eyes and he thought he might pass out.

              Bethany began scribbling more words on her pad of paper.

             
I don’t remember what happened. Where’s my husband?

              Her hus— For the love of Jesus, Joseph and Mary and all things good and holy, she thought she was still married to the man who put her in that fucking hospital bed.

              Not wanting to make her panic, he steeled his frayed nerves. “Bethany, does the name Black Betty ring a bell?”

              She shook her head, no.

              He felt like throwing up.

              “Can you tell me your address?”  Alistair tapped the pad of paper on her lap.

             
714 Sunwave Ave. NE.
 He tapped again. “City?”

              She creased her forehead, wondering where this was leading, but wrote:

             
Daytona Beach

              Alistair squeezed the bridge of his nose. How the fuck was he supposed to deal with this? “Bethany, what year is it?”

              She blinked a few times, frowning at him, like he was a dumbass before putting pen to paper and scrawling her answer.

             
1991

              He closed his eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist, tapping it against his forehead as rage swam through is chest. Her fucking ex would pay for this.

              Her touch on his forearm immediately calmed him. He opened his eyes to find her holding up the pad of paper.

             
Please, tell me what happened. What’s going on?

              He wanted to tell her—to blurt it all out, but the possibility of making her hate him if he was the messenger had him holding his tongue. “Let me get the doctor.”

              Like the shell-shocked chicken shit he was, he bolted from the room in search of someone else who could give her the gory details of the past ten plus years of her life. She might not believe him if he told her, and she might never forgive him for making it all come flooding back.

              A thought made him stop in his tracks.

              What if she never had to know? Never had to become Black Betty? He could make up an entirely new history for her, one with less pain and suffering. She’d asked about Trent, her ex—thought they were still married—but that could be explained away through memory loss. What if her divorce is the only bit of truth revealed to her?

              No Vegas. No struggle. He’d set up the perfect life for her.

              She’d never have to remember the truth.

             
FIVE

              Bethany was settled in her shared room, out of the ICU and Trent hadn’t shown his face. Did he even know she was in the hospital?

              She needed answers and the only person who seemed to have them was Alistair Ingram.

              How the hell could that be? All their little back and forth question and answer session did was confuse her even more.

              A nurse bustled around adjusting her IV’s and showing Bethany how to raise and lower the head of the bed and where the call button was and how to work the T.V. remote.

              After she was gone, Bethany pressed the power button and began channel surfing. She kept the volume low as to not disturb her roommate tucked away behind the curtain divider. Daytime talk shows—trash. Kids cartoons. Infomercials. With lack of a better option, she settled in to watch the local news.

              “And now here’s Steven Ross with your local Los Angeles weather,” the anchor woman said. Then the screen flashed to a man in his late twenties with the whitest teeth she’d ever seen standing in front of a map.

              “Los Angeles? Why am I getting Los Angeles news?”

              “Because you’re in Los Angeles,” her elderly roommate rasped. Then she started coughing. She sounded like she had to be a hundred years old. “What weather did you want to see?” The old lady jerked the curtain aside enough to peer at Bethany. “With all that long blond hair, you look like you could be a farm girl from Nebraska. Are you from Nebraska?”

              Nebraska? “No.”

              What was she doing in Los Angeles?