Free Selling Scarlett by Ella James, Mae I Design Page B

down the wide, gray-carpeted hall. "Um, just out of curiosity, what's shrimp mean?"
She shoots me a menacing look. "It means you'll get your head bit off."
I follow her around two corners, and at this point, my heart is pounding. The hall has started smelling more like a nursing home—that smell of soiled linens, cleaning chemicals, and sweat. We pass a row of tiny metal doors, Chiclets punched into the drab, white wall, and I want to turn and run away. Cross can't be here. It was bad enough when Mom was in the psych ward next door, but Mom had earned that.
Olive stops before a small metal door and says, "Better hurry.” I nod and thank her. I push through the door without taking time to calm myself, and the sight of a stained blue curtain dividing the room shocks me. There's barely enough space for a hospital bed between the curtain and the wall, and as my eyes move over the bed's metal rails, I know it can't be Cross because this patient is lying flat on his back with his—or her—head wrapped in gauze, and he or she is intubated. The breathing machine looming beside the bed makes a noise that brings back memories of a childhood full of ICUs.
I'm headed for the curtain, hoping against hope that Cross will be sitting up in his bed, when the curtain parts and a freckle-faced nurse appears. She's frowning like she's confused, and her shirt is tugged halfway over her head, exposing a lacy, black bra.
My heart leaps in elation. Cross...you wicked thing.
Then I smell the vomit. The nurse is holding a garbage bag, I realize. I quickly notice that her pale pink scrubs shirt is flecked with orange bits. Did Cross puke on her?
I frown as she pushes down the shirt.
"What happened?"
"Mr. Russell, next door." She frowns, and I realize she's holding another, clean shirt in her left hand. "What are you doing in here? You subbing for Nancy?"
I nod behind her. "I'm here to see my friend, Cross Carlson."
Her face scrunches, unreadable. "Oh."
I try to see past her, but she's blocking my view.
"Hun, this is the professor." She leans her head back. "Dr. Dottswold."
I look from left to right. "So this isn't Cross's room?"
"He's right behind you."
My chest is filled with anger as I whirl to face the bed. I can’t wait to tell Miss Black Bra she’s wrong.
The second I really look, I see Cross's face. A cry rises in my throat, and there it dies. There is too much gauze around his head. There’s a tube running from a ventilator to his chapped lips, bent in a stiff snarl.
It's like a giant is stepping on my sternum as I whirl on Black Bra, finding the curtain in place. I can hear a rustling sound as she changes behind it. I don't care. I snatch it open.
I hear her swift intake of breath, and then she's there in front of me, reddish hair rumpled, eyes wide and alarmed.
"What the hell happened to him? Why is he intubated? Who’s in charge here?”
I can tell by the way her eyes widen that she's clueless, even before she smooths her mouth into a line and says, "I don't know, ma'am. You know, it's a Saturday and we don't—"
"No." I grit my teeth. "I don't care what day of the week it is, I want to know what happened to him." My voice is raised, almost to a yell, but I don't care. "If you can’t tell me what happened find me someone who can."
She’s looking at me like I belong in the psych building next door, but I don’t care. "What has he been like today? Has he moved or anything?" I glare at the gauze around his head. "Did someone drop him when they moved him here?"
The nurse scowls at me. "I can't share details with you. You're not family. You’re not supposed to be—"
I whip out my phony license, the one that says Elizabeth Carlson, and shove it in her face. Her eyes harden, and it's like she wants to say the words she says. "He had a bleed."
"He had a what?"
She nods, folding her arms. "He had a brain bleed during the transport over." Her gaze on mine hardens. "He had a stroke." A small sigh escapes her lips, and she gives me a tired