Gluttony, page 7
“I’ll come too,” I blurt out. I’ve never been interested in the shit Dad does until recently. Now, I want to know everything he knows. Plus, I’m not eating this motherfucking beet salad. There’s no telling how that shit would taste on the way back up.
He nods, and we wait patiently for him to huff and puff as he attempts to get out of his chair. I swear, each time I see him, he’s put on more weight. It’s fucking embarrassing he’s let himself go this much. I follow after my dad as he waddles out of the dining room. Mom is immediately texting with a smile on her face before we even walk out the door.
Way to hide your affair, Mother.
The walk to his study is slow, but eventually, we make it inside. A man stands in front of the massive painting that takes up nearly the whole damn wall. Most men have a picture of their family or an expensive painting. My dad has a life-sized self-portrait that perfectly depicts him. All four of Four’s chins. His narrowed eyes and sneer. The picture screams power. I just think it’s fucking weird.
“Mr. Gunner,” Dad greets. “What do we owe this honor?”
The man swivels around. There’s no doubt it’s Wrath’s dad. They look exactly alike. Of course, his father is older and thinner. And from the looks of the dark circles under his eyes, he’s not sleeping well at all. I suppose if your daughter was missing and your son was in jail, you’d look like shit—which he does.
“I’m going to cut right to the chase, Mr. Goddard,” Mr. Gunner says. “I need your help.”
Dad offers him a smug smile. They always need his help. My father thrives on that notion. “I’ll see what I can offer.”
Mr. Gunner scrubs a palm down his scruffy face as he paces in front of Dad’s portrait. “They won’t let me see my son anymore. Sabella is just gone. There aren’t any leads. I feel like every time I turn around, someone is shutting down my efforts.” He scowls. “You’re the only person with any real say in this town.”
“Sam’s still in jail?” Dad asks him, his face turning slightly red from fury.
Fucking finally. He’s about to see Lillian has been gatekeeper, despite Dad’s instructions to have him released. It’s the only reason I agreed to dinner with him and Mom tonight. I was going to once again get him to try to get Wrath out.
“He’s…” Mr. Gunner rasps out. “He’s The Elite. I thought you took care of your own. I thought this is what we signed up for. But since my son got involved, our lives have been ruined. My son…my daughter…” Tears well in his eyes at the mention of Sabella. “I want him out of that place so we can continue to look for Sabella.”
Dad pulls his cell phone out, his face turning purple with rage. He dials someone and puts the phone on speaker.
“Roberts,” a gruff voice answers.
“Police commissioners must get reelected,” Dad growls. “And when they don’t serve the people as they were elected to, they don’t get reelected.”
The line goes silent for a moment before Roberts replies. “Lillian said—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Lillian fucking said,” Dad roars. “When I give you an order, you jump. You don’t ask how high or when. You just jump, goddammit.”
“Yes, sir,” Roberts croaks.
“I want him out now. Do not test me, Roberts,” Dad snarls.
Mr. Gunner shoots me a hopeful look, and I nod at him. Dad may be an asshole, but he gets shit done.
“I’ll make the call now. He’ll be out within the hour.”
“Don’t make us have this conversation again,” Dad threatens.
“No, sir,” Roberts says quickly. “I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”
I don’t wait a second longer. I bolt out of his study to my car as I send out a group text to my brothers.
Me: Dad came through. Let’s go get our boy.
Then, I text Patience.
Me: We’re bringing him home.
I’ve never received so many heart-eyed emojis from anyone other than Rhett in all my life. It’s kind of nice to be needed. No wonder Dad gets off on this shit.
Zemira
A month later…
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The thundering in my head drags me through the dark fog. I trip and fall, but it’s relentless in its pursuit to take me wherever it wants. Crying out, I grasp for anything to clutch onto—anything to keep me away from the booming torturing me.
My eyes crack open, and bright white light has me quickly closing them. Where am I? Why do I hurt so bad? I think about one time right before college started up that I went to a party with a friend from the orphanage. She’d gone wild the moment they set her free. While I enrolled at St. Augustine and prepared for college life, Rena got a job at a strip club. She’d taken me to a party at some rich guy’s house and brought me drink after drink. I’d gotten stupid drunk for the first time in my life and had woken up in someone’s bed—thank God fully clothed and alone—with regret making me nauseous and a blinding migraine reminding me of my bad decisions the night before.
If I went to another party with Rena…
I open my eyes again and turn away from the light. As the room comes into focus, I see flowers. Everywhere. Red roses. Daisies. Lilies. Flowers of every color and every variety.
Am I in heaven?
The sweet, floral scent invades me. I relax, letting the anxiety fade away. The beeping sound slows. As clarity finds me, I begin to wonder how many flowers there are. Hundreds? Thousands? My analytical, math-loving brain craves to count them, but my head hurts too bad.
Someone yawns, and I stiffen.
There, sitting in a rocking chair near my bed, sits an angel. Dark, floppy, brown hair. Several days of facial hair growth on his sharp, chiseled jawline. Full, pink lips. His white T-shirt hugs his lean, muscular frame. The jeans he wears are loose-fitting and dark. When I finish perusing him, I smile at the metal studs in his black boots. An angel who looks like a rock star.
This is heaven.
I’m still trying to smile when I realize something is in my mouth. The angel sucks in a sharp breath, dragging my gaze back up to his face. He’s no longer sleeping, and his familiar brown eyes bore into me.
I know him.
He’s not an angel.
My brows furl together as I try to make sense of my situation. He rises and prowls my way. The beeping from somewhere close intensifies as though it’s in tune with the erratic beating of my heart.
“Zemira.” The way he says my name is heavenly. Velvety and smooth like melted chocolate. My fingertips twitch with the need to brush them over his pink lips and ask him to say it again. To see if it feels as good as it sounds. “How are you feeling?”
I start to speak, but realize this thing in my mouth is in my throat too. Panic rises inside me, the beeping singing frantically of my distress.
“Whoa, Z,” he coos as he takes my shaking hand. “Chill. You’re okay. Just relax.”
His warm, strong hand gripping mine does calm me. When he kisses my knuckle, I frown at him in confusion. Who is he? Why am I here? Why can’t I talk?
“I’ll call for a nurse. You have a breathing tube in, but they said once you woke, they could take it out.” He frowns as he pushes a button on my bed. “I was beginning to think you might never wake up.”
I blink at him, tears burning in my eyes. The pain in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings, but I don’t know why. Is he my…are we together?
The thought of having someone like him is almost laughable. I’ve never even dated, much less lassoed a guy who resembles an angel sent straight from heaven. The closest I ever got to a boyfriend was when Clay from my English class slapped my ass one day.
English class.
I’m in college.
I close my eyes, trying to remember more. I’m Zemira Coleman. I work at…I work at…where do I work at?
“I’m God,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking gently over the back of my hand.
So, I am in heaven.
He’s no angel, he’s God.
I blink rapidly at him in confusion. Did I die? How?
The throbbing in my head intensifies and tears threaten. God tightens his hold on my hand.
“Hey,” he rumbles. “Relax. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of everything.”
Who knew God was so hot? All those years at the orphanage, being forced to read The Bible before bed, and I never imagined God to look like this. But I suppose he sounds like him—promising to take care of me and all. Nothing makes any sense.
A woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes rushes into the room. Her outfit is pink which makes me calm considerably. She glowers at God before swatting him to get out of the way. I’m amazed she’d treat God this way. Is she God’s wife? Does God even have a wife? The Bible left out some very important parts. When she brushes her fingertips along the outside of my face and regards me tenderly, I notice her nametag says Heaven. I blink away the painful headache. When I focus again, I realize it says Neveah, not Heaven.
“You should leave,” she bites out to God.
“I’m not leaving,” he growls.
I wince at his tone, waiting for him to strike her with lightning bolts or something. All she does is huff and continue to check me over. They’re so attentive and thorough in Heaven.
“I don’t care who his daddy is,” she murmurs lowly to me. “You say the words, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in. Even if I have to lock his stubborn ass out.”
God has a daddy? You can say ass in Heaven?
Bitterness swells inside me. I don’t have a daddy or a mommy. Or anyone. My memories begin filing back inside my mind like soldiers marching to war. Loud. Persistent. Unyielding. The pain is so unbearable, I black out, blissfully so. When I come to, more people are in the room. Angels?
The man all dressed in white looks more like I’d imagined God to be. White hair. White mustache. Stern look. My eyes remain locked on the real God, though, as he leans against the wall in one corner. I’m mesmerized as they pull the tube from my throat. I cough and sputter while they feed me pieces of ice. The rooms spins the moment I let my eyes trail away from God.
“Don’t mind him,” the white-whiskered man says. “How are you feeling? Do you know your name?”
The pain increases its thumping tempo in my head. Like the bass beat in the kitchen at La-La’s. La-La’s is where I work. I have a job. Had. I had a job before I died.
“Dead,” I say with a raspy laugh.
God’s brows furl at my response, and I feel chastised. I’m probably failing heavenly tests left and right.
“My head hurts,” I admit to the man.
“We’ll talk more about your condition when you’re up for it. In the meantime, we need to assess how you’re doing. Do you know your name?”
“Zemira Coleman,” I utter. “I work at La-La’s. I’m a student at St. Augustine.”
The older man smiles. “Good. Very good. I’m Dr. Cooke.”
Doctor?
“I’m not in heaven?” I glance over at all the flowers. “I don’t understand.”
God approaches my bed, big brown puppy dog eyes pleading with me. What does he want from me? Why does he seem so sad?
“You’re at University Medical Center. The contusion on your head from the accident was life-threatening. Thankfully, doctors were on the scene and were able to keep you stable until the EMTs arrived. I was your surgeon. There was some swelling, but it’s gone down.” Dr. Cooke smiles gently at me. “You have a metal plate in your head, but you’re going to be okay.”
My eyes close for a moment. I remember orange. The sports car. Blinding pain. Snakes in my hair. Frantically, I reach up to my head. My big, beautiful hair is gone. In some places, it’s fuzzy, and everywhere else is shorn about an inch short.
“My hair,” I choke out. “Where’s my hair?”
Dr. Cooke frowns at me. “We had to cut it in surgery. I’m sorry, Zemira. It’ll grow back. The good news is you’re alive.”
A sob chokes my dry, brittle throat. I turn my eyes to God. Those familiar brown eyes are his. The man who hit me. Waves of nausea crash into me, and my stomach clenches violently. There’s a scramble to hand me a plastic container to vomit in, but nothing comes out. The only thing that escapes are pained wails. Neveah coos nearby as she strokes my arm. It does little to calm me.
“I’m sorry,” God…or whoever the hell he is, says softly.
“Why is he here?” I shriek, feeling the stirrings of a panic attack. “Why is the monster who hit me here?”
God flinches and looks away.
“Don’t just stand there!” I cry out, my voice a hoarse demand. “Leave!”
With another remorseful glance my way, he turns on his heel and storms out.
The headache that had been threatening swallows me up and drags me into the darkness.
I wake to the sound of rain on the window. It takes all of two minutes to remember I’m at the hospital. And yesterday, when I’d woken from my coma, after they juiced me up with pain medicine, they regretfully informed me I’ve been here for over two months. Over two months, I’ve laid in the hospital bed relying on machines to make me breathe. Tubes to push medicine and food into my system. And the entire time, he watched me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks from the rocking chair like the silent stalker he is.
Tears threaten, but I refuse to look at him. My gaze settles on the dark night and the rain drops on the window.
“Were you drunk?” I demand, my chin wobbling.
Silence.
“No.”
“High?”
“Not really.”
I turn my accusing glare on him. “Not really? What does that even mean?” And why is the universe so cruel, they’d make the man who hurt me so beautiful?
“It means I was a little fucked up, but still had my senses about me.” His jaw clenches as he stands.
“So, you were just running red lights for the fun of it?” I ask, the venom in my tone deadly.
He stalks my way, and I flinch at his approach. Anger flares in his brown eyes. “I didn’t do that shit for the fun of it. It was…” he trails off, running his fingers through his hair. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t make my hair grow back.” My hair is the least of my worries, but it’s the one that makes me the angriest. Everything else is gutting. If I’ve been here over two months, I’ve missed out on school and screwed up my financial aid. I have no job. My rent that was due came and went. I have no idea where my things are or how to pick up the pieces he so carelessly tossed to the ground.
“Z,” he groans.
“Do not call me that. My name is Zemira.”
Chastised, he bows his head, but doesn’t retreat. Instead, the bold jerk pats my leg. I have a cast on my left leg. Dr. Cooke said my tibia was broken cleanly, not requiring surgery, but I have to wear a cast for four to six months.
“Why are you even here?” I demand. “To clear your guilty conscience?”
“I want to help,” he murmurs in a husky voice that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“I don’t want your help.” I don’t want anyone’s help. It’s always been me. I help myself. “What I want is for you to go…and stop sending flowers. This is obnoxious.” Where I’d thought they were beautiful at first, now they suffocate me with their cloying attempt at an apology.
Neveah told me who he is. My silent stalker. He’s God all right. Baxter Samuel Goddard V, heir to an oil fortune and third richest family in the entire world. Two months ago, that would have intimidated me. Now, I don’t care. He’s probably hanging around to make sure I don’t sue him. Neveah says I should, but I just want him gone. I want to pick my life back up so I can fix it. There’s so much to fix.
“I can’t leave,” he says in a fierce tone. “I just can’t.”
“I’ll call security and they’ll make you leave,” I threaten.
He smirks. Beautiful monster. I hate that butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“My father donated millions to this hospital,” he boasts. “Millions, Z. They let me do whatever I want, including watch over you. Visiting hours don’t exist for me.”
I gape at him. The worried man melted away, a smug asshole growing in his place.
“Money can’t buy you everything,” I spit out, sounding lame even to my own ears.
He flashes me a lazy grin. “Says who? So far, it’s bought me everything.”
“Money is the root of all evil.” My words are meant to hurt him.
He simply shrugs. “It’s the only thing I have. I suppose that makes God the devil.”
God
Four days later…
“I can’t,” Zemira groans. “I can’t do it.”
Neveah purses her lips. “You have to. You have a broken leg, but you are not broken, sweetie. I can’t allow you to lie in this bed any longer.”
Zemira shoots a helpless look my way. The first time she’s even looked my way since our argument a few days ago. I rise and walk over to her opposite side. Tears swim in her pretty light brown eyes.
“If she doesn’t feel up to it…” I start, but trail off when Neveah gives me a scathing glare.
“Could you not?” Neveah snaps. “This is already difficult enough with you here.”
“I can’t do it,” Zemira tries again, her voice wobbling. “My head hurts too much. Everything spins when I sit up. I can’t walk down the hallway. What if I fall?” Her pleading eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to fall.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. I don’t know what to fucking do, but the devastating look in her eyes kills me. I take her hand, and surprisingly, she doesn’t draw away from me. “What if I go with you? You can hold on to me if you start to fall and I can carry you back.”
Neveah huffs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Okay,” Zemira says, a stubborn hint in her voice. “He owes me anyway.”
“A debt I’ll gladly pay,” I mutter.
She flinches and looks away, but attempts to sit up. Between Neveah and I, we get her into a sitting position with her short legs hanging off the side.
