***

Four hours later, Max is wheeled into his room in the ICU. Colton and I jump up from our chairs. The attending physician informs us the tests are clear. No fractures or brain damage. He diagnoses brain swelling and a severe concussion. He can’t predict when Max will regain consciousness.

“Mr. Huntington has a hard head,” Colton murmurs after the doctor leaves.

“The hardest.”

Colton snorts a laugh, and I manage a half smile.

“Am I missing the party?” Pinkaluscious pulls back the curtain. Although she is almost unrecognizable in dress pants, pearls, and a silk blouse, I would recognize that fake, platinum blond hair anywhere.

“Sandy.” Colton holds out his arms.

“Oh, Colton.” Pinkaluscious evades his arms and air-kisses him. The urge to toss her out on her bony ass surges through me like a tidal wave—or maybe I should take a picture and post it on Twitter.

“What’s she doing here?” Pinkaluscious asks, her eyes flicking to me.

“You know why she’s here. She’s Max’s girl.”

“I’m Max’s girl,” she snaps. “He told me he broke it off with her. He was coming home with me tonight.”

I hold my breath hoping her mascara will run as she fake sobs beside Max’s bed. Or maybe one of her false eyelashes will come off. Better yet, she might trip over her four-inch stilettos and chip a tooth.

“You were,” Colton says quietly. “You aren’t now.”

“She’s the reason he’s lying in that bed.” Pinkaluscious glares at me. “She drove him to it. He couldn’t deal with the stress. Normal fights weren’t enough.” She looks over Colton’s shoulder and gives me a self-satisfied evil bitch grin. “She sent him back to me.”

My hands clench into fists and my jaw twitches. I will not lower myself to her standards. I will not catfight. I will hold up my head and walk away.

“I hope she suffers,” she continues as if I wasn’t standing in the room. “Look at Max. Look what she did to him. She should crawl back under her rock and leave Max with his own kind.”

“What kind is that?” My seething and inquiring mind wants to know.

“The better kind. Society.”

Colton excuses himself and leaves the room, mumbling something about catfights. I should have told him Makayla Delaney does not do fights—catfights, fistfights, or otherwise.

Or maybe I do.

“He told me he wanted no part of it,” I say.

“That’s why we should have been together.” A tear trickles down her rosy cheek. “We were perfect for each other.”

“So what happened?” Please tell me. Please tell me. Please tell me.

“He said I wasn’t the one. I wanted more than he could give.”

“What could you possibly want that he wouldn’t give?”

She turns to face me, her eyes devoid of expression. “Pain.”

“Pain?”

She sighs. “Never mind. You couldn’t possibly understand. He just…couldn’t hurt me.”

Gah. TMI. Where’s the bleach?

“To be perfectly honest,” she continues, “I don’t know what he sees in you. You have nothing to offer him. You don’t have a pedigree or money or even connections. And I can tell by looking at you that you sure as heck can’t give him what he needs in the bedroom.”

“I can give him love.”

She rolls her eyes. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“I’ll let you know.”

She searches through her insanely expensive Birkin handbag and pulls out her phone. A piece of paper falls out. She bends down to pick it up. Her bony ass waves in front of me. I whip my old phone out of my jacket pocket. The antiquated camera takes grainy pictures at best, but I don’t need twenty megapixels to get my point across.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. SNAP. I do it.

She kisses Max lightly on the forehead. “Tell him I said good-bye. I found a way to break with the family. He knows how to find me.”

“He wasn’t going home with you tonight, was he?” I say on a hunch.

Pinkaluscious shoves aside the curtain and then looks back over her shoulder and sighs. “He said there was no chance we would ever get back together. He said he loved you.”

I wait until Pinkaluscious is gone before I tweet her ass. I’ll bet it doesn’t trend.

***

I sit beside Max and stroke his hand, careful not to touch the IV tube taped to his wrist. A warm orange glow from the hallway streams under the privacy curtain, and the fresh, sharp smell of disinfectant assails my nostrils. Machines beep. Nurses murmur. Crocs squeak on the tiled floor.

Max stirs and I jerk my head in his direction. I have never watched him sleep before. His face is relaxed, peaceful, and more sensual in its softness. I brush my hand over his cheek and his head moves. My heart pounds wildly. I glance up, hoping to see him looking at me, but his eyes remain closed, and his heart monitor continues to beep in a steady rhythm.

“I know you can hear me,” I tell him. “I’ve read about the unconscious mind. You might not process the information in the same way, but you understand.” I wait for a response, but when it doesn’t come, I continue talking. Words spill out of my mouth, tumbling over each other so quickly they are almost unintelligible. I tell Max about my childhood and how the happiness of each day was dependent on how much my father drank. I tell him about hiding with Susie in the closet on the bad nights and listening to the sickening thud of fists hitting flesh, knowing the next day Mom wouldn’t be able to go out because of the bruises.