Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(14)

I choked down a dinner of soup, curled up on the rock hard bed, and cried myself to sleep.

Big mistake.

Sobbing drained the little energy I had left. I’d been warned in the hospital to avoid exertion. I’d been told to get rest, take my medicine, and take it easy. I still had the prescription slips in the back pocket of my jeans. Without my insurance card, it’d cost more than I had to fill the damned things.

I could tough it out. I’d done it before. All I needed was to get a lot of rest. My hike across Queens to get my new driver’s license card and debit card hadn’t helped me, but I had needed a place to stay. Why couldn’t people understand that?

I didn’t have anyone to take care of me, and that was that. I probably never would, but I had no one to blame for that but myself. Through a blur of fever and chills, I forced myself to get up and take care of the bare minimum. I drank all my water, thanked God the tub was somewhat new, and even managed to eat my soup like I was supposed to. Every waking moment I spent coughing so much I could barely breathe.

Several times I considered reaching for the phone to call a cab and return to the hospital. That would’ve been the smart thing to do, but I stayed put and weathered the storm instead.

I considered it an accomplishment I managed to leave my room to stagger back to the bodega, pet the owner’s new kitten, and hike back to the hotel burdened with cans of soup, bottles of water, and packs of cough drops. I stopped by the desk and paid to extend my stay. If I didn’t feel less like a plague bearer by the end of the week, I’d succumb to the inevitable and call for a cab.

The soup would have tasted a lot better if I had heated it before pouring it down my throat. I plunked a bottle of water on the nightstand, flopped into bed, and passed out.

Hindsight, as always, was perfect, and I should’ve just returned to the hospital on my own like a sane person, as I ended up there anyway. Unfortunately, I had no memory of going, which was never a good sign. Another not-so-good sign was my hallucination of Chief Quinn beside my hospital bed wearing a button-up shirt and a pair of jeans he must have stolen from an incubus.

Instead of his normal, clean-shaven jaw, the scruff of a new beard turned him from pristine model to rugged and lethally sexy.

Only my twisted psyche would produce an illusion of my heaven and hell wrapped in one glorious package, present him in clothes I wanted to strip him out of, and leave me to wallow in my misery and guilt over my bountiful stupidity.

Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

My hallucination was a persistent little bugger, sticking around while I contemplated why I might be imagining him in a chair beside me, close enough I could touch him if I could move my arm. It took me a long time to understand they had me hooked up to a ventilator, which explained the whole sexy hallucination thing.

Bummer.

I contemplated trying to say something, but the mask on my face made speaking difficult. Not only did ventilators suck, they blew, too, and made it far too much work to do anything other than stare at the gorgeous imaginary Chief Quinn my twisted little brain had thoughtfully provided for me. I gave up trying to do anything productive and decided to take a nap, hoping for a suit-clad model when I woke up.

I got the dress uniform model instead. Score. He was talking to another cop, one in a regular uniform, and judging from the tone of Chief Quinn’s voice, the blurry figure had done something to deserve a scolding. I knew all about needing a scolding—or a spanking. Yes, I definitely needed a spanking from Chief Quinn. Then again, if push came to shove, I’d be happy to be the one doing the spanking.

Imaginary Chief Quinn provided me with a spectacular view of his back, but he ruined it by leaving with the other cop. Far too late, I realized I hadn’t tried to apologize.

Damn it.

The next time I woke up, I was free of the ventilator. My subconscious decided fake Chief Quinn needed to be dressed in a… actually, I had no idea what he was wearing, except it resembled a gym uniform of some sort. I didn’t approve of it, not one bit, and after a fierce battle with my own tongue, I told him so.

Crap. Why did I keep forgetting to apologize?

It could wait until he came back in better clothes. I promptly returned to my nap so I wouldn’t have to subject myself to his wretched attire for another instant.

My stupid subconscious decided I needed to be punished for my rudeness, so she inflicted an endless stream of gym model Chief Quinns on me. At least I recognized one of the jerseys as supporting the Lakers.

Wait a second. The Lakers? Why the hell was a proud member of the NYPD, a chief of police, wearing a Lakers jersey? Unacceptable. “What the hell? Los Angeles? Gym model Chief Quinn sucks. Knicks or bust.” Every last one of my words was slurred, and gym model Chief Quinn stopped tormenting the other cop in my room. “Want suit model.”

I was whining. I decided I didn’t care. Hallucinations couldn’t tattle on me anyway.

Gym model Chief Quinn stepped to my bedside and looked down his pretty nose at me. “Do I want to ask?”

Yay! The gym model could talk, and he didn’t sound too pissed at me for once. “Ooooh. Never mind. Lakers gym model can talk, and he doesn’t hate me.”

I thought the occasion was worthy of a happy squeal. The Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn didn’t seem quite so enthused. Unsurprising, really. “What are you talking about, Gardener?”

Not only was he talking to me in a civil fashion with a curious tone of voice, he had asked me a question I could answer. “Jeans model Chief Quinn brooded and didn’t talk. Angry as usual, because let’s face it, you hate me because I’m a terrible person. God help me, the dress uniform model might have lit my panties on fire. Dear God, that view.” I giggled, then a thought struck me. “Wait. Am I even wearing panties? Did the dress uniform model really light them on fire? Oh, bother. Bad dress uniform model.” I giggled again and tried to focus on the second hallucination my subconscious had so kindly provided. “Right, second hallucination person?”