Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(15)

“You’re so high right now, Gardener,” the second hallucination replied.

Oh. I knew the second hallucination. “Perky? Yay, it’s Perky. Hey, Perky! Perky?”

“This is going to be so, so good. What is it, you crazy woman?”

Confessing embarrassing things couldn’t hurt when I was talking to the hallucinations my subconscious provided, right? “I want the suit model or the dress uniform model for Christmas.”

“I’ll have a talk with Santa about that for you. How does that sound?”

“Huh. Santa’s never visited me before. It’s probably his fault I turned out so bad. He never gave me any coal. He should’ve. It’s not fair. If you tell Santa, he’ll agree I don’t deserve the suit model or the dress uniform model,” I wailed.

“Good job, Perkins,” the Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn muttered. “She was happy for all of ten seconds, and you just had to go and ruin it.”

Perky shoved his way to my bedside, pushing the complaining gym model out of his way. “I’ll make sure the suit model shows up in time for Christmas, okay? Just please don’t cry. Please? I’ll beg. If Santa tries to tell me you don’t deserve it, I’ll kick his sack.”

I sniffled. “Promise?”

“I’m going to hell for this, aren’t I?” Perky sighed. “Yes, Gardener. I promise. You’ll get a suit model Chief Quinn in time for Christmas.”

“You’re so going to hell,” the gym model muttered.

“I should tell you to shut up, but you’re the only model who talks to me.” It was a stupid thing to cry over, but I did it anyway.

Stupid, inconsiderate subconscious, providing me with equally stupid hallucinations determined to make me cry. Damn them all.





While I was fairly certain the satyr nurse and my doctor were real, they interacted with my hallucinations to screw with me. The oversized pixie doctor with a dust complex and a general inability to cope with my immunity was the worst offender, but I understood why. Happy patients healed faster, and most of the Chief Quinn models made me cry within ten minutes. I wanted to blame the drugs Dr. Valleychime kept insisting on dosing me with, but it was my fault.

Every time I had tried to apologize to Chief Quinn, it came out wrong. The last time, I had told him he’d look better naked, and he got so mad at me he left. I had thought he’d blushed, too, but then I had decided I was just seeing things.

To my disappointment, the dress uniform and suit models didn’t make an appearance.

The Lakers model showed up with Perky in tow, and I sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be one of New York’s finest?”

“I am.” Chief Quinn dragged over a seat so he could sit beside my bed. “What do you have against the Lakers?”

“Nothing, except that’s a Los Angeles team. We’re in New York.”

“He’s doing it to piss you off, Gardener. He’s got his regular clothing in a bag just outside the door.” Perky peered at the monitor near the head of the bed. “Jesus. They still have you on the crazy stuff. Do us all a favor and get better already. Sir, please put on something nice for her so she doesn’t blame me when she believes Santa hates her.”

“No.”

It was my turn to sigh. “But Santa does hate me. So does Chief Quinn. It’s okay, Perky. This model talks to me.” I gave my crappy thin blanket a flick with a finger. “Dr. Valleychime hates me, too.”

Chief Quinn stiffened in his seat. “Why?”

“Pixie dust.” How could one stupid substance bring me so much misery? “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

There. After countless hallucinations, I’d finally managed to choke out an apology.

Perky cleared his throat. “I think it’s because Dr. Valleychime is a pixie doctor specializing in long-term recovery and the mental and emotional well-being of patients in this hospital, sir. He gets sensitive when he can’t just flutter his pretty little wings and make most patient satisfaction problems go away. Considering he’s packing the good stuff, she’s probably stung his pride a little. She’s good at that. She’s a rose, but she’s all thorns.”

I couldn’t argue with him. “I’m sorry.”

Hey, I got out two apologies in one conversation. Maybe there was hope for me after all.

“For once in your life, could you just be quiet, Gardener?”

The Lakers model hated me, too, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry again.

My doctor fluttered in through the door, took one look at my imaginary visitors, and sighed. “If you can’t stop triggering depressive episodes with my patient, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Great. Dr. Valleychime was talking to my hallucinations again just to mess with me.

Chief Quinn snorted.

My doctor glared at the police chief before turning his attention to me. “Do you want me to have him removed, Miss Gardener?”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t just make a hallucination disappear, but if you could get him to take his shirt off, I’d be totally okay with that.”

At the rate my doctor was sighing, I worried he’d have an aneurism. Lifting his hand, he rubbed his temple. “What did I do to deserve this? Miss Gardener, Chief Quinn is not a hallucination, and neither is Dr. Perkins.”