Doctor Orizaga assured me he'd come and check on my progress, and that Doctors Hospital was renowned for the best physical therapy department this side of Miami. It was also one of the most expensive medical facilities in the northern hemisphere, but as he'd said before, cost was not a concern.
Of course I knew who my benefactor was. Why he never came to visit was another matter, and one I spent a great deal of time speculating on. All my expenses were paid, fresh flowers would appear each morning in my private room, and according to my nurse, I had a private supply of rum raisin ice cream in the community fridge.
She assured me there was no reason to put a special label on it, as no one in their right mind would touch rum raisin ice cream.
Days melded into weeks. I'd graduated from the chair cycle to leg presses sooner than they'd expected, played around on the rowing machine for my own amusement, and had gone from a walker to a cane in half the time Orizaga predicted.
I hit my one and only snag the day the wanted to put rehab weights on my ankles. They were colorful, nylon bands, secured to one's legs via industrial strips of Velcro. I told my PT fuck those very much, and find something else to use. No one was securing anything to my ankles, wrists, or other body parts as long as I lived.
Which brought me back to thoughts of Maddox. I didn't know if I should thank him or tell him to go fuck himself again. At this current juncture in time, I couldn't do either. He'd quite literally disappeared off the face of the earth.
I had spent more hours than I cared to admit in the hospital common room, searching the internet from one end to the other, and couldn't find shit. The only item I did stumble across was an article in the Wall Street Journal, dated a few days after our rescue by Cuban lobster trawlers. There were no external links, nothing else to click on, just a rather blasé piece that announced the unexpected disbanding of Petersen & Stiller. Other than that, nada.
There were the usual speculations and fan-theories ranging from alien abduction to psychological collapse (as per normal of rich bastards with too much responsibility on their plates) but unfortunately, these were all conjectures and suppositions. Nothing of substance. All that was clear to me was his disappearing act pissed me off. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became.
What kind of a son-of-a-bitch lays down hundreds of thousands of dollars for someone's medicinal care, then vanishes without a trace? What, was this his half-baked attempt at painting himself as some kind of asshole Robinhood? Did he think he was some kind of benevolent, mysterious hero? Riding off into the sunset with a tip of the hat, never to be seen again?
I stabbed my spoon in the last of my rum raisin ice cream. I'd plowed my way through the entire five gallons during my month and a half in Nassau. Good thing Orizaga put his doctor's blessing on my release tomorrow. Another week here and I'd end up weighing two hundred pounds.
According to the exit staff, I'd be flying back first class, with a brand new team of nurses and therapists to oversee my continued rehab in the States All paid in full by, you guessed it, Anonymous.
So, was Anonymous going to meet me at the airport? Or was I really supposed to never see him again? And why the fuck did I give a shit either way?
Because he moved something inside me, that's why. As fucked up as it was, there was something between us. Building a relationship on the foundation of a common tragedy (not to mention felony kidnapping) could not possibly be healthy by any stretch of the imagination. Some may even call it sick, and toxic. Completely and totally unnatural.
And for some reason, that really appealed to me. He appealed to me.
I licked the last of the ice cream from the spoon, and checked my slightly foggy reflection in the back of it. It was hazy, like the porthole on the Dicey. Where I'd pulled Maddox down to me, and kissed him.
Oh, dear Lord. I'd kissed him. And it was the most fantastic kiss of my life. His touch, his body, close to mine. The way the boat rocked against the gentle sea…
So strange and unexpected, the tenderness in that kiss. Maddox Petersen was nothing more than a monster. A heartless, soulless, corporate killing machine, and now, alone in the community room of a Bahamian hospital, I knew otherwise.
I found myself wondering, on the fifth floor of the physical therapy department of all places, whether or not he was capable of making love to someone without the accessories and scenarios – the physical representations of his psyche's manifesto.
I stood up from my chair, slowly, allowing the muscles in my hip and leg to catch up with my intention. That maneuver was going to be key to my recovery – leaning into the pain instead of retracting from it – and it promised to hurt like the ultimate bitch for months.
I took my cane from the side of the table, and made my way toward the bay window. The moon rise promised to be beautiful tonight, and I wanted to catch at least a glimpse of it before I left for the States. The moon was different in Nassau. Brighter, somehow. It rather reminded me of a flashlight, a divine flashlight, beaming down from the darkness.
There was a sign in the corner of the pane, reminding patients to Please Do Not Open Window! It was next to an old-fashioned crank, which squeaked when I turned it. Letting the musty air out, and the fresh breeze of the
