Beat of the Heart

He shook his head. “Doc said so last time.”

With a shrug, I replied, “So you’ll have a bypass or two. It’s not the end of the world. People have them all the time. My abuelo in San Antonio had one a month ago. Good as new.”

Frank seemed to be weighing my words. The heart problems he’d dealt with in the last two years weren’t a secret to anyone on the crew or in the band. He’d had two separate angioplasties while during our down time not on tour. We hadn’t given it much thought since he had bounced back so easily both times.

“I just want to get it done back in Atlanta, okay? I want it to be with my doctor and where my boys can be with me.”

“You got it, man. We’ll get you back there ASAP, even if we have to call the label’s jet.”

“Thanks, son.”

With a wink, I squeezed his hand. “No problem.”

2

“Hey stronzo, why don’t you learn to use a fucking turning signal!” I shouted at the car that had just cut in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes and almost drop the bagel I was balancing on my thigh. Just like every morning as I battled Atlanta rush-hour traffic, I cursed like a sailor, or probably more like the hot-blooded Sicilian men I’d been raised around. I also pondered why I thought it was necessary to continue living in the burbs, rather than closer to the city and St. Joe’s—aka St. Joseph’s hospital—where I was a charge nurse on the Cardiac Care Floor.

Traffic edged along at a snail’s pace while I ate my bagel and cream cheese. I didn’t dare glance at the clock on the dashboard because I knew it would only piss me off more at how late I was going to be. Finally after a small eternity, I whipped into the parking deck. Once I eased the car into a parking spot, I reached for the hair clip on the strap of my purse. I wound my long, dark hair into a tight twist and clipped it into place. After throwing a glance in the rearview mirror to make sure I didn’t have bagel crumbs or cream cheese in my teeth, I grabbed my purse and threw open the car door.

When I pressed the lock on the key fob, I was once again reminded of the sting of grief that always accompanied that beep. A subtle grief trigger, as my therapist had called it. It certainly felt like a trigger had been pulled on a gun, lodging a bullet into my heart. The Mercedes convertible, SLK250, which was way out of my usual budget, had been Mama Sofia’s, my late grandmother.

After she died unexpectedly of a heart attack nine months ago, I found she had left implicit instructions in her will that I should have the car. Regardless of her slew of other grandchildren, she reasoned, that since it had originally been a gift from my father, it was mine outright. Considering her feisty personality and status as family matriarch, no one dared to question her motives. Whatever Mama Sofia said, you did. She was the youngest acting eighty-five-year old you would ever see. With a decorative scarf wrapped around her perfectly coiffed, bouffant hair, she always had the top down—even on her daily trip to mass.

Shifting my cup of coffee into my other hand, I rubbed my chest over my aching heart. After my mother had bailed on my dad when I was just a baby, Mama Sofia had been the only mother I’d ever known. She’d left her home in Jersey to come to Atlanta to help my father raise me. Her loss had shattered me to the core. As I made my way out of the parking deck, I shook my head, trying desperately to shake myself of the cloak of dark, smothering grief that seemed to hang tight around me.

Just a few minutes before seven, the hospital slowly stirred awake from the evening shift. I smiled and bobbed my head at the stream of bleary and beleaguered looking doctors and nurses heading out to their cars. I remembered all too well what it was like to pull the night shift—I’d gotten that experience years ago during my clinicals.

As I lurched off the elevator, I ran into my nursing partner and best friend, Derwin, or Dee, as he preferred to be known as. “Hey boss lady, settin’ a nice example being late. Again.”

“Bite me.”

A wide grin curved across his caramel colored skin. “Hmm, maybe if you were six feet of broad shouldered-muscled man, I might be tempted.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know how much it pisses me off to be late.” I set my cup of coffee down on the desk with a little more force than I intended, sending steaming liquid sloshing out. “Figlio di puttana!” I cried, before bringing my burning finger to my mouth.

Dee clutched his heart and staggered back a little. “Oh lawd, she’s already cussing in Italian. It’s gonna be a helluva a day.”

“Do me a huge favor and clean that up, please?”

He gave me a mock salute. “Yes ma’am.”

“Thanks, smartass.” Hustling into the break room, I shoved my purse into my locker. I slammed the door shut before returning to the front room to Dee. He had just finished tossing the soaked paper towel in the trash.

I gave my coffee a wary eye before picking it back up. “How’s it looking this morning?”

“Well, I was doing a little scan of the charts, and it seems one of the dudes we’re getting post-bypass is sorta famous.”

“Really?”

Dee bobbed his head, causing his tightly woven dreads to bounce slightly. “I guess you’d say famous by association. He’s the head roadie for Runaway Train.”

I slurped down another scorching gulp of coffee. “Who?”

With a frustrated grunt, Dee threw up his hand. “Girl, don’t tell me you don’t know who Runaway Train is?”

“Excuse me for not knowing every random band out there.”

Dee sank down into one of the station chairs. “They aren’t random—they were nominated for Best New Artist at the Grammys last year.”

I shrugged. “So?”

Reaching to gather up some charts, he replied, “And the band is made up of four incredibly hot dudes.”

“So that fact alone is supposed to make them worthy of my time?”

“Hell to the yes!”

“Just because they have dicks doesn’t make them worthy of my time or knowledge,” I huffed. Grabbing a chart from him, I cocked my brow. “So what kind of music do they play?”

“Light metal mixed with pop. Kinda like Maroon Five, Matchbox Twenty, or One Republic.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That’s why I don’t know them. You know I only listen to country, the classic Italian crooners, or…rap,” I replied, as I dug my stethoscope out of a drawer.

Dee gave a contemptuous snort. “You only listened to rap because of Dev.”