Lies You Tell Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Loose Id Titles by LaQuette

  LaQuette

  St. Jared’s Memorial Hospital 1:

  LIES YOU TELL

  LaQuette

  www.loose-id.com

  St. Jared’s Memorial Hospital 1: Lies You Tell

  Copyright © September 2016 by LaQuette

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781682522165

  Editor: Katriena Knights

  Cover Artist: Syneca Featherstone

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 170549

  San Francisco CA 94117-0549

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  To Mason and Mackenzie. Aunty has waited a very long time for your arrival.

  To my friends and family at Jacobi Medical Center. This was written in celebration of all the wonderful and insane times we encountered together. Love you forever.

  Acknowledgment

  To God, from whom all blessings flow, thank you for the gift, the desire, the support, and the opportunity. To Damon. This does not happen without you. Love you forever. To Sterling and Semaj, my heartbeats, the best parts of me. To my family and friends, thank you for putting up with my craziness. To Treva and the Loose Id family, thank you for the opportunity and the support. To Latoya, thank you for constructing a plan to realize my dreams. To Katriena and Jules, thank you for making my crazy sound amazing. To Lexie Craig, thank you for supplying me with my new motto, “Hustle until you don’t have to introduce yourself” (unknown). To all of my JMC and LIJ people, your love strengthens me. To my Loungers, you guys hold me down and keep me going. Thank you so much for the loyalty and encouragement. To the readers, you will never know how much I appreciate your support Thank you for taking this journey with me.

  Thank you for embracing my crazy.

  ~LaQuette

  Chapter One

  Sanai Ward slid the gearshift of her compact car into park and allowed her body to slump down into the cloth bucket seats.

  The day was finally over, and the relief of her home was just a few steps out of the car and up the stairs to the two-family house she was sitting in front of. The stretch of three twelve-hour shifts in a row combined with the forty-five minute drive back and forth from Brooklyn to the Bronx had her contemplating sleeping in her car for just a few minutes.

  She slung heavy legs out of the driver’s door and used the wheel and the side panel for leverage as she finally made it curbside. Stretching the tight muscles of her back, she pushed through the black iron gate and made her way to the five concrete steps that led to the front door.

  She pulled a handful of keys from her pocket, each clicking against one another on a large metal ring as she sorted through them. It took longer than it should have, considering she’d been using the same keys in the same locks for the past six years, but she finally found the two that would let her into the house.

  She’d just reached the second-floor landing of her upstairs apartment when the door swung open and a small blur of dark curls and flailing limbs came charging at her.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” he squealed as he took a running leap at her. He crashed against her in a hard tackle, wrapping his entire body around her midsection and legs.

  Needing a moment to catch her breath and her balance, she steadied herself as best she could against the doorframe.

  “Nazario, let Mama inside,” came the gentle reprimand from her landlady. Mrs. Rossi’s short, round body shuffled down the hall as she neared the doorway. She poked the clinging child in his side and elicited high-pitched giggles from him. He released Sanai and crumbled to the floor as he succumbed to the Italian matron still attacking him with her pudgy tickling finger.

  When she gave the child reprieve, he jumped up and gave Mrs. Rossi a hug and then ran back inside the apartment.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Rossi,” Sanai offered as she finally crossed the threshold of her apartment. “How was he last night?”

  “Nazario is good boy,” she beamed, the colorful sound of her Italian heritage still rich in what Mrs. Rossi termed her “broken” English.

  “You always say he’s good, even when he’s not,” Sanai countered, unable to keep the smile from creeping up her lips.

  “He’s boy,” Mrs. Rossi answered. “He should jump and play and bounce. Is not true?”

  Sanai was too tired to argue with Mrs. Rossi. A surrogate grandmother for her son, she spoiled him and loved him the way only a grandmother could. Some days it was infuriating, because she let the little imp get away with so much. But on days like today, when work had swallowed more time and energy than Sanai had to spare, knowing her son was in the hands of someone who treasured him put her heart and mind at ease.

  “He’s ready for bed. I left plate inside microwave. Leftovers in fridge for rest of week.”

  “Mrs. Rossi, I told you I didn’t want you slaving for us in the kitchen. I can cook for us.”

  The older woman poked out pursed lips and waved both hands at Sanai. “Ordering Chinese and pizza not cooking,” the woman grumbled and stepped through the doorway.

  Sanai laughed. No need to be offended, especially when the woman was speaking the truth. Sanai actually could cook, but her hectic schedule as a respiratory therapist at one of the busiest level-one trauma centers in the Bronx just didn’t leave a lot of time for homemade meals.

  “He had fever again w
hen he woke up from nap.”

  “How high?”

  “One hundred one point five,” Mrs. Rossi answered. “I gave the liquid ibuprofen. He go sleep, he wake fine.”

  Sanai nodded absently, her focus no longer on Mrs. Rossi. How many times has he had a fever this month? If her count was correct, that was probably the third time. Fever by itself wasn’t really enough to alarm her—kids got fevers of unknown origins all the time. But Nazario had been complaining of fatigue too, although you couldn’t tell it by how he was just plastered against her a few moments ago. Maybe I should take him in for a checkup?

  “Thanks for all your help, Mrs. Rossi.” Sanai smiled and leaned down to place a soft kiss on the older woman’s plump cheek.

  Mrs. Rossi smiled and placed a gentle pat on Sanai’s cheek in response. “Such good girl,” she muttered before ambling down the hall and down the stairs to her own apartment.

  Sanai closed the door and placed her clogs on the shoe rack waiting two steps behind it. Socked feet on carpeted floor dragged a long sigh from Sanai’s mouth. She reached inside her royal blue scrub pants and pulled her cellphone from her pocket.

  Sliding her finger across the third contact in her favorites list, she put the phone to her ear and waited for the call to be answered.

  “Didn’t I just leave you?”

  Sanai laughed at the grumbling voice coming through the phone.

  “Yeah, but I need a favor.”

  “What?” the voice barked.

  Sanai chuckled again. “Come on, Becca, it’s not even for me. It’s for your favorite five-year-old.”

  “What does my snuggle-bunny need?” All the irritation seemed to bleed out of the voice in Sanai’s ear and was replaced by a bubbly giggle.

  “God, you’re a grown medical professional. You’d think you could sound less like a snickering cheerleader on the phone.”

  “Whatever.”

  Sanai laughed and shook her head. No sense in trying to make her best friend be an adult. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  Sanai had met Rebecca Stevenson three years ago. They’d both started at the hospital at the same time. Sanai had just graduated from a two-year community college in the city, and Becca had finished medical school. They’d clicked after their first overnight shift together and had been inseparable since.

  Now, three years later, Becca’s residency was complete. She was now an attending physician in the very same pediatric emergency room where they’d met.

  “Are you rotating through the PEDS clinic tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I’m scheduled for the next four weeks. You know we have to put in four weeks a year in the clinic. I’d rather just get it over with at one time so I don’t have to see that place in the near future.”

  “You have any space in your schedule tomorrow to see Naz?”

  “Is he okay? It’s not time for his annual yet.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just he’s been getting these fevers lately. No rhyme or reason to them. He just gets them. We treat for a few days with antipyretics, but they keep coming back.”

  “Anything else strange?”

  “He’s had a few bouts of fatigue where he spends a good part of the day sleeping. I know it doesn’t sound like much. I’m just being overly cautious.”

  “You know how I feel when it comes to the babies. Better to be safe than sorry. My last patient is scheduled for five in the evening. Meet me in my office at six, and I’ll check him out and run some tests.”

  “Thanks, Becca.”

  “No thanks necessary,” she answered. “You know I’d do anything for the munchkin.”

  Sanai ended the call and continued down the hall until she was standing in her living room, where her son was sprawled out on the couch while the TV blasted the Salvation Squad theme song into the air.

  “Naz, one episode and then bedtime,” she warned. He nodded absently as he focused on the screen. “I’m not playing, only one.”

  Satisfied he’d heard her, or at the very least pretended to, she walked back to her bedroom and stripped her scrubs off, throwing them in their own hamper. After all the nasty stuff she encountered during the course of her day in the hospital, she didn’t want those uniforms touching anything else she wore.

  She padded into the bathroom and reached into the shower-tub combo and pushed the single handle to the center position. When the cloud of steam began to fill the room she grabbed her loud, neon pink shower cap, secured it, and stepped directly under the spray.

  She braced her hands on the wall in front of her, too tired to trust her balance in a wet tub. The soothing heat of the spray gentled her tense muscles and eased her. Last night had been a particularly horrible night. A car accident involving four joyriding teenagers on the Hutchinson Parkway had kept her on her feet for most of her twelve hours in the PEDS ER. Their extensive injuries had placed two of them at the end of her laryngoscope, intubated and ventilated while they waited for ICU beds upstairs.

  The image of her son, aged ten years older, popped into her mind. She didn’t even have to strain to conjure an image of what Nazario would look like at fifteen. Especially when she could still remember the origins of his features so clearly. The impression of a man with a five-ten, stocky build that was more familiar to her than she wanted to remember clouded her mind. Dark, thick curls that she loved to touch, and wide, ink-black eyes that sparkled with intelligence and inquisitiveness, accompanied by prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw. The image spilled a shiver down her spine despite the near-scalding temperature of the water pelting her skin. It was too familiar, too powerful, a face she needed to forget. Too bad six years of trying still yielded her no success.

  * * * *

  Dante’s quick steps had him off of the elevator and in front of the pediatric ICU, stabbing the intercom button repeatedly, in a matter of seconds. An unwelcome call had woken him from his sleep with the news that his godson, his best friend’s boy, Anthony Jr., was fucking around in his dad’s car with some friends and had managed to plow Big Tony’s sedan into a guardrail on the Hutch. Thank God the boy was alive. Tony’s broken voice hadn’t made Dante confident that his survival was guaranteed, though.

  A long buzz rang in the air. The locks to the unit door turned and the double doors opened slowly outward. Dante walked along the semicircular unit until he saw Big Tony’s wide block of shoulders.

  “Brother,” Dante murmured as he walked into the dark room, pulling Big Tony’s attention away from the frighteningly still figure in the bed.

  “You came?” The choked-out words were lost in the air as Big Tony pulled Dante into a tight, full-bodied hug.

  “You told me my godson was in an accident. Of course I’m coming.” Dante turned out of his friend’s embrace and gazed down at Anthony Jr. The soft, round curves of his face hadn’t yet given way to the angles that were just beneath the surface of Anthony Jr.’s fading baby fat. Dante’s jaw clamped shut as he assessed the many black-and-blue spots on the boy’s face and arms. Without thought, he made the sign of the cross from head to chest, shoulder to shoulder, ending by kissing his shaking fingers. Leaning down into the bed, he placed a small kiss on the teenager’s forehead.

  Where were the bright blue eyes that would light up with excitement every time Anthony Jr. laid eyes on Dante? Where was that crooked grin that would spread wide across his face whenever he heard Dante call “Niptoe!” across a crowded room at one of the many family events Big Tony and the rest of the Giordano clan hosted? The boy he’d held in his arms on his first day of life, the boy he’d loved like a son of his own was gone, and in his place was battered flesh, broken bones, and beeping machines.

  Dante’s breath caught in his chest. Every time he tried to pull in a breath, pain laced tight fingers around his heart and squeezed like a son of a bitch. Heat spread through Dante, burning from the inside, consuming him. His boy, maybe not in flesh and blood, but in every other way that mattered, was lying so still Dante feared he might never move agai
n.

  He looked down and focused on the wide strawlike tube secured between Anthony Jr.’s lips by some sort of holder that circled from the back of his neck, each end locking together over his mouth, and he shuddered. You’re not worried about him not moving again. You’re afraid he won’t make it out of this hospital bed alive.

  “Tell me what the hell happened, Big Tony,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Because if this is anything more than some kids doing stupid shit and getting hurt, someone is going to die.”

  * * * *

  “Give me five,” Becca singsonged as she held up her palm, waiting for Nazario to comply. The energetic five-year-old slapped her palm with all the enthusiasm he could muster after having his blood drawn.

  Sanai watched the exchange between two of her favorite people on the planet and smiled. No matter the circumstance, as long as Becca was caring for him, Sanai knew her son was in capable hands.

  “Everything good?” Sanai asked.

  Becca reached out and tousled Nazario’s hair. “Kiddo, Doreen has some graham crackers stashed in the cabinet behind her desk. Go ask her for some.”

  Nazario bounced out of the examination room and headed directly for the receptionist’s desk. When she was certain the boy was out of earshot, Sanai closed the exam door and turned to her friend.

  “What’s wrong?” Sanai asked. She recognized that tone Becca was using. Sanai had used it more than she cared to in the last three years in order to deliver upsetting news to parents about their ailing children.

  Becca held up her hands in an “I surrender” motion. “Hold on, I don’t know anything. I’m just following protocol at this point. You know this is the only way we’ll find out anything, Sanai.”

  Sanai nodded. Becca was right. There was a protocol you followed to establish cause for the symptoms her boy was exhibiting. Becca wasn’t lying about not knowing anything at this stage. However, they both knew that there was knowing, and then there was knowing, and if Becca’s tone was any indication, she knew something, but she just wasn’t ready to share it with Sanai.