Crown of Sins - Chaelisa

-Chapter Twenty Two-

*Lisa's POV*

"What the fuck do you want?" I answer my phone, eyes still closed with the click of one of the side buttons. It was a fifty-fifty shot that I'd have silenced them instead.

It's the middle of the night.

Not that I sleep all that well anyway, despite the special mattress and blankets and pillow-and whatever the fuck money can buy that's supposed to help you sleep. But that doesn't mean I don't do it occasionally.

When the blackout curtains are pulled just right, and I've had the perfect amount of whiskey, and, lately, if I haven't seen Roseanne. Then I can get a good four hours solid sleep.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights, though. And that may contribute to my snapping. Whoever it is on the other end is an easier target than the real issues, and lucky them that I hit the right button.

"Manoban." A surprisingly neutral voice comes through. It's not a questions, just my name-not even agent along with it.

I can't explain why, but it has me sitting up in an instant. I'm just lucky it wasn't my senior agent.

"Yeah," I say, trying to clench around a yawn, making me sound gruffer than before. Waiting for the explanation, or request, or whatever is about to come next, I dig into my eyes with a balled fist that's all knuckles and then let my fingers drag down my face after to scratch the scruff I should probably shave tomorrow. Which is today.

"What?" I add, louder, now that I've placed the voice. The strain deepening Shawn's voice threw me off at first.

"I shouldn't be making this call. But here we are," Shawn says, and I piece apart what I'd thought of as concern, but seems to be two parts disappointment and one apprehension, with just a dash of impatience and disbelief.

"Here we are, waiting for you to spit it out," I say, swinging my legs off the bed and around onto the carpet.

I won't be going back to sleep anyway, even if this isn't worth it, despite though the neon numbers shining at me from my dresser telling me it's three in the morning. Before I stand though, I want to at least know why I'm getting up.

"You're going to want to go to Mercy." The hospital. Shawn's telling me to go to the hospital. Well, his words are. His tone on the other hand has switched to part antagonistic and I-told-you-so, holding onto the disappointment from before.

"Listen. Before you called I was getting my beauty sleep and feeling great about it. I'm pretty sure I'm fine right here in bed. No ambulance needed," I say.

I can almost feel the disdain drip from my words as I keep a neutral face somehow. This cannot be what he called for.

"Don't say I didn't try," Shawn says with a sound from the back of his throat dotting the end of his tolerance of me. The phone in my hand goes dark, and all I can do is stare ahead in the dark room.

Red flags are jumping up everywhere, but there's nowhere for them to land, let alone stick. Whatever Shawn meant, it was serious. But that's about all I can piece together.

Standing, I move toward the bathroom-maybe a shower will help. Then coffee after that. Maybe then I'll figure out why the hell I'm supposed to be going to the hospital.

Only I don't make it off the thick carpet and onto the marble tile before my phone starts ringing again.

Note to self: whenever I burn out or get shot and relegated to a desk, don't let my next position require my work phone always be on.

It may make me a bit immature, possibly comparable to my toddler nephews, but I sure as hell stomp my way back toward my bed. And I scoop up the phone with so much force, it almost flies from my fingers in the upward swing.