Endless Possibility: a RUSH novella (City Lights 3.5) by Emma Scott

thickly accented voice. “I help.”
    I was about to politely decline, but my legs felt like jelly and my hands shook. The migraine was roaring in the background. What is wrong with me?
    “Where do you go?” the man asked again. “Hospital?”
    “No, no. No hospital. Hassler,” I managed. “Hotel Hassler.”
    I heard whistling and shouts, and then I was being guided into a cab—or so I hoped. My rescuer climbed in beside me.
    “Per favore, Hotel Hassler, e rapido.”
    “You don’t have to…” I started, but gave up. I didn’t know how much English my helper knew and the cab was already moving anyway.
    It had been a short walk from my hotel to the Trevi: the cab arrived in less than five minutes. I dug for my wallet, but felt a hand on my wrist.
    “No. Sit.”
    I nodded weakly. Sitting was good. Lying down would be better. After some back and forth in Italian, the door opened on my side and my rescuer was helping me out. He guided me up the steps and into the cool of the hotel. I knew he’d led me to the right place—the sounds and smells were as I remembered them.
    “Va bene, adesso?”
    “Uh, sure. Thank you. Thank you, very much. Let me pay you for the cab…”
    “No, no.” A rough hand patted my shoulder. “Prenditi cura di ti. Take care, eh?”
    Another nameless, faceless stranger, here and gone again. My world was populated with them; guardian angels I would never meet again, but who made it possible for me to take the next step to Charlotte.
    I made my way to my room on the third floor, and sat on the edge of the bed. I wanted to collapse down and sleep, but something damn close to fear held me rigid.
    “It was the heat. And exhaustion,” I said.
    And the migraine? Two in two days. That’s never happened before.
    “Stress,” I answered, and that seemed right. God knew I was stressed beyond all reckoning, every fucking second of this trip.
    Faint relief loosened me and the exhaustion swooped in. I told my phone to text Lucien for more Azapram in the next city—Barcelona, Spain—and then set a timer for a nap. I wanted to sleep for a million years, but Charlotte had a show that night and I couldn’t miss it. Rule #1.
    I woke in the throes of my usual nightmare, choking on nothing, struggling for air. I sucked in a deep lungful, and tried to remember where I was. A bed. I was dressed—jeans and a t-shirt. My shoes were still on and the room felt hot and airless.
    Rome. I’m in Rome.
    I pushed the button on my watch. The time is 6:07p.m.
    Fuck! I thought I set a timer, but apparently I screwed that up too. Charlotte’s show was at seven. That gave me less than an hour to shave, shower, dress, eat, and find my way to the concert venue. In my state, I needed at least two hours to accomplish all that. And that’s when I wasn’t feeling as if my bones were filled with lead. But missing one of Charlotte’s shows was out of the question.
    Pushing all my fears and unease over the dizziness out of my mind, I felt around the side table for the hotel phone. After a few frantic tries, I found the button that called the front desk and ordered a plate of spaghetti, because that was all my feeble brain could cough up. Italian food=spaghetti. Pathetic.
    “And your wine?” the woman asked.
    Italians didn’t get out of bed without a glass of Chianti first, judging by how many times I’d been offered wine in Venice and Florence.
    “No wine. Just water. Please.”
    I felt my way to the bathroom, to the electric razor I’d set up by the sink. I shaved my thin scruff of a beard a little thinner, then wrangled the water temperature into submission in the shower. I was hurrying as fast as I could, but once the water hit me, I slumped and turned my face to the spray, my weariness expanding and spreading through me with the water’s heat.
    Charlotte. Where are you? Why aren’t you here with me?
    As if on cue, desire for her rampaged through me, swift and hot. My body missed her as much as I did.