Black hearts, p.1
Black Heart(s), page 1
BLACK HEART(S)
Calliope Daniels
Books to Hook Publishing, LLC.
Copyright © 2024 by Calliope Daniels
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book contains an excerpt from Dare Me to Love by Calliope Daniels. The excerpt is for this publication only and may differ in the original edition.
Cover art designed by Covers by Jules www. coversbyjules.crd.co
May your heart break a little, heal a lot, and love beyond the limitations of one simple lifetime.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue - Dave
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Read on for an excerpt from Calliope’s debut novel, Dare Me to Love
Chapter One
Prologue
I’m going to die.
Simple as that.
Chapter One
Another exam table in yet another medical office. This is becoming a habit. It’s the millionth time in a month I’ve been stuck in this antiseptic purgatory. Might be a different room, but they’re all the same. Why are they all so uncomfortable? Rolled out bleached white tissue paper crunches underneath as I try to relax the ache building between my shoulder blades with every worried breath I take.
Hospitals and doctors’ offices have always made me nervous. There’s sterility and a heavy undercurrent of despair and agony from every soul to grace a medical campus. No one ever goes inside without a purpose, an ailment, something they cannot cope with to some degree. I’m not sure it’s anyone’s thing, but it’s definitely not mine.
At all.
The waiting adds to this wholly unbearable experience, and I squirm as each minute ticks by on the clock over the doorway, paper rustling with every breath I take.
My eyes scan the whole room, around the clinically clean environment, while I’m wringing my hands then rubbing the length of my arms with clammy palms. The room stirs with recycled air, the astringent scent of rubbing alcohol, scrubbed metal instruments and disinfectant stinging my nostrils. Even with the cabinet doors closed across from me, it’s clear there are tools inside of it, tools to which I’d rather not be introduced.
My jacket was shucked off the moment I was escorted in the room and now regret fills the chilled air. I’m wearing only a tank top and jeans after the medical assistant had me remove it for the blood pressure cuff. She urged me to keep it off so I didn’t have to change into a threadbare, open-backed gown—a small victory.
The table is winning, my legs going numb, dangling six inches off the ground. I refuse to move the little step stool out, choosing instead to shift slightly, the nasty paper wrinkling even more until it’s a clump of waxy paper hell. Why the hell is it so cold in here? It can’t be good for anyone to be freezing like this. My hands rub at my arms again but it’s practically arctic and warming them seems futile.
Tap-tap. A soft knock raps at the door adorned with the poster of various structures, showing the anatomy of the heart. Another plastered underneath is an instruction guide.
‘Know the Signs of a Stroke’
All the little characters on the stroke information poster display each step in a cheerfully cartoonish and tongue-and-cheek way. It’s so distasteful. Why are all hospital-issued leaflets and posters so childish? As if we’re idiots.
The door pushes open even though no words of permission escape my mouth in response to the knock.
A blur of a man in a white coat rushes in, parking himself on a rolling stool before swiveling my way. “Miss Rachel Heltin? I’m Dr. Trenton.”
A well-practiced smile flashes, and he waits for me to nod. He doesn’t really see me, doesn’t really register my face or the anxiety clawing me. I’m only another patient sitting on the exam table to him, but at least he’s got the correct name.
I give a half-hearted lift of my chin, and he spins away again, sticking his nose in a computer and hitting a few keys as my chart pulls up. It’s like some weird dance that we’ve all been conditioned to endure. I give him a little, he backs away. Then he moves forward, and we meet in the middle again. Two strangers sharing intimate details under the premise of a doctor/patient relationship.
“I’ll be right with you. Just pulling up your chart. Then we can discuss what’s been going on with you. Shouldn’t be too long.”
He’s attractive, and although that should be the last thing on my mind, I’m happy for the momentary distraction. There’s something about men in scrubs. The sky-blue material is partially hidden under a white lab coat adorned with a stethoscope draped around the nape of his neck.
Dr. Trenton’s perhaps a little older than me, but young by most doctor standards. Mid-thirties, or so. He’s trim, which is expected when you’re a cardiologist. At least I would hope that’s the standard.
An overweight doctor with crumbs that rest atop a bulging belly wouldn’t command so much respect. Except the thing that really catches my attention isn’t his appearance at all but his all-too-quick dismissive glance.
Doctors are well practiced in this art form. They must receive specialized training in medical school, the same with how they always ask, ‘how are you?’ but never wait for any kind of a response before they ignore you again.
His dark blue eyes meet mine for only a millisecond while I gawk, but their intensity commands enough to make me gulp and avert my gaze anywhere else.
His nose goes back to the computer, and I haven’t said a word, only working my hands in my lap, trying not to crinkle the paper anymore and not think about his eyes. He frowns and nods several times to the screen then plants his palms on his thighs, twisting the stool top to face me.
“So, my colleagues asked me to look into your case and I wanted to make sure I read through all their notes. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” A dark brow edges up enough to know he is waiting for a quick reply.
I wipe my hands down my thighs, a little frustrated he’s read my entire chart and still expects me to recite my whole life story in a nicely packaged condensed thirty-second version.
It’s evident he only wants to dismiss me so he can duck out of the room and onto another patient.
I swallow once more, in an attempt not to let my gaze drift to those blue eyes a shade or two darker than his scrubs. “I’m sure it’s all in there.” I point to the computer. “What more do you need to know? Everything from the past several appointments are in there, aren’t they?” I nod at the screen. “In front of you.”
His eye twitches, but he likely doesn’t realize it’s noticeable. “I’d like to hear it from you. Starting from the beginning, to make sure we don’t miss anything. Even the slightest bit of additional information can make a difference for diagnosing a patient. Every detail is critical. It happens sometimes that patients have told their primary care physicians or other specialist something the doctor never wrote down.” His shoulders pull back and he scoots a little closer. With a dip of his chin, he looks up at me on the exam table. “Miss Heltin, I understand this is a lot for one person to deal with. From the looks of it, you’ve seen quite a few doctors. The process of elimination in the medical world can make anyone jaded, but I promise I want nothing more than to find you a solution.”
Now, he has my focus. What he’s said makes sense and because of that, he deserves the benefit of doubt despite how exasperating this whole ordeal’s been so far.
I puff my lips out and exhale.
“A few months ago, a kind of lightheadedness came over me during a run. Dizzy, you know? And sweaty and nauseous, normal sort of stuff until the flutters started.” I touch my chest, remembering the first time the odd sensation took over. “Felt as if I might pass out, all coming over me in waves. Anyways, I stopped and took a breather, and when things got a bit better, went on my way. My runs aren’t difficult, only a light jog at most so it’s weird but it kept happening.”
I coast on autopilot, reciting all the boring details left. It’s the fourth time telling the same thing to a different specialist. I’m interested to hear what he thinks, to hear if there was ‘something missing’ from my notes.
“Pretty sure it’s anxiety, but my primary doctor gave me anti-anxiety meds and they haven’t helped. In fact, the anxiety or the stress or whatever it is… it’s getting worse.”
“Sounds like it
“I’ve stopped running and started walking, but it’s even happening while doing that. There’re days I think I’m going to pass out and I’m just sitting at my desk minding my own business. It comes on even when I’m not pushing myself. Sometimes my vision goes in and out and other times it’s a tightness in my chest or both.”
He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, studying me, but it’s still an obligatory habit as if he’s actively rolling through my symptoms in his head, trying to go down a mental checklist. “Do you consume alcohol, recreational drugs, or caffeine?”
I shake my head. “None.”
His face does this thing where it pinches together toward his lips, like he’s suppressing a knowing smile. “Not even a glass of wine after a long week or a cup of coffee in the morning? I’m not talking excessive amounts here.”
“No,” I reiterate, frustrated he’s calling my integrity into question. “Nothing since this started happening. None at all.”
With a bob of his head, he rolls back over to the computer, clicking into several files.
I stare at his profile. How do doctors always seem to get the best of everything, even genetics? An aesthetically straight nose that curves at the tip, and full soft lips in stark contrast to the rigid line of a square jaw. It all comes together, working in spectacular fashion. The man needs to be in a calendar dedicated to shirtless men in scrub pants. June, perhaps.
His tongue runs over his perfect white teeth as he taps a pen to the desk, examining the reports. Definitely June. He pushes up suddenly and slinks his stethoscope from around his neck, positioning it to hang along his collar bone. “May I?” he asks as he approaches, gesturing toward my sternum region.
I nod.
Dr. Trenton stands so close I think he might tuck his hips between my knees, but he stops just shy, adjusting the stethoscope on his ears as the smell of mint and clean laundry overtake my senses.
There’s something else there I can’t quiet pinpoint, a sweet, comforting fragrance swirling between us.
The base of the instrument finds my heartbeat easily as one of his tan knuckles brushes the bare skin near the start of my tank top. It isn’t inappropriate in the least, just the nature of trying to find the right spot.
Goosebumps return peppering my limbs, and I have to actively resist the urge to rub my arms that are still chilled to the core.
His eyes meet mine as he listens through the stethoscope, and I wonder if he can hear my heart rate speed up at the way I am hypnotized by him. If anyone’s inappropriate in this moment, it’s me.
I can’t break free of this lock as my lips tuck behind my teeth, realizing too late that my stomach is hollowing out on each exhale.
How am I seriously thinking about anything other than trying to get answers?
The stethoscope moves to my back, and he breaks our standoff to shift around to the side of the exam table, telling me to take several deep breaths. His hands are warm through the fabric of my shirt, feeling comforting.
Again, it’s the merest of appropriate touches, a fleeting fingertip resting on cotton as he positions the scope. He listens, repositions the instrument, listening again. “All right,” he proclaims. “All done.” Without flair, he loops the scope around his neck once more and plops down in the stool, rolling away while at the same time, expertly swiveling to park at the desk.
He begins typing a windstorm of notes, glancing between the keyboard and screen periodically.
My palms won’t stop sweating, but I’m freezing. “Anxiety, isn’t it? Stress?” I murmur, reaching behind to grab my jacket, putting it on to try to get the new layer of goosebumps under control.
He stays silent, trying to focus on the task to notate my file, but I can’t help starting to ramble as my damp hands try to yank up the zipper.
“I’m healthy otherwise. Didn’t think there even was much stress in my life. I mean, it’s great minus this ordeal. Maybe I sleep more than normal, but that can’t be bad, can it? I’ve always liked my bed, my mom used to say—”
“Mm-hmm.” His fingers fly across the keyboard, interrupting my train of thought.
“Anyway, I’m a travel blogger, and there are a lot of self-imposed deadlines so that must be where the stress come in. Though I make my own hours and take on whatever current trend appeals to me and leave the rest. It’s not a bad way to earn money. Not at all."
Dr. Trenton swivels a quarter turn toward me, fixating on me intently, waiting to speak patiently, a smile creeping up one corner of his mouth.
But I press on. “There are people who have to commute hours every day and I get to fly around on someone else’s dime. How stressful is my job other than dealing with trendy influencers and going through customs coming back into the States? Sometimes, they’re both a fucking bitch to deal with but come on, it’s not like it happens every day.”
My hand comes up and slaps against my mouth, eyes growing wide when I realize the slip of my sailor’s mouth.
The other side of his mouth tips upward. “Anything else you’d like me to add? Or delete?”
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks. “Just that it’d be great to get back to my life as it used to be before this started. I’ve got plans and this is really getting in the way. Can’t you prescribe me something to get back on track? Something to calm me down?”
He turns all the way toward me, his expression unreadable, as though he’s conducting research on my mood. “I’d like nothing more than to get you back to your exciting life. But first, I’d like to run two more tests before clearing you of any cardiac issues. One’s a stress test on a treadmill and the other’s an MRI.”
“But there’s already been an MRI. It’ll be in your notes.”
He nods and glances back at the computer screen. “I’m fully aware of that, Miss Heltin. I want to double-check an area they didn’t image the first time. You know, dot all the i’s and cross the t’s. Or as they say across the pond, belt and suspenders.”
“Belt and suspenders?”
“A double precaution to stop your pants from falling down. It’s a…” He shakes his head. “We’re getting off track. Let’s get you this additional test to confirm nothing has been missed and then I will give you the all clear.”
My eyes squint at him and I don’t realize it, but the paper underneath is scrunching in my fists. “What are you checking for though?”
He waves his hand in the air between us. “Nothing to worry about. Only want to mark something off the list.”
My shoulders slump, hands finally unclenching. “Am I crazy? Is this all in my head?”
His stool rolls back under the desk with a gentle kick of a shoe then he walks over and offers me a hand down from the table.
“You aren’t crazy,” he reassures me as my hand slips into his. “We’ll figure it all out and get you back to your life.”
Chapter Two
Ten Days Later.
“You are coming to the concert tonight, right?” Azzy whines through my earbuds as I track my usual path through Golden Gate Park, coming to a walk and turning up the volume to hear better.
It’s nippy but normal for any time of the year in San Francisco. And today, I’m enjoying the mist from the overlayer of fog as it cools me down. This is my happy place. Trails are serpentine shaped, making for a far more enjoyable feeling than running at some infinite pinpoint in the distance down a straight and level line. The redwoods and grass, and all the little hills make each turn more interesting, while each incline and corner hides what’s coming ahead. The surprise keeps me engaged and looking forward to my daily runs.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this all year.” My grin is a little too wide. I might be twelve years out of high school, but the music from those days still appeals. Rebellion Death has been a non-stop listening ritual since living under my parents’ reign.
Growing up, I studied everything about them and at one point in my teens, it seemed fate had destined me to marry the band’s dreamy eyeliner-smudged lead singer. If I weren’t in my early thirties and trying to project a more mature image, I’d probably still line my walls with their posters and stalk them mercilessly online.
