Chapter Two: Misery Looking for Some Company

Steve let Kathryn cross the threshold first, after he had unlocked the door and pushed it open for her. Then he followed her down the short hall and into the room because there wasn't space for him to pass her and lead her into his half of the suite he was sharing with Cheryl. He was slightly disappointed when she walked straight through his area and into the common room that separated him from his partner, but he figured they could make their way back to the sleeping quarters whenever they were ready.

He really was tired and wanted to change into his comfortable old sweats as soon as possible, so as he followed her into the living area, he shed his button-down shirt, tossed it onto the arm of the easy chair in the corner, and grabbed his LAPD sweatshirt from where he had left it at the foot of the bed. As he walked out into the main part of the suite, naked from the waist up, he couldn't miss the flash of appreciation in Kathryn's eyes as she looked at him, but since the air conditioner was running and doing its job well, he put the sweatshirt on anyway, knowing he could always take it off again later.

"Your suite is the exact opposite of ours," Kathryn said. "From the placement of the furniture to the color scheme, everything is the opposite."

"The color scheme?" Steve enquired, not sure what she meant.

"We have green walls and burgundy curtains," she said, moving to the window to look out over the bedazzling light show of the Las Vegas Strip, "and our bedrooms, or at least mine, is opposite of yours. I have navy carpeting and gold bedding."

Steve took one look around and saw the burgundy walls and green drapes and knew exactly what she was talking about. "I wonder if all the rooms on that side of the hotel are opposites of these."

"Probably," she mused, "and I can just imagine some anal-retentive decorator with a color wheel trying to design a gradient pattern throughout the hotel. If you watch when the elevator doors open for the different floors, the walls run progressively through every shade of the rainbow."

Crossing the room to stand closer to her, Steve said teasingly, "Those impressive powers of observation will take you far in the FBI, Agent Wakeley."

Kathryn smiled slightly and moved away from him to go sit on the burgundy, gold, and green sofa in the middle of the lounge where she tucked her feet up under her and began to page indolently through an advertising brochure that had been left on the coffee table.

Steve turned to face her, more certain than ever that something had gone awry and he hadn't even seen it happen. Needing some time to decide how to bridge the gap that seemed to have formed between them, he moved to the complimentary bar and fixed her favorite drink, a vodka gimlet, and prepared a Tom Collins for himself. Then he went over and sat beside her, pulling the brochure gently from her hands, and asked, "Is there something we need to talk about? I really get the feeling there is."

Her eyes, when she looked at him were so sad that he was frightened there might be something seriously wrong. She sipped her drink for a moment, then put it carefully on the coffee table, turned to face him once again and asked, "Have you ever thought of settling down?"

Steve couldn't contain the small burst of soft laughter, a mixture of surprise and relief that escaped with his words. "What? With you?"

When Kathryn didn't reply right away, he began to get that awful, awkward feeling that he had just done something really, really stupid. "I mean . . . uh . . . that is . . . "

Kathryn smiled slightly, enjoying his discomfort. "Relax. I meant with anyone, at all, ever. There might have been a chance for us once, but that time has passed. With you in L.A. and me in D.C., I know better than to think these annual," she cleared her throat slightly, ". . . affairs are anything more substantial than two lonely people having a good time together."

"There's no need to make us sound so desperate," Steve replied, deeply disturbed by the tone the conversation had taken on.

"Are you going to tell me we're not?" she asked. "I just turned forty this year. I have one miserably failed marriage behind me, and the most meaningful relationship I have had since then is with a guy I see once or twice a year if I am lucky."

Steve frowned, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted, not even entirely sure she was talking about him. He'd had other, much more significant relationships between his meetings with Kathryn, and he was frankly surprised that she hadn't. Before his brain could form a coherent thought and relay it to his lips, Kathryn was speaking again, so he just stayed quiet and listened.

"Look, Steve," she began carefully, "what happened when we met, well, you know I was just trying to hurt him. That's why I let him find us together. I didn't expect to like you as much as I did, and I certainly didn't expect you to really care about me. I thought it would be a one-, well, a three-night stand, and that would be it."

"I know, Kathryn, but I thought we had resolved all that ages ago," Steve said sounding confused. "Why are you rehashing it now?"

"Have you ever seen a neglected dog, Steve?" she asked, and he just frowned, unsure of where she was going, hoping he hadn't unwittingly done something to hurt her.

Oblivious to his lack of an answer, she just continued talking. "I'm talking about one of those bony creatures where you can see every rib and vertebra, the protruding hips and sunken belly, like the people who own it don't even feed it enough to keep it alive, Steve, just enough to prolong its misery."

"Kathryn, please," he interrupted anxiously. "If it's something I've done, tell me, I'll make it right if I can."

She shook her head. "You can't," she said, "because it's nothing you've done wrong, it's just the way I feel every time we part."

"Kathryn, I'm sorry. If I had known . . . "

"What? You'd have avoided me?" She shook her head. "No, Steve, you wouldn't have done that, and I wouldn't have wanted you to. You might not realize this, but you saved me when my marriage fell apart. I know I was wrong to use you the way I did, and you had every right to hate me. I suppose you did for a while, but you gave me hope, too, hope that not every guy was a jerk like my ex-husband, hope that there was someone decent and caring and . . . and chivalrous out there for me."

"Wow," Steve said, feeling deeply flattered, "I really had no idea. If you had just said something years ago, maybe . . . "

"Don't say it, Steve," she cut him off yet again, and this time, her eyes welled with tears. Crossing the room to look out the window once more, she said, "You never could have left your father and friends for me, and I never would have stayed there just for you, so let's not pretend things could have been different."

"Ok," Steve nodded his assent and stood to face her when she turned toward him again, "then what are we doing here?"

"I'm here to tell you that we won't be . . . doing . . . what we usually do when we get together at functions like this." She took a couple of steps toward him and said, "I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person."

"I see." He looked down at his hands for a moment; they were clenched in fists. It was surprising to him how disappointed he felt, and he suddenly realized that he would miss her. He swallowed hard, not sure he could trust his voice. "May I ask why . . . you felt you needed to . . . end this?"

Smiling tremulously, she said, "I've found someone."

Steve smiled back. "I'm happy for you," he said insincerely. What he really wanted to say was, I wish things could have been different. We could have made a great couple, you and I. "What's he like?"

Kathryn's smile broadened, but her eyes didn't sparkle. There was a small chuckle in her voice when she spoke. "He's nothing like you, actually, he's kind of twitchy and a little neurotic, must have six locks on his door, and makes me take the bullets out of my gun before I come into his house, but Winnie's still a good guy, and he treats me well, and he's there."

"That's good," he told her. "You deserve it." He was somber for a moment, feeling sad and knowing he was going to miss her a great deal, but then her words sank in and he spluttered with laughter. "Did you say Winnie, as in the Pooh?"

"It's short for Wincel, which is an old family name going back to England."

"I suppose it would have to be," Steve choked, struggling to contain his laughter. "I can see why he prefers Winnie!"

Kathryn was smiling too, despite the tears in her eyes, and she said, "I admit it is a strange name, but that's ok. He really is a good man, and he loves me, and, well, like I said, he's there. Every day when I get home, he's there, and he's happy to see me."

Steve took a deep breath and put his feelings aside for a moment. He could feel sorry for himself later, but right now, Kathryn needed to know she was doing the right thing, and though he hated to admit it, she was right about their relationship. In the face of someone who would be there for her every day, what he had shared with her, at a couple of conferences a year and the chance encounter when their cases overlapped, was little better than a one-night-stand.

Crossing the room, he put his arms around her, placed a kiss on the top of her head, and said, "I really am very happy for you, and I wish you both the best."

She smiled up at him, caressed his face, brushed the hair from his eyes, and said, "Thank you, Steve. Thank you for understanding." She gave him a peck on the cheek, moved away from him, and said in a voice rough with emotion, "I think I'm going to go now. I'll see you at breakfast."

Steve nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched as Kathryn saw herself out of the suite, and then turned to the window to look out over the Vegas strip, gasping in pain, though he wasn't sure if it was from the sudden loss he felt so keenly or his strained back muscle cramping again.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

Steve groaned softly as he lay in bed and stretched in an effort to ease the cramping in his back and right side. The clock beside his bed read three twenty eight in the morning. As much as he wanted to ignore his discomfort, or at least find some rational way to write it off to the pain of being dumped by Kathryn Wakeley, he knew his misery had become something of a habit over the past twenty-four hours and that it had begun long before he had spoken with the sexy FBI agent. Just the thought of the overwhelming nausea he had endured three times already this evening suddenly had him retching again, and he scrambled out of bed and toward the bathroom attached to his sleeping quarters.

No sooner had his bare feet hit the thick, plush carpet than the floor began to heave and roll as the room spun wildly out of control, and he knew he was in trouble. He lurched across the room, using the back of a chair and then the dresser for support, and, barely swallowing down the nausea, he opened the door to the common room of the suite and called out for his partner. As her name left his lips, his knees gave out, he collapsed to the floor and was violently sick right where he lay. Then everything went dark.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

A voice, vaguely familiar, "The ambulance should be here in about five minutes. Is there anything else I can do?"

Steve swallowed hard.

"Give me that wastebasket. I think he's gonna be sick again."

Steve opened his eyes to look into Cheryl's worried face, and as Danny, the casino host, shoved the can into her hands, he propped himself up on one elbow. The container was set in place beside him, and, abandoning his dignity, he leaned over and heaved. For several seconds, the waves of nausea came strong and fast, engulfing his entire body, until they finally left him, sweaty, shaken, and short of breath.

"Cheryl," he said softly, closing his eyes as he tried to bring his breathing under control, and the one word implied a world of gratitude, relief, friendship, and trust.

"Shhh," she soothed him as she brushed his hair out of his eyes, "It's ok, Partner. Help is on the way."

Not wanting to be found lying there on the floor, Steve started to get up. Seeing his intentions, Cheryl and Danny each took an arm and helped him to his feet. Without argument, he let them lead him over to the couch in the common room, and didn't protest as Cheryl gently pushed him back against the cushions and lifted his feet. Instinctively, he turned over on his side, just in case he should be sick again.

Closing his eyes and resisting the urge to moan in pain, he gasped instead, "What's wrong with me?"

"I don't know, Steve, but we'll find out and get it fixed," she promised him calmly. "I knew I should have made you see a doctor as soon as we landed."

"As soon as you landed?" Danny repeated inquisitively.

"Yeah, he was sick on the plane."

Steve could hear the man breathe a sigh of relief, and he opened his eyes slightly. "That's right, and a couple of times last night. You can relax, it's not the hotel's buffet."

"Oh, that's great!" the young man blurted enthusiastically, "I mean, not that you were sick earlier, but that . . . I mean . . ."

Steve chuckled and then winced slightly as his sore ribs protested. "It's ok," he told the casino host as his partner handed him a glass of cool, clear water to rinse his mouth with, "I own a restaurant, and I understand your concern."

Cheryl looked over her shoulder at Danny and said, "Do you think you could go outside and wait for the ambulance, make sure they find their way here?"

Nodding nervously, he walked away without another word.

"Thanks," Steve said, handing his glass back to Cheryl, "he was making me edgy." He tried to sit up, but she pushed him gently back down to the sofa.

"Not so fast there, Partner," she admonished him. "At the least, I think you are dehydrated, and at worst, well, I don't want to think about the worst, so you just lie there and wait for the ambulance, ok?"

Steve didn't have enough fight left in him to object, so he nodded his assent and settled quietly back onto the couch.

"Ok, now, tell me what I can do to make you feel more comfortable," Cheryl commanded.

"You mean that? Really?" Steve asked, a little surprised that she would offer after the way he had inconvenienced and worried her.

"Yes, of course I mean it!" she said adamantly, "Now, what can I do?"

"Well," Steve began, almost reluctantly, "my back is killing me, and I wouldn't ask, except that I think it's part of the reason I feel so queasy. Could you just sort of rub my back?"

Cheryl sat on the couch beside him, in the curved space formed by his curled up body, and rubbed gentle circles on his back, concentrating her efforts where he instructed, and that was how they passed the time until the ambulance attendants arrived.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

"Ok, rookie, sock it to me," the grizzled old veteran paramedic, whose name badge read Jon, commanded as he set up a gurney beside the couch where Steve was resting.

"Patient is alert, coherent, and cooperative," the impossibly young woman with a bouncy blonde ponytail replied. Her badge, just a label stuck on a plastic backing instead of the engraved metal plate that Jon wore, read Sarah. "BP is a little low, and he shows signs of mild to moderate dehydration. Pulse, respiration, and temp are all a little high, and he is complaining of nausea, vomiting, and severe pain in the upper right quadrant of the abdomen, radiating through and around to the back. Symptoms have persisted for at least twenty-four hours, with no indication or complaint of loose stools or diarrhea. There is a history of multiple abdominal procedures, but nothing within the past year. No allergies or medications, except for some aspirin before noon. Last meal was at about nine p.m."

"What protocol do you recommend, rookie?"

Five minutes ago, when she was professionally assessing his condition and taking his medical history, Steve had felt completely comfortable under this woman's care. Now that he was being used as a teaching case, he looked at Cheryl desperately and pleaded with his eyes for her to rescue him from this child.

The young EMT looked up and said, "Saline IV to hydrate and morphine for the pain. Transport supine with knees flexed and an emesis bag handy."

Her supervisor nodded and asked, "What about O2?"

She shook her head as she set up her IV. "He doesn't seem to be in respiratory distress," she said, "and the cannula could just be in the way if he needs to be sick again."

Steve tensed slightly as he felt a needle slide into his skin, and he watched with some apprehension as the paramedic, a big bear of a man, prepared a hypodermic.

"Probable cause?"

"My job is to stabilize and transport," the girl said. "It's up to the doctors to diagnose."

Her boss' face split into a grin, and he said, "Good answer, rookie. Let's get it done, then."

"Would you please stop talking about me like I'm not in the room?" Steve finally demanded. "And you," he continued, looking at the supervisor, "you should consider calling her by name. It doesn't help me any to know she is a rookie."

The paramedic was surprisingly gentle for a man of his bulk as he slid his needle into the IV port injected the morphine into Steve's system. With a confident smile, he said, "I'm sorry, sir, you're right, but rest assured, Sarah here is one of the best EMTs I have had the pleasure of working with. She is new, and a little young, but she knows her stuff and keeps her wits about her. You're in good hands."

The morphine was already taking effect, and Steve was able to smile slightly. "Uh, thanks. Now what?"

Sarah moved over to him and asked, "Can you move onto the gurney, or do you need some help?"

"I . . . I think I can make it. I just feel a little dizzy. Maybe if you could help me keep my balance?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, but if you're afraid you'll fall, I'd rather not have you standing at all. Jon will get your shoulders and I'll take your legs and . . . "

"No, no, wait, please," Steve objected, but by the time the words had left his mouth, the EMT and the paramedic had crossed his arms in his lap and lifted him effortlessly from the couch to the gurney.

"See," Sarah said encouragingly, "that wasn't such a big deal." She bent his knees, which slightly eased the pain in his back, and drew the strap across his chest to prevent him from sliding off the gurney, and then she and Jon lifted the gurney and locked the legs in place.

"Cheryl?" he called as they turned him and moved toward the door.

"I'm here," she said soothingly as she came into view, "I'll follow in our rental car and see you at the hospital."

"Ok, and thanks."

"Not a problem, Partner," she reassured him.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

Cheryl sat quietly on the stool in the curtained off ER cubicle in the Desert Springs Hospital, just a mile from the hotel and watched her partner doze peacefully. She had seen Steve get hurt on the job a number of times, and once, following a wreck during a car chase, he had been deliberately infected with a virulent form of staph, but she had never seen him get suddenly and violently ill for no apparent reason, and it had frightened her. Worse yet, it had frightened him. She knew he was scared, she had seen it in his eyes. So, after she had helped the admissions counselor complete as much of Steve's paperwork as she could, she had stubbornly stood in the doorway and demanded to be taken to her good friend's bedside.

Steve began to rouse, he moaned faintly and shifted position. Cheryl moved to be closer to him, and she could tell the moment he knew he was not alone because his expression instantly became more guarded. He opened one eye just a slit, and when he saw who was with him, he gave her a sleepy, grateful smile and said, "Hi."

"Hey, Partner," she said softly. "How are you?"

"Well, I don't hurt anymore," he said thoughtfully as he assessed his condition, "As soon as I got here, they drew some blood and gave me something to stop the nausea. Mostly I just want to sleep now." Frowning, he added, "What time is it?"

"About quarter past five."

"In the morning?" Steve gasped in surprise. "Cheryl, you shouldn't be here! You should have gone back to the hotel and gotten some sleep. Breakfast is in two hours and the meetings start at eight! Didn't you read your schedule?"

"Oh, be quiet," she commanded him, keeping her voice light while still demanding that he respect her wishes. "I told you I would see you at the hospital, and I promised your dad that I would look after you. He'd have my head if he thought I had left you all alone in a strange hospital with strange doctors and nurses."

"You haven't called him, have you?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. The doctors are concerned, but they keep checking in and saying you're stable, so I decided that it would be better to wait until you could talk to him yourself, that way he wouldn't worry so much."

With a relieved sight, Steve thanked her, and then asked, "Has the doctor mentioned to you what he thought was wrong? I . . . uh . . . can't recall if he told me or not."

Cheryl nodded. "They think it's your gallbladder. Doctor . . ." she picked up the chart at the foot of the gurney, "Shauhnuk?" she shrugged her shoulders to indicate she wasn't sure of her pronunciation, ". . . has ordered an ultrasound, but he is waiting until you get the whole IV in you so that you're properly hydrated. He also said it works better on an empty stomach, and I told him that your stomach was probably empty before the ambulance arrived, but he wanted to wait a few hours, just to be sure. I'm sure he'll be back in any second now to check on you. He's been coming by about every fifteen minutes."

He nodded, accepting her information thoughtfully.

She smiled down at him for a moment. He looked so pale on the white gurney, covered by nothing but a thin gown and a sheet. There were dark circles under his eyes, a thin sheen of perspiration on his sallow skin, his hair was a mess, and he had a look about him that she had never seen before. He looked scared, and that frightened her.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked, hoping that doing something for him would make her feel better.

Steve shrugged. "Well, I am kinda cold," he said. "Do you think you could find me a blanket?"

Cheryl looked around the cubicle, and then started searching the cabinets that were along the wall behind the gurney. She would go get a nurse if she had to, but she really didn't want to leave Steve alone if she could help it. She knew he had spent more than his fair share of time in and out of the hospital, but it had to be different, more intimidating, when it wasn't his hospital. In one of the cabinets, she found a white cotton, knitted blanket. She shook it out and draped it over him.

"Better?" she asked after a minute or so.

Steve snuggled down and nodded. "Much better. Thanks." After a few more moments of silence, he sighed and said, "This is none of my business, but you should probably know that Amanda and Ron were pretty serious at one time."

Cheryl nodded. "You're right, it is none of your business, but thanks for the info. I will use it judiciously."

Steve looked up at her regretfully and said, "I'm sorry I ruined this trip for you."

"Hey, Steve, it's not your fault, so don't beat yourself up about it," she reassured him. "Anyone can get sick."

He looked up at her and nodded slightly again. He seemed so wretchedly miserable that she couldn't just sit there beside him. It wasn't enough. Reaching out, she placed a gentle hand on his arm and squeezed, needing to comfort him as much as he seemed to need comforting. He placed his other hand over hers, and gave her a worried, grateful smile, and they waited together for Doctor Shauhnuk to come check on him again.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

"Well, Mr. Sloan," Doctor Shauhnuk began in his accented English that made every sentence sound like a question, "it would appear that you will need surgery sooner, rather than later." Steve's attending physician was a distinguished man in his middle forties with chrome-framed glasses and salt and pepper hair that had once been jet black.

"Surgery?" Steve parroted, sounding aghast.

"Why?" Cheryl blurted at the same time.

The doctor held up one of Steve's ultrasound images and, with the capped end of his pen, indicated several areas of solid, opaque gray.

"These are gallstones," he said. Pointing to one in particular, he added, "This one is lodged in the bile duct, and judging by your temperature and blood tests, it is causing an infection. It is too large to pass on its own without damaging the duct, so it must be removed. Since more are waiting to take its place, the best thing we can do for you is to remove your gall bladder. It is a routine endoscopic procedure and we have an excellent surgeon on call, so it is nothing to worry about. You will have only four small scars."

He handed Steve a form and said very politely, "If you would please sign here, we can do it right away."

"Hold on a minute here!" Steve nearly shouted as he shrugged off Cheryl's restraining hand and tried to sit up on the gurney. "I want a second opinion!" Then he realized that the doctor was not lacking in compassion. The man probably just didn't have much tact because English was not his native tongue, and he didn't have the words to soften the blow of such a diagnosis.

"Please, my father is a doctor," he explained more calmly, "and while I don't mistrust you, I would like his advice about this, just because he knows more about my medical history than you do. If I gave you his e-mail address, could you send the images to him?"

"Of course I could, Mr. Sloan, but he will tell you the same thing. I know he will because it is exactly what I would tell my son."

Steve smiled. "I appreciate that," he replied, liking Doctor Shauhnuk more by the minute, "but I am also sure you would understand his need to hear that advice from his own dad rather than from a stranger he only just met a few hours ago."

The doctor nodded. "But of course." He took a pad and pen out of his pocket and handed it to his patient. "Write down your father's e-mail and I will have these images sent to him."

When Steve handed him back the small tablet, the doctor read back, "m. right. Can I call him, to let him know it's coming?"

"Certainly." When he handed his patient the handset to the phone on the wall, Steve began to rise as if he was going to move over to the stool beside it, but Doctor Shauhnuk placed a hand in the center of his chest. "You stay here. She dials."

Turning to Cheryl, he added, "Press nine to get an outside line."

Cheryl smiled and nodded and turned to ask Steve, "Your house or Community General?"