Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“I love you, Ronan,” I finally say. “Please. Be strong. Get through this.”
He came for me.
He came to the coffee shop to find me.
He can’t die for me.
“Ma’am, you can’t come any farther,” a doctor says. “Have a seat in the waiting area. You’re going to need to fill out his paperwork.”
Paperwork.
I don’t know anything about him, other than his name. I’m not even sure how old he is. All I know is that I love him.
I can’t lose him.
I’ll be whatever kind of submissive he needs, if only he’ll live.
People are staring at me, at my blood-soaked clothes.
I should be at work now. I remove my white—now red—cardigan, and underneath I’m wearing the orange and black corset.
More stares, but I don’t care.
Everyone in this waiting room is waiting for someone, but I’m betting I’m the only one waiting for someone who’s been shot twice.
My God, so much blood on me.
So much blood on me that’s supposed to be inside of Ronan, keeping him alive.
But we’re at the hospital now. They have blood here. Blood banks. I don’t even know what his blood type is. I don’t even know…
“Ma’am?”
I look up as a woman in light blue scrubs hands me a clipboard.
“Is that your husband in there?”
I shake my head.
“Brother, boyfriend?”
Boyfriend?
Maybe it’ll get me somewhere to say he is.
“Yes. My boyfriend.”
“Good. I’m going to need you to fill this out for him.”
“I don’t know anything about his insurance, or…” I shake my head. “I don’t know anything. Don’t know anything.”
“Start with his name and birthdate. That’s all we need.”
Birthdate. I don’t know his birthdate.
Last name. O’Connor.
First name. Ronan.
I hand it back to her. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“It’s okay. Do you know his place of employment?”
“He’s a real estate developer, just moved here from Glasgow. I know he’s got a deal with Black, Inc. I’m sorry. I just can’t think.” Did he tell me? Did he? I rack my brain. “O’Connor, Inc. No. O’Connor Enterprise.”
“That’s fine. We’ll figure the rest out. Is there anything we can get you? A glass of water? A cup of coffee?”
“I should go home and change.”
“That’s fine. We probably won’t know anything for a while.”
“I can’t leave him. He doesn’t have any family here. His mother and father are in Scotland, and his grandmother’s in New Orleans.”
“All right, ma’am. Have a seat. If you need anything, let me know.”
I gulp. Sit down. Only one magazine sits on the table next to me. Field and Stream.
I pick it up, open it, stare at the glossy pages.
But I see nothing.
I see only the blood. Ronan’s blood. His pallid face.
And I wonder how I will get through this.
…
Half an hour later—or could be five minutes, for all I know—someone comes out to see me. “Ronan O’Connor?”
I rise, nearly losing my footing. “That’s me.”
“Are you family?” she asks.
“His girlfriend. He doesn’t have any family in the area.”
“All right. I’m Dr. Ludwig. We’re taking Mr. O’Connor back for surgery. He has internal bleeding, which we have to stop and then repair any damage to his organs.”
“And the shoulder?”
“The bullet passed through his shoulder, ma’am. That will heal, although he may need some physical therapy to gain back range of motion.”
“All right.” I’m numb. So numb.
“The major issue is the gunshot wound to his abdomen. He’s lost a lot of blood, but his vitals are hanging in there. That’s all I can tell you at this point. We’re going to do everything we can.”
I gulp, nodding. I say nothing.
Because there’s nothing to say.
I could beg them to save him. But I already know they’re going to do whatever they can.
Besides, that would require me to form words.
“The surgery may take several hours. I’ll send out updates from the OR.”
I nod again.
“We’ll do everything we can, ma’am.” She smiles, sort of, and walks back through the doors.
I have no idea how to get in touch with his family.
And then it dawns on me.
I remember the name of Yvette’s restaurant. Chez Yvette.
But do I call her? She’ll be able to get in touch with Ronan’s parents.
Maybe she has a voodoo prayer she can say.
Maybe…
I don’t have my phone, though.
I hurry to the front desk. “A gunman took my phone. I need to make a call. I need you to find a number for me.”
“Of course. What’s the name?”
“Chez Yvette. It’s a Creole restaurant in New Orleans.”
She clicks on her keyboard, and then she shows me the screen, motioning to the landline.
I dial the number.
“Chez Yvette,” someone says.
“I need to talk to Yvette, please.”
“She’s busy in the kitchen. May I take a message?”
“No, it’s an emergency. Her grandson, Ronan. He’s…” I gulp back the bile threatening to erupt in my throat. “He’s been shot.”
“Oh my God. Just a minute. Who is this?”
“Mary. Mary Sandusky. Yvette knows me.”
A moment passes.
Then, “Mary? What’s wrong?” Yvette’s voice is high-pitched and full of worry.