Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“You obviously haven’t seen your face,” she said, already getting glassy again. “This is all my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” I said, voice firm.
But Lottie was in a blame spiral.
“I was the only reason you were on that street with that guy at that time of night.”
“Wait… you don’t think it was about him, do you?” I asked.
“I mean… they’re bikers. And not, you know, the legal sort,” Lottie said.
This was new information.
I felt like my brain wasn’t processing at its usual speed, though.
“Yeah, but… no. I mean, he was driving me home. It makes no sense. They were already there. Waiting.”
At least, the guys parked on the road had been. The ones behind us in the other car, I don’t know.
“Still,” Lottie said, wiping carelessly at her tears with the back of her hand. “I blame them.”
“I don’t know. I think… I think he saved me,” I said. I mean… something had scared my attacker away, right? Before he could finish what he set out to do to me.
Lottie said nothing to that, just looked at my face for a long moment.
“That good, huh?” I asked.
“I guess it could have been worse,” she said, gaze drifting away.
I went ahead and didn’t tell her how close it had come to being worse. She was feeling shitty enough.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Eight,” she told me. “A little after.”
“Shit,” I said, throwing off my covers, and shooting up in the bed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, reaching to try to push me flat again.
“I have to get to work.”
“What?” she asked, looking at me like I’d suddenly grown another head. “You can’t go to work.”
“I have to go to work. It’s where the money comes from. And I have to open,” I added.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said, trying for a firm, motherly voice, but it just didn’t work on her. “The doctor hasn’t even been in to check on you again.”
“Well, track him down, because I’m signing myself out whether I see him or not.”
With that, I put my legs on the floor and stood slowly, sensing that the room was going to wobble. I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t quite tell you if it was more that the room or I was spinning, but everything felt really fucking nauseating for a moment.
“I’m getting the doctor,” Lottie said, rushing away, likely hoping that they could talk some sense into me.
Sure, I wanted to know how my head was doing. And if there was anything I had to look out for. But I needed to go.
Sure, if I needed some sort of emergency surgery or something like that, I would have to deal with the blowback for not being at the studio. But I was conscious and mostly able to function, so I was going in.
Was I queasy as fuck?
Yeah.
Was there an entire marching band playing off-key in my head?
Also yes.
But once I got there, I could put on my noise-canceling headphones, keep the lights low, and take it easy.
The perk to working in a building full of soundproofed rooms was that the only noise I heard all day came from the door opening and closing, or my own music playing on the wireless speakers.
I made my way into the bathroom, wincing as I flicked on the light, and staring at myself in the mirror.
So… maybe Lottie hadn’t been overreacting.
I looked like shit.
Bruised and swollen with blood caked in my hair on the side of my head.
There was no makeup that could cover this damage. And I wasn’t sure I was even allowed to wash my hair with the stitches in my head.
“Damnit,” I grumbled.
I was going to spend the entire day getting pitying looks and explaining the situation.
I grabbed some paper towels, wet them, and worked at getting as much of the blood out of my hair as possible without actually getting my scalp wet.
A few minutes later, I’d gotten a lot of it off, and worked at getting the dried blood off my face.
Then, hearing Lottie call for me, I made my way back out to find that she’d tracked down a doctor who wanted me to sit, so she could get my vitals.
“I know your sister doesn’t want to hear this,” she said a few minutes later. “But the plan was always to discharge you today. We just wanted to keep an eye on you and let you get some rest. But you’re okay to go home.”
“Home,” Lottie said, voice firm. “Not to work.”
I ignored that.
“You should try to avoid stress,” the doctor advised. “It can make the possible confusion, lightheadedness, and nausea from the concussion worse.”
“My work isn’t stressful,” I assured her, then listened to her speech about what I needed to keep an eye out for before she declared she was going to go get my paperwork together.
“Stop,” I said, seeing Lottie glaring at me with her arms crossed. “I’m fine.”