Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The thought is so sickening, I’m honestly not sure if it’s my injury or my misery making my stomach roil as Weaver sets me on my feet by the desk, and I fight to give the woman my insurance information without getting sick again.
“Listen, she’s in a lot of pain and vomited right after the assault,” Weaver says to the woman in blue scrubs with bright pink glasses perched on the end of her nose. His voice is tight but respectful as he adds, “Isn’t this paperwork something she can do while she’s in the exam room lying down, waiting to be seen? Or after the CT scan? She was hit hard enough that I’m concerned about internal bleeding and organ damage.”
The woman nods, her expression compassionate as she taps the bottom line of the form on the counter in front of us. “Of course, you poor thing. I’ll call for wheelchair transport. Just sign the bottom to indicate you’ll take responsibility for the charges, and we’ll get the rest sorted out when you check out.” She shifts her focus back to Weaver. “And what about you, sir? Do you need to be seen?”
“No, I’m fine,” Weaver says at the same time I say, “Yes, he does.”
“You need to be seen,” I say when Weaver insists that he isn’t seriously injured. “I saw what happened. He hit you at least a dozen times. He only hit me once.”
“But he was closer to me,” Weaver says. “He didn’t have time to build up any momentum, and I saw him coming and locked my muscles. You didn’t have time for that before you were sucker punched in the gut.”
His eyes glitter with a cold fire that I know means a truce between my father and my boyfriend is never going to happen. Not if we all live for a thousand years and go to therapy every single day.
“He didn’t know it was me,” I remind him.
“He didn’t know who it was,” Weaver counters. “And he didn’t care. He’s dangerous.”
He’s right, I know he is, but I can’t help wishing…
Fuck, I don’t even know what to wish for at this point, not with my entire life turning into a shit show at a breathless pace.
“Just, please,” I beg. “Get checked out. For me. For my peace of mind?”
Weaver hesitates another beat, but after a hum of agreement from the woman at the front desk, he relents. “All right. But I’ll go to the urgent care near Sea Breeze later. I don’t want to waste emergency room resources.”
“But—” I start, only for Aunt Cathy, who I’d honestly forgotten was standing behind us, to pipe up, “That might not be a bad idea. They get to people so fast over there. Even on the weekends.”
“Go now, then. I’m fine, and I have family here if I need someone.” I don’t want him to leave, but it’s probably for the best. I have no idea where my dad is or what’s going to happen when the rest of my family hears what went down by the elevators. They might be grateful to Weaver for carrying me to the ER or they might decide to come take a swing at him themselves.
I never should have let him come here. I knew it was a bad idea, though I never could have dreamed it would end this badly.
“You’re sure?” Weaver asks, and I nod again.
“Please. Yes. I just want to know you’re okay,” I say, ignoring Aunt Cathy’s increasingly wide eyes as she apparently gets the memo that Weaver and I care about each other’s welfare a little too much for complete strangers.
“I’d like to talk to you before you leave, sir. Get your statement if you have time or at least a phone number I can use to follow up,” the large man in the vest says. I can read the “BPD” emblazoned across the front of it now. He’s definitely a cop.
Ugh. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me, too.
But thankfully a nurse appears beside the desk with a wheelchair at that moment, calling my name. I tell Weaver goodbye and assure Cathy I’m fine to go back alone while she returns to the rest of the family with those snacks we were fetching before everything went to hell.
And then I’m gone, zooming through cool, antiseptic-scented air down a short hallway. I’m then steered into a larger open room, divided into exam areas by pastel bubble print curtains that are far too cheery for the ER.
Once I’m settled in my bed, I’m left alone to listen to the old man moaning across from me, the gunshot victim cursing about his “fucking leg” next door, and what sounds like a two or three-year-old screaming bloody murder in between bouts of vomiting a few curtains down.
“Happy bubble” is definitely not the vibe here.