Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60234 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60234 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“First, let’s get you cleaned up and taken care of. What’s your name?”
I frown. It’s such a basic fucking question, but I can’t tell her the truth. I mean, who can I trust right now after what happened with my crew—well, ex-crew? “Uh…Rose,” I lie. Okay, it’s not really a lie. It’s my middle name. Technically, it’s Rosalia, but it’s close enough.
“Okay, Rose.” Sophie guides me into an exam room, and I’m too out of it to ask why two big-ass bikers are standing outside one of the rooms. Sophie helps me up onto the exam table without asking any more questions. She gives me a quick scan with her eyes and hands, noting where I’m injured. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“Leave it open. Please,” I ask just before she closes me up in the stark white exam room. “Bitch,” I mutter under my breath, angry that it takes me so long to drop from the exam table and open the door just enough to hear what the fuck is going on.
It takes even more effort to get back up on the table without any help, and by the time I feel settled, sweat is dripping down my back, and it’s hard to breathe.
I strain to hear what’s happening, but all I hear is people walking up and down the corridor outside. And the low rumble of hushed voices. I have a fleeting feeling of hope as I wait for a doctor or nurse to step inside the room. Not hope that I might make it out of this miserable fucking situation alive but hope that these people can fix me up good enough that I stand a chance at making it out of Angel Harbor.
The pain is unbearable, and I can feel myself fading in and out of consciousness, so I lay back on the exam table and close my eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply, trying to will away the pain. The sounds of the clinic aren’t exactly soothing, but it’s something to focus on, something to listen to other than my thoughts.
The door swings open, and I sit up too quickly, gasping in pain. “Ouch! Shit. Son of a bitch!”
“Sorry. I’m Dr. Bishop and you are?” He looks down at his tablet. “Rose?”
I frown and shake my head. “I’m Margaret,” I say and then realize what I did. “Well, Margaret Rosalia,” I add to explain the lie. I don’t know why the fuck I’m so tongue-tied. This isn’t like me, and I feel out of sorts. Maybe it’s the bikers in the hallway.
Or maybe I’m worse off than I think.
“Okay, Margaret, want to tell me what happened?” The doctor asks while he washes his hands and grabs a set of gloves.
I’m torn. I don’t want to tell him the truth. What if he has to report it to the cops?
“I’m not asking for details about the altercation but rather a catalog of your injuries.”
My head is fuzzy, and I shake it to figure out what the fuck he’s asking. “Huh?”
“Your injuries, Margaret. Where does it hurt?”
“Oh. Right. I got stabbed in my side and here in my neck,” I answer without removing my hand from the wound. “And obviously my face. God, I look so ugly. I should have just let them kill me.”
“Hey, calm down. It’ll be okay, Margaret. We’ll get you fixed right up.”
Then he pushes my shoulders back so I’m lying down. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says. He lifts my clothes carefully and examines my wounds before calling out, “Sophie, can you come in here, please?”
The nurse comes back into the room and closes the door. Dr. Bishop turns to her and speaks in a low voice, “I’ll need you to help her change. She needs stitches and X-ray of the stab wound to see if it punctured an organ. It looks superficial, but we can’t be too sure. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walks out and shuts the door.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, honey,” Sophie says softly. She places a gown next to me and then helps me remove my shirt. I stick my arms out so she can slip the hospital gown on and help me lay back.
I flinch as she touches my side, but she’s gentle and patient, explaining everything she’s doing as she cleans my face, my neck, and the blood all over my hands.
As Sophie works, I begin to feel a strange sense of detachment. It’s like I’m watching all of this happen to someone else. Someone who isn’t me. I can see the blood on my skin, the bruises forming on my arms, but it doesn’t feel like it’s me.
“You’re doing great, Rose.”
I wince. “Margaret, sorry, but my name is Margaret. For real.”
“Okay, Margaret,” she says and finishes cleaning my wounds. Dr. Bishop walks back in, pushing a tray with medical supplies on it.