Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Okay. Alright,” I murmured to myself as I finally gained my feet, walking over toward the doorway where a mirror was on the wall. “Oh, shit,” I hissed, looking at my reflection.
I’d always been pale.
Which meant I bruised like a peach.
I had no idea how long I’d been passed out, but it was long enough for some bruises to start settling in. At my temple, my jaw, and in a semicircle around one of my eyes. My lip was split and there was a kinda nasty gash near my hairline that was still bleeding pretty steadily.
“Fuck,” I whined, reaching up to touch my face with the gentlest of pressure that still managed to send a rush of pain through me. “Oh, fuck,” I grumbled as I walked to the kitchen to grab a clean dishcloth, pressing it up to the cut at my hairline.
Within a few moments of pressing it there while glancing around my apartment to make sure I was alone, though, the rag was almost soaked through.
“Okay. Alright,” I said, self-soothing a bit as I grabbed the purse that had gone flying when I’d fallen. Fishing out my keys, I made my way out of the apartment building and to my car.
There weren’t a lot of options for healthcare in our small town. And I felt a twinge of guilt as I turned my car in the direction of Dr. Price’s office.
There was no urgent care and no hospital close by.
And, well, they might report the attack to the police.
Which I couldn’t have because, yeah, I was pretty sure my attack was because of the drugs. I mean, sure, burglars ransacked your place. But they didn’t gut your couches. They didn’t break your dishes.
They were looking for their drugs.
And I’d caught them by surprise.
I couldn’t have the cops asking questions or assuming shit when they got a look at my place.
That was the nice thing about Dr. Price, though. He was used to dealing with the bikers and the mafia and all of that, so he minded his business while he helped heal them up.
So while I felt bad that it was the middle of the night, I knew it was the only option for me since I was genuinely getting a little queasy at how much blood I was losing.
“Coming!” a voice called after I hit the doorbell a few times.
Footsteps rushed down the stairs and I could see in the side window as the man himself was pulling a shirt down over his bare chest.
I learned something new about Dr. Price right then. He was built nicely under his scrubs and doctor coat.
“Is there an emerg—“ he started as he slid the locks then pulled the door open to find me standing there in the porch light. “Oh,” he said, exhaling hard as his kind dark eyes fell on me.
I’d seen Dr. Price a few times over the years. When I was sick. Or that one time some idiot at work left a broken liquor bottle in the speed rail, slicing me to shit when I reached for it without looking.
“Nyx,” he said, exhaling hard as he moved out of the way of the door, inviting me in. “Come on in. I need to get a look at that head,” he added, following me into the darkened office, flicking on lights as he went.
He didn’t ask me what happened.
It was pretty obvious I’d been attacked.
But he knew who I worked for and likely who I associated with.
Which meant he also knew better than to ask questions.
“How are you feeling? Do you have any nausea? Double-vision?”
“No.”
“Are you lightheaded? Mentally foggy?”
“No. I’m okay. I have a wicked headache, but that’s it,” I told him.
“Okay. I don’t have the imaging here that I would need to use to check for a concussion, but you have to promise me that if you have any of the symptoms we’d just talked about that you head to the hospital to get checked out. Concussions are usually not something to worry about, but they can be serious in rare occasions.”
“I think I’m okay,” I told him as he gathered supplies on his little moving stainless steel table before coming back to me. “I’m only here because this seems like a lot of bleeding,” I said, waving toward my head.
“It is. I’m glad you came in. You are going to need stitches,” he told me, waving toward his tray where the suture kit was set up.
“How many?” I asked, stomach twisting a bit at the idea.
“Eight. Ten. Luckily, this is close enough to your hairline that you likely won’t see much scarring,” he told me as he reached for the needle. “I have to numb you,” he told me, waiting until I gave him a tentative nod before closing my eyes.
There was a slight prick that I barely noticed over the slamming inside my brain.