Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 71074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
"So I’m supposed to believe that you having an ECG machine just lying around the barn?" They both share a look. "Like that’s normal." I walk over and hook Mayson up. Placing the gray peg on his finger. The machine starts to monitor his heartbeat. "It’s slow,” I tell them. "But steady."
"At least it’s beating," Ethan says. "Here." He hands me the blue surgical cover, and I look down at my shirt, seeing that his blood is all over me. I slip my hands in and slip on another pair of clean gloves. I turn, and everything else fades away. I block out everyone in the room and the only thing I focus on is Mayson. Quinn comes back in with a stick and a hanger. Tying it to the side of the bed, he hangs up the saline bag.
I clean off the wound as gently as I can and look up to see if he wakes up. When I don’t see his eyes flutter, I continue seeing to the bullet hole. The whole time, questions are going through my head. Who would do this to him? Why would they do this to him? Where did he crawl out from? How long was he kept? From the look at the welts on his wrists, he was held captive for days. When was the last time someone spoke to him? How long would he have been missing before someone asked questions? My head swirls as I make sure the wound is clean before I grab the hook and some thread.
My stomach burns as I think of him alone out there with no one knowing he was missing. My parents text me twice a day, and if I don’t answer them, they have a phone chain they put into effect. How does he not have this? Why doesn’t he have this? Who is this man who has slowly crept into my family?
"How is his pressure?" I ask Ethan, who had this training when he was in the black ops team.
"Normal," he says. "How's the wound?"
"Normal." I smirk at him and bend my head to start stitching him up.
* * *
I hang my head down and let the water cascade around me. The tightness in my neck doesn’t go away. I’ve been up for thirty-eight hours straight, give or take. Watching the water swirl down the drain, I’m fixated on that image and trying to forget everything I just saw.
Closing my eyes, all I can see is blood. So much fucking blood I didn’t think he would make it, and all I could do was ignore the way my heart was beating. I had to ignore the fear that was creeping in and focus on keeping him alive. Everyone helped in their own way, but no one could have stitched him up like me. So I refused to even take a break. I refused to drink. I refused everything until the last stitch was sewn, and were there ever fucking stitches.
Seventy stitches just on his legs and twenty for the bullet wound. I close my hands, looking down at them, and then the cramping starts.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing the white towel. Wrapping it around myself, I slip on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. I tie my hair on top of my head, ignoring the tension in the back of my neck that is not going away.
Opening the bathroom door, I’m shocked when I see my mother sitting on the bed. "Mom," I say her name, and she turns to look at me. "What are you doing here?" I ask. I’m suddenly scared he coded, and no one came to get me. She sees my eyes moving from her to the door and back to her.
"Dad called me." She smiles at me. "I brought over something for you to eat." She points at the tray of food she placed on the bedside table. I let out a huge sigh of relief.
"Where is everyone?" I look toward the hallway, knowing that Ethan is probably sitting by his bed.
"Only Ethan is left," she says, and I go and sit next to her. "You need to sleep."
"I need to eat and sleep but," I say, looking toward the door, "he needs to be watched for the next twenty-four hours."
"And Ethan is with him," she reinterates. "So eat and then get at least four hours of sleep."
Grabbing the tray, I bring it on the bed with us. "Is this Grandma’s special soup?"
"Obviously," she says. "We had to talk her and Grandpa down, or they would have charged in here." I laugh, grabbing the spoon, taking a sip of the butternut squash soup that is my favorite.
"It was scary, Mom," I tell her without looking up as I blink away my tears.