Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
At best, that was a strain.
At worst, I was looking at crutches and a cast.
Maybe my ma was right. I needed to get my sinful ass to church more, get right with the Lord, figure out why he’s got such a damned grudge against me.
For fuck’s sake, Brio sliced peoples’ ears off and he wasn’t constantly getting injured.
Suddenly, there was a frantic tapping on the window at my side, catching me off-guard, making me jerk.
“Hey! Hey, are you okay in there?” a honey-sweet voice called. “I’m on the phone with the police. The ambulance is on its way, okay? Can you hear me? I don’t know. He looks pretty rough,” she went on, clearly talking to the 911 operator. “Yeah, he looks like he hit his head on something. Hey, sir! Sir, are you hurt anywhere else?”
“My foot,” I said when I remembered to speak. “I can’t get it out.”
“He said he can’t get his foot out. Okay. Hey! The lady said to stop trying. Leave it where it is. The cops or firemen or whoever will come in and get you out, okay? Just sit tight. No. No. I don’t see any other car around,” she said, turning her attention back to the operator.
There wasn’t another car?
How was that possible?
There was no way, no fucking way, I’d crashed into a parked car or some shit like that.
I was a damn good driver.
Never an accident.
Never even a near-miss, not even in the crazy city traffic.
“Um, yeah, you know what,” I heard her say as she looked toward the front of the car. “Yeah. There’s paint like there was another car. Maybe it was a hit-and-run?”
Hit-and-run?
Yeah.
It sure sounded like my ass needed to get to church.
Shot, stabbed, shot, hit-and-run.
I needed to douse my whole fucking body in holy water. They needed to bring in one of those damn kiddie pools and let me bathe in blessed water.
I needed to get to my phone.
I had to call Salvatore, let him know that I couldn’t get to the diner.
But it wasn’t in the cupholder where I’d had it.
The crash had likely sent it flying onto the passenger floor. But I couldn’t move to try to find it.
It was right about then that I heard the sirens, making their way toward me, then stopping.
Within a few minutes, I was surrounded by paramedics and firemen, everyone trying to see how I was and how to get me out.
“No, I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I insisted even as they were putting me on the gurney.
“Listen, I will feel better knowing you got an x-ray done of that foot, at least, okay?” the female paramedic said as the ambulance pulled off.
And, well, I couldn’t exactly object to that, could I?
I figured that once I got to the hospital, I’d find some way to call my mother who could call my brother who could call Salvatore, since hers was the only number I knew by heart since it hadn’t changed since I was a little kid and she’d been drumming it into my head for emergencies.
But, as it would turn out, no, that wasn’t as easy as I’d thought.
I’d tried to tell myself that it was going to be okay, that despite Salvatore’s overprotectiveness, Whit was safe at the diner with the cook and the busser and all the customers.
It was fine.
But it damn sure didn’t feel fine.
I was given a job.
And I’d been working really fucking hard to make a name for myself, to be someone that the Family trusted, despite all my fucking mishaps.
I was fucking up royally.
Eventually, the scan came back.
Broken tibia and ankle.
Because, again, of-fucking-course it was broken in two places.
After the doctor finished casting me up and giving me crutches, I signed my ass out, despite his insistence that he wanted to monitor me for a little bit because of a possible concussion.
He didn’t understand that I’d have a definite concussion if Salvatore found out I’d been shirking my responsibilities.
Grabbing a cab since I’d luckily had my wallet in my back pocket, I’d made it across town and into the diner, sure I would find Whitney looking over with concerned eyes, then insisting I sit down while she brought me some food and drinks.
Yeah, okay, I was a sucker for being waited on a little bit. Sue me.
The problem was, Whit didn’t greet me when I got there.
Because Whit wasn’t there at all.
But there was a guy beaten to a bloody fucking pulp.
Who’d told me that Wren was taken by ‘some guy named Josh.’
And that Whitney had gone to save her sister.
Shit.
Goddamnit.
What the fuck?
“How long?” I asked, whipping his cell out of his hand and dialing my mom’s number.
“Five minutes. Tops,” he insisted.
“Did you call the cops?”
“No. Not yet. I was…”
“Don’t,” I cut him off. “That guy? He is a cop,” I added, watching as the guy’s eyes widened, seeming to put all the pieces together in a blink, then giving me a nod. “Ma. Give me Lorenzo’s number now. Ma, I don’t have time for this. I know you want more grandchildren. Jesus fucking… no, I know. I won’t take his name in vain. Ma, I mean it. Family emergency shit. I need Lorenzo’s number.”