Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Then she was carefully manipulating my neck, checking my eyes, asking if I was dizzy or nauseated, all that typical concussion shit.
“Okay, I know you are going to grumble about this,” Ama said, reaching to pull her tray closer. “But you need to do an outpatient CT scan tomorrow to check that concussion. I can point you in the direction of someone who won’t… ask too many questions.”
“That’d be good,” I agreed.
I wasn’t someone who was going to object to getting scans or treatment that an actual medical professional thought I needed.
“Wow, that was easier than I expected. Do you know Cato once tried to tell me that he just needed some elastic bandages when his foot was practically flopping it was so broken?” she asked, shaking her head. “Gotta love those ‘rub some dirt in it’ types. Okay. You need a neck brace,” she said, nodding at the nurse who moved out of the room to fetch one. “We are going to give you the typical foam one, but if that doesn’t feel like enough, they sell ones with plastic on the outside of the foam for extra support,” she told me.
“Sounds good,” I agreed.
“Now, I am only giving you one of these, and it is a little low-dose,” she told me, producing a pill from a little cup on the tray. “I don’t feel comfortable giving you anything too sedative until after you’ve had your CT. And this is very important, no over-the-counter NSAIDs,” she told me as she turned to get a cup of water. “They increase the risk of bleeding, which we don’t want until we know what is going on up in that head,” she told me, grabbing a straw, and sticking it in the cup, so I could take the meds without trying to sit up.
“Got it,” I agreed, though the idea of only taking something low dose when I was in fucking agony wasn’t something I was exactly joyful about.
“And, obviously, no alcohol. Well, no more alcohol,” she added with a brow raise.
“It was a couple sips of a margarita,” I told her. “The girls who pulled me out of the road gave me some,” I told her. “As pain relief.”
“Well, you’re a big guy, and a couple sips won’t make you drowsy,” she told me. “Okay, brace yourself,” she said, after slipping on the neck brace, then grabbing the supplies to start cleaning and treating my road rashes.
Several—very painful—hours later, I was finally in the back of the SUV and on my way back to the clubhouse.
As Ama suspected, I had a fractured rib that wasn’t broken enough to nick a lung, thank fuck, and a double-wrist fracture that didn’t need pins, just a cast that I was currently wearing.
“Some of the fancier orthopedics will 3D print a cast for you, so you can shower and even go in the pool, which you might want to look into if they think this break is going to require a long time in a cast,” Ama had told me as she wrapped me up.
I’d been in casts several times in my life. I was used to them enough that I knew the tricks to make them more tolerable.
“Sorry,” Huck grumbled from the front seat as the SUV hit a pothole, sending a jolt of pain through me, making me hiss.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though the absolute last thing I felt right then was fine.
I was wrapped in gauze, tape to keep it on, elastic bandages to ease the ache of my ribs, a neck brace, and a fucking cast.
I was dizzy and queasy when the pain moved through me.
I was on low-dose pain medicine with strict instructions only to take acetaminophen for additional pain. When everyone knew that shit didn’t do dick for pain.
I felt like shit.
“We got that appointment for seven in the morning,” Seeley reminded me, having somehow managed to make the imaging center open early to do my CT scan before their usual schedule.
I imagined he’d managed it with a shitton of money. Or with Teddy’s influence.
Either way, I was both grateful and frustrated. Grateful, because if the concussion wasn’t bad, Ama would prescribe me better meds. Frustrated because I was fucking exhausted, and it was already morning, so I was only going to catch a few hours of rest before it was time to get moving again.
And, knowing what I knew about getting roughed up, I was going to feel worse, not better, after some sleep.
But oh well.
“My man,” Eddie greeted when I hobbled my way into the clubhouse, finding him standing there in a different apron than he’d had on before. Apparently, he had a collection of them now. This one was black with The Grillfather written in white. “Oh, shit, homie,” he said, grimacing as he looked me over.