Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Okay,” I agreed.
I expected to wait.
I mean, this was a hospital, after all.
The last time I’d been in one, I’d waited four hours in the waiting room, then spent another seven total hours in the back before I finally got to go home.
Somehow, though, within twenty minutes of going in the back, I had my blood drawn, and then I was being wheeled into the elevator, and down to the CT machine for both my head and my spleen.
I was pretty sure I slipped in and out of consciousness then, kind of confirming the suspicions the doctor had about the concussion. I should have been pulsing with adrenaline and anger and an acute thirst for revenge.
When I was wheeled back to the emergency room, an IV was hooked up, making me squint at it.
“Just fluids,” the nurse told me, giving me an overly friendly smile.
Granted, doctors and nurses were often nice when you had been injured and in need of care. But they were being the kind of nice you only saw when someone’s boss was looking over their shoulders.
Weird.
“They’re not going to give me anything for my migraine, are they?” I grumbled.
“We’re going to have to wait to hear what the doctor says. Until then, can I get your face cleaned up a little?” she asked, already going to the supply cabinet and pulling things out.
“How bad is it?” I asked, reaching up with my sore hand and gently pressing around.
“Just a couple of cuts on your forehead and your split lip. Some bruising.”
The throbbing sensation said it was likely more than some bruising. But I figured I would see it eventually, so there was no reason to ask her to explain more.
Gently, she cleaned up my face, applying a few butterfly sutures, then covering me with a blanket. Then another. Asking me if I wanted anything to drink.
Again, just… too nice.
Maybe I would have analyzed it further, but the jackhammering in my brain was making thinking difficult. So I just closed my eyes and waited.
I did have a mild concussion.
So no pain meds.
As it turned out, my spleen looked… okay.
But they wanted to keep me overnight to keep an eye on it.
“No, I really need to go home,” I insisted.
“You can, of course, leave,” the doctor said, looking uncomfortable at even giving me that option. “But I really recommend you stay. Just for a night. Maybe two,” she slipped in. “We can keep giving you fluids, checking your blood work. Keeping a close eye on you,” she said, giving my ankle a squeeze through the blankets. “It’s already getting late,” she reasoned.
That was true.
And the idea of being jostled around in a car with my aching ribs and unsteady stomach sounded less than desirable. Besides, I would have to get a ride or something since Andres seemed to have abandoned me.
I shouldn’t have been upset about that.
He came to rescue me.
He got me to the hospital.
What else could I expect from the man?
He wasn’t my family. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Hell, he wasn’t even a friend.
“Okay,” I submitted.
After that, I was given a few useless tablets of acetaminophen—the medical equivalent of bringing a knife to a gun fight—and a cooling migraine strip that did give me at least a tiny bit of relief.
Sometime later, I was vaguely aware of being wheeled up to a new floor, but when the sleep decided to claim me instead of letting me investigate things, I didn’t fight it.
I was safe in the hospital.
And unconsciousness was significantly better than consciousness right about then.
So I let it claim me.
At some point, I could have sworn I heard that deep, sexy voice right beside me whispering, “I’m sorry, mama.”
But, clearly, that was some sort of dream reality.
Because I’d been all alone since the moment I was wheeled away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hope
I woke up groggy, still feeling a spike driving into my temple, in my forehead, hell, in my damn eyes.
And the sleep had done little to dull the throbbing ache in my ribs and abdomen.
But I was thirsty enough to force my eyelids to part, wincing at the light until my eyes adjusted.
What did my gaze land on first?
Andres.
Standing a few feet away, leaned back against the wall, ankles crossed, looking tired, and staring right at me.
“A?” I asked, blinking the sleep away.
“Yeah, mama,” he said, nodding, and pushing off the wall, making his way over to the side of my bed.
It seemed like an awfully long walk for a hospital room, making me wonder if concussions could screw with your depth perception.
Even as I thought that, though, my gaze moved around.
And nothing looked like a hospital room.
It was more like a hotel with the wood flooring, the fancy floor-length drapes, the big flatscreen TV, the table with chairs, and the seating section with recliners.
“Is this a hotel?” I heard myself ask, looking back at A as he moved next to me, reaching up to touch the banana bag I was still hooked up to.