Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Da-ted.” I swiftly correct, forcing myself to sit up straighter despite the pain it ignites. “As in past tense.”
“However, I’m hoping there’s a possibility for it to become present tense,” Harv sweetly interjects, heavy scruff covered complexion lighting up.
Slater throws him a glare so powerful it’s comparable to a grenade blast before firing one at me. “How fuckin’ past are we talkin’, Arlette?”
It’s hard to hold back the sneer that hearing my full name come out of his lips conjures. “Almost seven years ago.”
“So long before us?”
“Not exactly long,” my confession is accompanied by me slinking back beneath the sheets in hopes of faking exhaustion to the point this nightmare can end, “but definitely before us.”
His splayed palms land in the space beside my leg. “How. Fuckin’. Long?”
“Couple weeks.” My best friend’s eyes widen like I’ve just bitch slapped him with the betrayal of the century pushing me to explain. “Like two to the day.”
Slater’s displeased expression remains.
“Harv and I split a few days before Christmas and we – you and I – met in the elevator January 2nd .”
“You remember exactly what day you two met?” Harv suspiciously inquires.
“Of course, she fuckin’ does,” my best friend protectively defends. “We celebrate it every year. For our last one we had Rumchata hot cocoa and cupcakes and a very messy fake snowball fight in her backyard thanks to the machine she got me for Christmas.”
“It’ll come in handy if it doesn’t snow again this year!”
“I know,” Slater concurs without looking at me. “We celebrate lots of shit together because we’re family. And that’s what family does.”
“And yet,” my ex coldly chomps, “you didn’t know about us.”
There’s no denying the change in Slater’s breathing.
“So, it seems only fair to ask, are you really family or simply wishing you were?”
Holy. Shit.
Can I fake a stroke or a heart attack?
Am I too young?
Would anyone buy that?
Statistically speaking, people with high pressure jobs – such as mine – are notorious for getting taken down by stress, I just always assumed it would be directly work related when it happened to me, not…whatever…this…shitshow turning into a fuckshow is.
A tiny knock on the door precedes a young woman’s face peering around the edge of it. “Is our patient awake?”
“Very,” I absentmindedly croak, encouraging the female to enter the room.
“Good,” she sweetly says, words pink and light and practically flowing through the air which is a nice change in comparison to the ones that have been recently attacking. “My name is Ali Raysarkar, and I’ll be your nursing assistant.”
An array of colors from the busy hallway instantly begin to barge themselves around the blockade; however, Slater slyly steps out of the way to not only shut the door but to provide the CNA appropriate room to work.
The instant it’s closed I mouth him my thanks.
He bashfully beams, nods, and rests his back against it.
“Let’s check your vitals, okay?” Ali asks as she arrives at my bedside. “We’ll start with the basics of your name, date of birth, and the year.” Once she’s been provided with the information from me, she nods in approval. “That’s good! Your head injury may be less severe than they originally thought.”
“She’s still gettin’ a CT scan,” Slater informs yet again with no room for rebuttal.
“How about you let a medical professional make that declaration, Wahl?” Harv less than politely insists.
“I am a medical professional,” my best friend viciously bites back. “Still licensed and still certified in this state, sir.”
“Being an operative capable of CPR is not the same thing and you know that.”
“Actually, Harv, Slater’s a certified paramedic.” Looking away from where the nurse aid is beginning to take my blood pressure and up at him occurs next. “It was required when he was a PJ and when he retired, he made sure to keep the certification up to date as to be able to provide the best care possible for whatever civilian may need it during R&R.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I manage to catch my best friend arrogantly grin.
Why do I get the feeling the two of them are now keeping score?
And why do I wanna know who’s winning?
And how do they determine exactly what constitutes as a point?
And am I the game or the referee?
“Blood pressure is high and your heart rate a bit elevated,” Ali states, returning my stare to her, “but given you could cut the tension in this room with one of niece’s Play-Doh knives, I think it’s safe to say that’s probably why.”
She’s correct.
Point for her!
“Dr. Kurtzman will be by shortly to discuss your status and touch base regarding next steps as well as possible discharge; however, in the meantime, I have just a few questions.” Her statement is followed by logging in to the nearby computer. “Do you currently have any head pain?”
Something tells me she’s talking about the actual ache and not the emotional one being caused by the two men doing their best not to childishly glare at one another.