Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Doctor Laine squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later. I have no doubt he’ll be fine.”
Grasshopper appeared from grabbing a vending machine coffee. His eyes softened. “Go on, Butterbean. It’s better to know than not. I’ll be here for you, either way.”
Tears flooded my eyes but I didn’t let them fall. Bracing myself, I chased after the doctor and waited.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Ms. Price.” The doctor hid behind his clipboard almost as if he protected himself from me and the family of bikers I ran with. “His injuries are pretty serious.”
I wrung my hands. “What … what happened?”
“According to your, eh, friends, Arthur suffered a blackout from his previous concussion while driving. His motorcycle skidded out of control and he smashed into a highway barrier.”
My heart stopped beating. “Oh, my God.”
Hearing the truth after Grasshopper refused to tell me sucker punched my soul. Hopper had tried to protect me by hiding what’d happened—but it hadn’t helped. I’d only come up with worse scenarios.
The repeating image of Arthur slamming into concrete tore at my insides.
“Arthur has suffered a slow bleed on his brain since he checked himself out from this hospital against my advice. Unfortunately, the pressure built and built until there was no more space to build.”
“What does that mean?”
The doctor glanced away. “We had to operate. It was a delicate situation—always is when dealing with something as complex as the brain—but we were able to stem the internal bleeding.” He cleared his throat. “The additional scans show promise. We hope with time, he’ll return to normal functions.”
What does that mean? Would he be the same man I knew? The same boy I’d fallen in love with?
“Will he be okay?” My voice was a tinny thread.
The doctor sighed. “As long as he listens this time and takes it easy, I have no cause to believe otherwise. Like I said, his injuries are serious, but the human body has repaired much worse. In situations such as these, it’s common for a patient to wake and be in full capacity of their intellect, vocabulary, and show no adverse effects. Unlike other operations where healing is hindered with pain, the brain is different. Miraculous really.”
I didn’t know half of what he meant. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was holding him and witnessing for myself he was okay.
My muscles vibrated, threatening to come apart. “Can I see him?”
“Of course.” The doctor lowered his clipboard, waving down the corridor for me to follow. Silently, I trailed in his wake, feeling like I walked the pathway of death. Bright lights hurt my eyes; antiseptic stung my nose.
Planting his hand on a door, the doctor cracked it open and stepped back. “I’ll give you two a minute. He’s awake but groggy. We’ll monitor him closely over the next twelve hours. Don’t be alarmed. Half of his head is shaven and fully bandaged, and he’s broken a couple of bones, but overall, he’s strong and on the mend.”
Broken bones?
Never-ceasing tears sprang to my eyes.
Oh, Art.
Unable to speak, I slipped past him into the room where a single bed hovered in the center, serenaded by gentle beeps and irregular humming.
My eyes drank in the man tucked tightly beneath starched sheets.
I blinked, staring at him.
Or at least, I stared at … someone.
Someone lay in the bed.
But I didn’t recognize them.
Where was Arthur? My huge fearless Libran with arms roped with muscle and chest broadened with power?
This man was a stranger.
Covering my mouth, I drank in his injuries with horror.
His arm was at a right angle, encased in a fresh cast. His cheek scraped and raw, parts covered in gauze. And his head was covered in bandages. He looked so … lifeless. So broken.
My knees quaked as I crossed the short distance and went to him. “Arthur …”
He didn’t respond. I stopped beside the bed, fingers trembling as I touched his cool cheek, doing my best not to look at the turban of white covering his shaggy dark hair.
The doctor had warned me.
His hair will be gone beneath that.
But no matter how much information I learned—no matter the statistics or in-depth detail of his operation and recovery—nothing could soften the blow of seeing the man I loved so bruised, crumbled, and pained.
Taking his hand, I squeezed his fingers. “Arthur … can you hear me?”
Nothing.
His face was white as the sheets, eyes ringed with shadow.
Urgency possessed me. He had to see me, had to open his eyes to know I was there …
I would always be there.
“Arthur. Please …”
I tightened my hold on his cold hand, wishing upon wishes for him to respond.
The fear of his concussion crushed me. The memory of him being a devil to rouse a few days ago caused a sob to build in my lungs. “Art …”
I rolled my shoulders, pressing my forehead on his chest. Wires and monitors covered him—some slinking beneath the bandage around his head—others snaking down the front of his hospital gown.