Chapter 4 #2
He’s the one who filled in the blanks for me.
I didn’t believe it at first. Didn’t want to.
But the details are consistent with instances in the past where my conversion disorder was triggered.
When I press my own fingertips to the discolored spots on my skin, the perfect way they line up is hard to deny.
“Most of the marks are self-inflicted. She gave herself the bruises and most of the scrapes. The few bruises caused by one of the guys are only there because he had to fight her pretty hard so she wouldn’t jump.”
The room is silent for a beat, and every head in the room is turning from one person to another. They’re all scrabbling for understanding, while shame threatens to bubble up inside me.
“Off the boat,” Greedy finally clarifies.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kendrick curses from the doorway.
Locke makes a pained sound from where he’s perched, and Kylian’s hold tightens around my shoulders.
Decker doesn’t move a muscle or make a sound.
“It was a subconscious reaction,” I whisper. “The urge to flee, even if it was into the water. That’s part of it—one of the many facets of the disorder. When I shut down, I lose control. I don’t even remember—”
“Enough.”
Decker looks around the room, jaw ticking, his eyes an impossibly dark obsidian.
“We can’t change what happened. God dammit. I fucking hate that they used you to get to me, to fuck with us… fuck. I never meant for it to be like this.”
Decker rakes his hand through his hair again, tugging on the brown strands until they’re all mussed and messy. In the time that I’ve known him, he’s never looked so frazzled.
With a deep sigh, he takes a step forward.
“Please, Josephine. Come back to the mansion. Let us take care of you. We’ll protect you—and one way or another, the fuckers who did this will pay.”
I swallow past the sense of dread that springs up when I think about the boat ride required to get there.
But as I look between them—from Decker to Kylian, then to Locke and even Kendrick—I see the resolve. The anger. The need for redemption and revenge.
They want to make this right. And I’m pretty damn close to letting them.
The tension in the room snaps like an overstretched rubber band, but it quickly morphs into an awkward silence when a nurse knocks twice and steps inside.
“Oh,” she murmurs. “Oh,” she says again, this time a little more drawn out, as she takes in the crowd.
Every guy in the room is tall, broad, and ridiculously good looking. They take up a substantial amount of space, their energies all dueling for dominance. It only takes her a second to lift her chin and pull her shoulders back and make a beeline for me.
“I’ve got your discharge orders here, dear,” she informs me, holding up a clipboard as she squeezes between Locke and Decker to get to her computer. “Would you like me to come back later?” she asks, peering around the room.
“No,” I insist. “I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Please,” I add, a little softer.
Being here is actually making my anxiety worse. Like my subconscious is firing off over and over again because of the parallels to my last hospital stay.
After my mind finally cleared, I decided to insist I check out today, whether against medical advice or not—a point I had made clear to Greedy and Hunter. They didn’t argue, even if they didn’t look pleased with my declaration.
“Given your…”
The nurse takes a moment to assess every one of my guests, then focuses on me, one brow raised, clearly unwilling to discuss my medical conditions in front of a crowd without my consent.
With a quick nod, I signal for her to proceed.
“Given your situation, Dr. Ferguson recommends that you be discharged with at-home support.”
“Meaning?” Kylian asks.
“Someone, or someones,” another curious glance around the room, “needs to be responsible for her care over the next few days. You’ve been through quite the ordeal. You need time to heal.”
She’s talking about so much more than the bruises and scrapes covering my limbs. The bone-deep exhaustion of trauma and depression keeps trying to pull me back under, and if I don’t rest, I’ll lose the battle with them both.
What do boxers call it? Getting back to their fighting weight? Although a football analogy would be more appropriate, given the circumstances. There’s no way I’m game-day ready.
“Bedrest for a few days. From there, you can resume daily activity, but listen to your body and ease back into things.”
The nurse turns back to the computer, clicking away, then deftly leans over to place a pulse ox on my finger and the blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“You’ve got two prescriptions for cross-tapering, as well as the PNR you and Dr. Ferguson discussed. I just need a few signatures from you, as well as the name and contact information of the person who’ll be responsible for your care. Who’s taking you home, dear?”
At her question, the room crashes into a static silence that lasts all of two seconds. Silence has never weighed so heavily or sounded so loud. Then a cacophony of voices erupts around me all at once.
“I am.”
“We are.”
“Jose, if you want—”
“No. Don’t even fucking think about—”
A piercing wolf whistle cuts through the chaos.
My heart leaps in my chest at the sharp sound, but then I bite back a snicker as my sweet nurse plants both hands on her hips and scowls at one guy after another.
“Dr. Ferguson may have approved your visitation, but you will not interfere with patient care or coerce this girl into doing anything she doesn’t want to do. Is that clear?”
The prolonged silence is awkwardly comical. Maybe I need to bring this nurse back to the mansion with me to keep these boys in line.
Turning back to me, she sighs. “Very good. Now, Josephine,” she emphasizes, “who is taking you home?”
Kylian’s arms tighten around me.
Greedy has the gumption to mutter under his breath again, as if he can’t stand the idea of being counted out.
Every eye in the room is boring into me. Decker’s with more intensity than the rest.
But my friend in the corner is the person I seek. Our eyes meet, and I don’t even have to ask to know she’s in. Wordlessly, Hunter steps up to the end of the bed.
“Will you stay with me?” I ask quietly.
She gives me a tight, sympathetic smile.
I don’t know how she does it, but the expression, one that’s been directed at me a dozen times from a dozen people, doesn’t make me feel less than or weak.
If anything, it makes me feel seen. She doesn’t know all the details of what I’ve been through.
But she knows I’ve been through it, and that’s enough for now.
“Of course,” she says, squeezing my ankle affectionately.
“Temi.”
Greedy’s nickname for Hunter is a low and cautionary rumble. Their dynamic is so strange—she’s standoffish with her stepbrother, and yet that doesn’t deter him. He treats her with the utmost respect. Reverence, even.
Hunter rolls her eyes and shuffles past Decker to fill out the release form, ignoring Greedy completely. “I have to list an address. Where are we going, Joey?”
Oh.
Shit.
That’s probably what Greedy’s wondering, too.
It would be easier, quieter, better, in almost every way, if I could go to my uncle’s for a while. I’d have the time to rest and the space I need to get my head on straight and sort out all that’s taken place over the last few weeks.
But there’s nowhere for Hunter to sleep if we go back to the small space attached to the office of the junkyard.
And I’m not prepared to answer Sam’s questions.
The wounds—physical and emotional—are still too raw.
The bigger aspects of the last few days are clear to me, but I haven’t had nearly enough time to process them or to figure out how to cope with the aftermath.
Hunter would let me stay at her place in a heartbeat, but the last time—the only time—I was there, the house was teeming with South Chapel Sharks. Just the thought of bumping into anyone from that team right now sends a frisson of panic down my spine.
That leaves one option.
Sighing, I lift my chin and regard Decker. His onyx eyes are scrutinizing me, just as they have been since he walked into the room.
“Can Hunter come back to the house with us?”
“Of course.” The response is immediate. “You don’t even have to ask.”
“No fucking way,” Greedy growls, stalking toward Hunter. “It’s Shore Week. You shouldn’t even be on the LCU campus until after it’s over. I can guarantee there are people over there just itching to take a shot at us.”
“I’m not a Shark, Greedy,” Hunter counters.
“Yeah. So I’ve heard. But you are—”
Hunter crosses her arms and raises her brows in such an aggressive flex that she may as well have thrown a punch. “I’m what?” she hisses.
Snapping his mouth shut, Greedy holds both hands up and takes a step back.
“That’s what I thought,” she jibes before turning back to me. “I need to go home and get a few things, but I can be back here in less than two hours, okay?”
“That works,” Kylian answers for me. “It’ll probably take that long to process the paperwork anyway. Once you return, we’ll leave together. I’ll text Mrs. Lansbury and ask her to have dinner ready and to pick up the prescriptions that have been called in.”
He’s already pulling out his phone, obviously eager to be productive now that we have a plan.
“Better tell her to set two extra places,” Greedy announces, nodding toward Kylian, then regarding Decker. “I’m not letting Hunter out of my sight if she’s staying at your mansion.”
Kendrick and Locke scoff in unison, the noise echoing in the room like surround sound.
“You’re welcome to join us for dinner,” Decker replies coolly. “But I can assure you, no harm will come to Hunter. Not on my watch.”
Now it’s Greedy’s turn to sneer. “We’ve all seen what can happen on your watch, Cap.”
Beside me, Kylian’s head snaps up, and Hunter’s eyes widen to saucers where she still stands at the workstation.
“And I won’t just be joining you for dinner,” Greedy says as he saunters to the door. “If she’s staying at the Crusade mansion, then so am I.”
With that, he’s out the door, with Hunter hot on his heels, already arguing with him as they head down the hall.