Chapter 4 Micah
Micah
It’s been one week since the fall. Seven days of in-and-out rehab appointments, physical therapy sessions that leave me in what feels like more pain, occupational therapy to learn how to do basic tasks with one functional arm.
Every breath hurts. Every movement sends sharp reminders through my ribs that my body isn't what it used to be.
The bruising has turned from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green that spreads across my entire torso, and the stitches running from my neck to my stomach itch constantly even though the doctor told me not to scratch.
I shift in my chair at the kitchen table, wincing as the movement pulls at tender muscles. My right arm sits useless in its cast, propped on the table in front of me. The cast is already covered in signatures from coworkers and neighbors who've stopped by.
Jamie drew a dick on it the second day, which earned him a glare but no real anger. It's hard to be mad at someone who's been showing up every morning with food and coffee.
The local county jail houses Derek and Colt now, but not because of what they did to me. They got charged with assault from that bar fight Morrison mentioned, the one that happened the same day they shook my ladder.
Karma, maybe.
Or just two violent Alphas finally getting caught. Either way, they're behind bars and I should feel safer, but mostly I just feel tired.
My coffee sits cooling in front of me, steam no longer rising from the dark liquid. I take a sip anyway, grimacing at the lukewarm temperature but too exhausted to get up and reheat it. The stack of bills next to my coffee mug mocks me with its sheer volume.
Hospital bills. Emergency room fees. Surgery costs for repairing the damage to my scent gland. Physical therapy invoices. Occupational therapy charges. Medication costs. The numbers blur together into an impossible sum that makes my chest tight with anxiety rather than pain.
I'm out of work until my ribs heal, which the doctor says will be at least another month. Maybe six weeks if I'm unlucky. Too much movement and I feel like I'm going to pass out, black spots dancing across my vision and nausea rising in my throat.
Henderson Construction has been understanding, told me my job will be there when I'm ready, but understanding doesn't pay my mortgage. Understanding doesn't keep the lights on or put food in my fridge.
I've always been sturdy. The Davis family is known for being tough, for bouncing back from injuries and illnesses that would lay other people out for months.
My dad worked through a broken leg once, just wrapped it tight and kept going because the bills didn't stop coming just because he was hurt.
But this? This pisses me off. Not being able to work, not being able to do basic things like lift a bag of groceries or take a full breath without pain.
Being reduced to sitting at my kitchen table in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, staring at bills I can't pay and feeling useless.
The excitement from the fall hasn't died down.
If anything, it's gotten worse. Fans post constantly on social media, their feeds flooded with photos and videos from the scene.
Every local station ran the story, and some national ones picked it up, too.
"Rockstar Hero Saves Local Beta" with dramatic reenactments and interviews with witnesses.
The entertainment building downtown has become a minor tourist attraction, people taking selfies at the spot where I fell.
Kellan's heroic acts dominate every conversation in town.
The charity gala was apparently a huge success, raised tons of money, and everyone wants to talk about how amazing it is that he stopped to help instead of just calling 911 and moving on.
He's being painted as this perfect hero, this example of what celebrities should be.
The praise is everywhere, inescapable even when I'm hiding in my house trying to heal.
I watched one press conference three days ago, late at night when I couldn't sleep because the pain medication wore off and moving to get more seemed impossible. Kellan sat at a table with his bandmates, microphones pointed at them like weapons.
He looked both peeved and constipated at the same time, which was a feat in and of itself. The questions came rapid-fire, all about me, all about the rescue, and he answered in clipped, short sentences that made it clear he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Just did what anyone would do," he'd said, the same line he'd apparently been repeating for a week.
"Is there any update on the Beta's condition?" a reporter asked.
"No idea. Haven't checked."
That had stung more than I wanted to admit.
Haven't checked.
Hadn't even bothered to find out if I lived or died after he left me with the paramedics.
Why would he? I was just another person who needed help, another stranger in a long line of people he'd probably saved or helped over the years. Nothing special. Nothing worth remembering.
A sharp knock on my front door jolts me out of my thoughts. Before I can even call out, the door swings open and Jamie waltzes in with a covered pan in his hands. The smell of eggs and cheese and bacon hits me immediately, making my stomach growl.
"Just walk in, why don't you?" I say, but there's no real heat to it.
Jamie grins, that stupid crooked smile that means he's pleased with himself, spreading across his face. "You gave me a key for emergencies. This is an emergency. You need food."
He sets the pan on my kitchen counter and immediately starts going through my cabinets like he owns the place, pulling out plates and forks. Then he grabs himself a mug and pours coffee from the pot I made this morning, taking a long sip before making an appreciative noise.
"I know you wouldn't eat," Jamie says, carrying the plates and forks to the counter. "Or you'd warm up something nasty like a piece of ham and cheese for breakfast. I'm doing my part as your friend to make sure you don't starve or develop scurvy or whatever happens when you eat like a bachelor."
I laugh, then immediately regret it as pain lances through my ribs. I clutch my side with my good hand, breathing carefully until the worst of it passes. "We all know your mom made that breakfast casserole and you're here for my coffee because the stuff your mother makes tastes like water."
"Guilty!" Jamie doesn't even try to deny it.
He serves up generous portions of the casserole onto both plates, the cheese still melted and stretching between the pan and the porcelain.
Steam rises from the food, making my mouth water despite the persistent nausea that's been my constant companion since the fall.
"But I'm still a good friend for bringing it, so you have to give me credit. "
He brings the plates over to the table, sliding one across to me with a fork.
The casserole looks amazing, layers of eggs and potatoes and cheese and bacon all baked together into something that's probably terrible for my cholesterol but smells like heaven.
I pick up my fork awkwardly with my left hand, still not used to being right-hand dominant and suddenly having to relearn how to do everything.
"How are you doing with everything?" Jamie asks around a mouthful of food. He's never been one for manners, especially not when it's just the two of us.
I shrug with my good shoulder, poking at the casserole. "Good as I can be, I guess. I have to figure out how to pay all this shit off before they start trying to come for my house or something."
Jamie's eyes flick to the stack of bills, his expression sobering.
"You know all the people you've helped here wouldn't let that happen.
This town takes care of its own, Micah. Your dad helped half the people in this county with their construction projects, did half of it for free or cheap. That goodwill doesn't just disappear."
"Maybe." I take a bite of the casserole, chewing slowly. It's delicious, perfectly seasoned, and I make a mental note to thank Jamie's mom next time I see her. "But goodwill doesn't pay medical bills."
Jamie just sighs, redirecting the conversation. "What's going on with the investigation?" Jamie leans back in his chair as he picks up his coffee mug and cradles it in both hands.
"No fucking clue." Frustration bleeds into my voice.
"Every time I call, they're still putting everything together.
Gathering evidence, interviewing witnesses, building a case.
And since I don't have money for a lawyer, I can't exactly sue them for damages.
The county prosecutor will handle the criminal charges, but civil court is a different beast entirely. "
"We can pool those funds together, Micah." Jamie sets his mug down, leaning forward earnestly. "Seriously. Pass the hat around at Henderson, talk to people at Riley's. Everyone knows what happened. Everyone wants to help."
"But where does it end?" I stare down at my plate, what little appetite I had fading.
"I'm out of work for at least another five to seven weeks, maybe longer if my ribs don't heal right.
Then even after I'm cleared to go back, I can't do heavy construction for at least another month or two after that according to the doctor.
That's three to four months without income.
How much charity can I accept before it becomes pathetic? "
Jamie opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again.
He takes a large bite of casserole instead, chewing thoughtfully.
His eyes wander around my small kitchen, taking in the peeling linoleum and the outdated appliances and the general lived-in shabbiness of the place.
Then his gaze lands on something on the table and he snorts, nearly choking on his food.