Chapter 11 Downward Spiral #2
Lance surged forward to catch the other end of it, immediately providing stabilization, but his spoken response was not quite what she might have expected. “Easy there, Lynn. Your bestie’s shy.”
Lynnette went still, blinking at him. “My what?” Had the man gone from not-so-subtly declaring his interest in her to deciding he was her bestie? And did he honestly expect her to believe he was shy?
No. The answer to both was no. Jenna was there. Just Jenna, no Jon, because it turned out Jon had an appointment in the city.
Lance insisted he was babysitting. Or playing bodyguard.
Something of the sort, all of which was ludicrous.
With the exception of the fact that the man Lynnette had met the previous day would absolutely want someone around to protect his lover if he felt she wasn’t safe, and she’d just said something about her kitchen window having had a rock thrown through it.
The world was passing Lynnette by while she was trapped in the hospital that wanted to ruin her.
Somehow, the realization felt like a slap to the face.
Lynnette didn’t have the patience or emotional space for any of it, so she made as swift an exit as she could.
She should have lingered. She should have taken the opportunity to chat with her friend and use Jenna’s and Lance’s socializing to maybe see a new side of him.
She should have let the good energy in the room seep into her.
But she didn’t feel like she could. She felt like she might be the vacuum that sucked it from them and ruined everything.
So, she grabbed the damn wheel, reminded Lance he was still supposed to act like a damn patient, and hauled the imbalanced and broken cart out of the room.
It felt a bit like a metaphor that she didn’t want to think too hard about, if she were honest with herself.
The entire exchange, her own behavior, the bizarre feelings all of it had jerked up to the forefront, had her fighting down tears as she rode the elevator down to the basement cafeteria.
Once upon a time, she had loved her job.
She might still love her job in theory. The idea of it, the actual practice of it, even.
But the behind-the-scenes, day-to-day reality of it?
That she had come to hate. In equal measure, it seemed, to the way it hated her.
But quitting meant letting Bishop get away with his shit. It meant he won.
She had never in her life quit anything.
Not a sport, not a television show, not a job, not a relationship.
She’d had them dump her, each in their own way, but when she committed, she committed for the long haul.
It was a sentiment that had scared off her last boyfriend, too many years ago to count.
She absolutely loathed the idea of letting Gavin Bishop break her.
But the trapped feeling she was floundering in? That didn’t seem a whole lot better.
We all have someone.
Lance had said those words less than two hours earlier, to Jenna, while they were chatting about Jon. He’d meant it to help her see, or better understand, that a part of Jon had held onto her and whatever they’d shared. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d seen Lynn’s face.
He hadn’t known her then. He hadn’t known her at any point throughout the entirety of his military career. She had never been—couldn’t have been—his ‘someone’.
For the longest time, his ‘someone’ had been more of a concept than a tangible reality.
A memory blended with an ideal. He’d clung to the ever-fading memory of his lost sister, the growing recognition of how unnecessary her loss had been and all the ways their world had been too small, and he’d pushed himself harder toward his goal each time.
Because he didn’t have a person. No one waiting on him, no living, breathing human he had any expectation or half-cocked hope of a sappy reunion with, and no sweet memory that didn’t end sour for him to hold tight.
He hadn’t had any of that while he was in the service, and on the few occasions when he’d needed something more solid than a wispy ideal, he’d leaned on his brothers. It had worked for him.
But now, he couldn’t shake Lynn’s face from his mind.
That would be fine, except something in Lance’s gut told him Lynnette was avoiding him.
Someone else, someone he hadn’t seen yet, had come to pick up his lunch things.
Then Jon had returned to reclaim Jenna, reminded him to call when he was finally free, and he’d been left alone.
In the time that had passed since, all Lance had been able to do was worry.
Because he’d seen in Lynn’s eyes that something was off.
It was over an hour before Gavin Bishop walked into the room.
Only years of hard training kept Lance from launching off the bed, leg be damned, and showing that walking shithole what an assault really looked like.
He hadn’t gotten the full rundown from Dietz yet—turned out Jon’s request had ended up taking priority, since that dive had revealed some heavy shit—but he’d sussed out enough, anyway.
“I hear you’re being released for good behavior,” Bishop said, as if he thought prison humor was appropriate. His face didn’t even move the way it should for having made a joke.
Lance didn’t bother feigning a smile. “Yep. I’ll be running marathons by the end of the month.”
Bishop dropped his gaze toward Lance’s leg and clicked his tongue.
“Mr. Blackburn, I would strongly recommend you start making peace with the notion that this leg will never again function at the same capacity it used to. In fact, I think I would recommend some counseling to help adjust to the transition.” He met Lance’s stare again.
“Considering your larger life circumstances, and the overlapping trauma of it all, I think you would benefit greatly.”
With a lot of people, Lance would have laughed off their concerns about his leg-related trauma.
For some, he might even have elaborated.
For the asshole technically within kicking range?
He was struggling not to cripple the fucker with a glare.
“The marathon thing was a joke,” he said.
Not because he couldn’t if he wanted to, but because he intended to have much more important things to be doing with his time.
Like beating on a mysteriously disappearing doctor just a little every day until the man eventually broke. Lance wasn’t normally one for prolonged torture, but if anyone could bring the urge out in him, it was the man dumb enough to put hands on Lynnette.
“Well,” Bishop said, “that’s good.” He cleared his throat and tucked his hands into his pants pockets, glancing around only briefly.
“It takes a little time for paperwork to get finalized, but I wanted to discuss what you’ll need to prepare for and keep on top of moving forward.
We’re going to get you on a round of antibiotics to keep your body healthy while it heals.
I would like to send you a pain relief prescription as well—once you get started on rehabilitation therapy, the pain’s going to spike more than you might think.
And I also want to send you with an anti-inflammatory. ”
He didn’t need any of it, of course, but having prescription-strength anti-inflammatories on hand sounded like a general good idea.
Particularly if his best bud was about to go chasing after a goddamn cartel that had, apparently, decided to make moves in bum-fuck Oregon.
A thought which still kind of blew Lance’s mind.
He was less keen on holding onto and doling out high doses of pain meds—he had no interest in creating any addicts.
Aloud, Lance replied, “I’m no stranger to pain. Let’s leave that off the table.” He couldn’t technically stop the man from writing a prescription, but it’d be up to him to pick the thing up.
Bishop frowned but inclined his head. “I’ll have the orders drafted. Do you have a pharmacy, or should we send it to ours?”
“Yours is fine. I don’t have an anything at the moment.”
“I did notice your intake information lacked more than a pair of phone numbers.”
Lance shrugged. “Haven’t been discharged long. Been in Oregon even less. So far, the experience leaves a little something to be desired, I gotta say.”
“I’m sure.” Still, Bishop didn’t crack a smile. Nor did he let the conversation lull. “Would you prefer to be sent to a rehabilitation facility? You won’t have to worry about housing or meals until you’re better recovered.”
Lance cringed and shook his head. “Physical therapy’s fine, if that’s an option.
I’m good with discipline. And my buddy’s been out in the area, finding his feet, so I’m sure I’ll have somewhere to land.
” He knew how to rent a hotel if he failed his ideal goal of an invite to Lynn’s couch.
The one thing he would not be doing was third-wheeling the new lovebirds.
Half an hour in a room with the shiny new couple and he could see how that road would go.
It was bad enough when a guy in the barracks inevitably thought he could jerk himself off under the covers quiet enough no one would know.
Living in a confined space with free-to-fuck, starry-eyed soulmates? Yeah, he’d rather sleep in mud.
Bishop said a few words about limitations and rate of recovery, things Lance should prepare himself for and things he should look out for that might be cause for concern.
Most of it was doctorly stuff that only felt off because of his lousy bedside manner.
But Lance had learned to recognize the subtle signs of a man who didn’t like him, and Bishop was exuding nearly every single one.
Isn’t that interesting. The feeling was fucking mutual, to be sure, but Lance had been his typical professionally-amicable self.
Mostly because he wanted to be free first and partly because he wanted to know the dirt before he doled out the consequences.
So, he couldn’t quite figure out why the man who ought to see him with some degree of respect, perhaps sympathy, or at the very least, bland neutrality, in fact had decided to swing the opposite direction.
Finally, Bishop took a step closer, lowered his voice, and dropped a hand to the arm rail of Lance’s bed.
“One last thing before I go, and we hopefully never have to see each other again, Mr. Blackburn,” he said.
“I am aware that you decided to play my nurses against each other the other day. Those sorts of games are not tolerated here at KCH. If you should, at any point, step out of line again—”
“Lemme stop you right there, Gav,” Lance interrupted, unable to tolerate the bullshit another moment.
He set his hand on the same rail, pulling himself forward and bringing himself within Bishop’s personal space until they were practically nose-to-nose.
“We both know that’s not how it went down.
I don’t care what flirty Claire said or if she was sucking your dick while she said it.
She was the only one out of line. I was fine, fortunately, but that doesn’t excuse her misbehavior.
And it sure as shit doesn’t excuse a certified doctor trying to issue threats to a patient after the fucking fact. ”
Bishop’s nostrils flared.
An alert sounded on the hospital intercom. The type that would have staff scrambling.
“Stay out of my ward in the future,” Bishop tossed over his shoulder as he rushed out the door.
Lance curled his lip. “Be fuckin’ glad to.” Not that it’ll be yours much longer, Gav.