58 - Frankie
58
Frankie
—
The hum of fluorescent lights does little to ease the mayhem as the hospital teems with patients.
My heart pounds as I rush from one bed to the next, donning and doffing PPE and leaning into my training.
My bodyguards are never more than a few feet away, a constant reminder of the other danger lurking outside these sterile walls. When we arrived twenty hours ago, I tossed them masks, demanding they wear them. They didn’t argue. They know better.
“Frankie, we’ve got another one!” Nurse Letty’s voice slices through the frenzy.
I nod and head to the trauma unit, where a middle-aged woman struggles to breathe. Her skin is pallid. Sweat beads on her forehead, and fear shines in her eyes.
“BP’s dropping. Get me more fluids!” I reach for the equipment, my gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency.
The past twenty hours have blurred together in a haze of feverish activity. Every bed is occupied, and we’re running low on supplies. This stomach bug is aggressive, and our resources are stretched thin.
I can’t let my emotions get the better of me. I focus on each patient, pouring every ounce of my energy into their care. We haven’t lost one yet.
Eventually, fatigue drapes over me like a heavy blanket. I start fumbling with IVs and tripping over my own feet. But I can’t go home. Not yet. I just need a few hours of sleep before I can continue.
After I scrub my hands for the millionth time today, I pull out my phone and send a group text to the guys, letting them know I’m okay and reiterating the importance of them staying on the island.
I hit send, my fingers trembling. I can’t lose them. Not now, not ever.
“Take a break.” Nurse Letty grips my arm as I sway against a doorframe. “You can barely stay upright.”
“I’m fine.”
“You already exceeded the max hours. You’re going to start making mistakes.” Her eyes harden above her mask. “Go get some sleep. Now.”
She’s right.
Dammit .
With a nod, I trudge toward the on-call room for a nap. At the door, I glance at my bodyguards, knowing they’ll check the room before I go inside.
Carl precedes me, and I follow him in, my steps heavy, my mind foggy.
To my surprise, Rhett is sitting on the bed, a duffle bag at his feet.
“What are you doing here?” I collapse beside him and remove my mask. “I thought you went to Seattle?”
“I stayed to help with the emergency. I came in here to take a quick nap. But the bed is all yours now. Just need to pack my bag.”
I glance at Carl, who stands at the door. “I’ll sleep for a few hours. Don’t let anyone disturb me.”
“Six hours minimum,” Rhett says to him and turns to me. “You should’ve stopped hours ago. You’re going to run yourself into the ground.”
Carl nods and closes the door behind him.
“When I got back into town yesterday, I was surprised to find this room empty.” Rhett glances around. “You moved back in with Monty?”
“Yeah.” I can’t keep the smile from lifting my cheeks. “We all moved in with him.”
“Wow. That’s a big commitment. Are you sure about it?”
“Never been more sure in my life. We figured out a way to make it work.”
“Would they die for you?”
That’s a strange question, but the answer is easy. “Yes. Why?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt again.” He bumps his shoulder against mine.
“I won’t. I want to do this.”
“Me, too,” he whispers.
A sharp prick burns through my thigh.
I stare down at the syringe in my leg. The syringe that Rhett is holding in place.
Stunned, confused, I lift my eyes to him. My boss. My friend. The person I’ve trusted and relied on.
He’s drugging me.
As the reality of what’s happening crashes over me, the room tilts. My vision blurs. Panic sets in.
“What—what are you doing?” I slur, my tongue heavy.
I try to move, but my muscles refuse to cooperate. Every bone in my body quits, and I crumple onto the bed.
Rhett catches me, his face hovering over mine, distorted and smudgy. “I’m doing what’s best for you, Frankie. You’ll understand soon.”
A scream swells inside me, an angry, punching fist full of horror and betrayal, and I’m falling. Falling in and out of the twisting, turning, empty pit in my stomach. I’m going to be sick.
“No,” I say without sound, my strength draining away.
Please, don’t.
He lifts me effortlessly, folding my body into his empty duffle bag. I feel my limbs being manipulated, my head lolling to the side.
“It’s a good thing you’re small.” He strokes my hair. “I love you so much. It’s time to go home.”
The sound of the zipper closing the bag is the last thing I hear before darkness claims me.