23. Check Your God Complex at the Door
CHECK YOUR GOD COMPLEX AT THE DOOR
WILLA
Layton looks embarrassed and proud and agrees, taking a piece of paper and signing with a flourish. “Thanks for keeping this quiet until we check out.” It’s half-command, half-threat, and the doctors file from the room.
I look from Layton to Exton and back again, confusion registering on his face.
Exton puts me out of my misery. “Willa, meet Layton Ranger, wide receiver for the Orlando Mouseketeers.”
Layton plops his hands on his hips. “That’s a good one. How long have you been sitting on that one?”
“A while. I have a stash. Wait ‘til you hear the next one.”
I’m watching the two of them talk when it hits me why Layton’s name rings a bell.
“First round draft pick,” I mutter, pointing at him. “College at Oklahoma.”
Exton makes a gagging sound next to me and mutters, “Hook ‘em” under his breath.
“Rookie of the year six years ago.” The awe in my voice is obvious.
“Keep her, Ex. Seriously, I like her.” Layton throws a megawatt smile my way. “But glad to know I could anchor the news if anything ever happens to my day job.”
I want to face-palm, but it’s too complicated with coffee in my only working hand, and that barely works. “And Dr. Tam is?”
“A friend and the best-known surgeon for athletic mobility in south Texas.”
I drop my eyes shut, and the warmth of the Ranger family’s tentacles surrounds me and pulls me under. How will I recover when this ends?
I bob my head, eyes still closed, feeling the love pool around me. When I open my eyes, all I can say is, “Thank you.” I mean it.
Layton beams. Exton kisses my shoulder, and we wait for paperwork to be processed so we can go home.
The worst part about the recovery from Tuesday’s surgery is not the pain or the hospital stay, but the prognosis that it will take eight weeks to regain full range of motion. And that’s, of course, assuming I’m diligent about physical therapy and stretches.
It’s my livelihood on the line—my art—so there’s no way I won’t do it all, just as prescribed, right on schedule.
Easy to say when I’m completely immobile in a new cast, from palm to above the elbow on my right side, pumped full of state-of-the-art painkillers that truly could make me forget the status of my now-healing injuries.
The brace remains on my left. There was a hairline fracture and another break there, but they were set, and nothing near the damage of my right. Something about the angle when Paul fell on me pushed me on to my right side more so than my left, so Exton says. I can see the guilt on his face.
The fall was bad for my arms, but good for my head after my last injury. I’d say “win some, lose some,” but in this case, fuck that. If Paul weren’t dead, I’d kill him myself.
No, the worst part is the data dump and assimilating all the information thrown at me. Medical speak, PT instructions, when to take pills, side effects, and restrictions.
There is also the necessity, according to Exton, of not going home alone.
He uses the mobility explanation and the fact that I probably can’t walk through a normal size doorway without turning sideways as his excuse.
My hospital bathroom door is wide enough for a wheelchair, so my theory is yet untested.
My mind conjures up a child in too many coats outside in winter who can’t lower their arms because of the layers.
Of course, I can’t work, I can’t drive, and navigating coffee to my lips is proving annoying as fuck.
Secretly, it makes me happy that he wants to be near me. Less so the reason why. I’ve overheard him with his brother when he thought I was asleep. I’d bet it was Layton, but I can’t be sure. He blames himself, saying he left me twice and twice I’ve ended up needing medical attention.
But I’ve got this. Not that my head doesn’t pound. The temple shot and the concussion from the chair toppling were two too many shots after the one too many last week. My poor head needs bubble wrap these days.
The problem is the data dump that hurts my head and my heart.
Knowing Jackie betrayed me and set me up.
Knowing she’s addicted to drugs that Paul was moving… drugs that he got her hooked on when we were in Dallas.
Knowing she’s been a puppet in New York, dancing to the rhythm her dealer requires to keep her in blow.
Realizing her “influencer” status was a show and was little more than her pimping herself out to pay them.
Understanding she wasn’t nearly as successful as she wanted to seem—a small-time player desperate to be seen as significant.
And knowing, belatedly, that I missed all of it. I never saw the signs.
I’m not taking her issues on as mine. I have enough to worry about and I didn’t shove that shit up Jackie’s nose. But not noticing, not digging into her behavior changes, overlooking my best friend in crisis—that part is on me.
There’s also learning that Paul dated me to get to my mom and to me as retribution.
His uncle relied on Phillip Shadrick for his stock.
Supply issues became problematic after Phillip was no longer moving product through the Midland area, and Paul’s uncle—also named Paul, but called Paulie—started digging into why, at the same time looking for new avenues of cutting and distribution.
He discovered that Mom and I had disappeared the day on my stepfather’s death certificate and he decided to pull those threads.
Why, I may never know, other than he figured someone should pay for his cut in revenue.
The FBI now has an APB on Paul “Paulie” Chapman.
How Exton discovered this I do not know.
I don’t care either. Paul is dead, and Paulie will be arrested if he surfaces.
The underworld doesn’t like attention either, so if he ends up dead at their hands, so be it.
They won’t stand for their underground operations being exposed, even by one of their own.
I should know. I lived that life for way too long.
I am safe. Exton Ranger is making sure of that.
Mom is protected too. Exton reached out to her from my phone while I was in surgery, explained who he was and what had happened. She says he didn’t ask her to confirm anything, just laid out the facts, and told her to be smart and keep vigilant.
She cried when she heard what happened to me and insisted on coming out. He insisted she stay put, because Chapman was still AWOL, and I could be bait. Desperate people have nothing left to lose, and Paulie Chapman had been desperate for more than a decade. No need to wave a red flag at that bull.
She agreed only because Exton convinced her it was safer for me too. She couldn’t deny that.
Getting discharged is faster at this hospital. The fact that I have two to compare it to in under a week should piss me off, but instead, a giggle threatens.
“What?” Exton looks puzzled.
“I’ve never so much as had my tonsils removed and I’ve been discharged from three hospitals in under a week.”
“Don’t remind me,” he growls and stalks toward me. “I’m doing everything I can to not lose my shit here.”
“Can’t I compliment their efficiency without you getting pissed?”
His face is hard.
“You’re here because I put you in this position. The efficiency, as you put it, should be unnecessary.”
“I’ve got news for you. I was a fully functioning Exton-free individual last week.”
His eyes narrow to slits.
“Let me finish.” I lift a hand in a placating gesture and fight to withhold the grimace that wants to break free.
“I was a fully functioning, independent woman last week, and Paul was still a fucker. I’ve left my house without ending up on the concrete all but once in my life.
None of this was my fault and none of this was yours. ”
“Willa,” he cautions, but I cut him off.
“Check your God complex at the door, Exton. You’d known me less than twenty-four hours when Paul attacked. You couldn’t have saved me, shouldn’t have had to save me. It’s on him.”
The muscle in his jaw bulges, and he takes a deep breath. “Woman, I was inside you less than twenty-four hours before that. Made you mine. That makes it my business.”
“Your business? Yes. Your responsibility? No.”
He looks away and I see him formulating a litany of arguments to barrage me with.
“Here’s the deal, and this is nonnegotiable. When we leave this hospital, we won’t discuss this again. I give no fucks about Paul—his life or his death. He gets no headspace from me and none from you. Agreed?”
He opens his mouth and closes it, and the look that crosses his face is a placating one. He’s humoring me. “Baby—”
“Dragon slayer,” I correct. “And you agree?”
“Formidable,” he grumbles but nods and leans down to take my mouth. “Agreed.”