Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
Lincoln / Present
T he crinkle of the paper on the examination room table fills the silence of the small room as heavy footsteps and light laughter fill the other side of the door. Shifting for what seems the third time since I was brought in here, I lift my watch and sigh when I realize only five minutes have passed since the bright-eyed nurse, who I’m fairly certain was hitting on me, told me the doctor would be in soon.
Knee bouncing, I try convincing myself not to get pissed. Doctor Lucero is usually on time, so today is an oddity. He knows I don’t like being kept waiting and have better shit to do than sit here in a cold-ass room that smells like cleaner and bad news.
I hate the doctor’s office. Hate the hospital worse. Nothing good ever happens here. You go in, pay money for somebody to either tell you that you’re fine, dying, or somewhere in between, and then get sent on your way after waiting for what seems like forever. If hell exists, mine would look like this.
Finally, after another five minutes, my doctor knocks on the door and walks in.
Dr. Lucero gives me a withered smile, extending his hand toward me to shake. “Good to see you, Lincoln,” he greets, dropping my hand, sitting, and rolling his stool over to me. He scans his badge at the computer to sign in and clicks a few buttons. “Although, I’d rather see you on the golf course or anywhere else if I’m being honest.”
“You and me both.” I chuckle halfheartedly. “Maybe you can help me get back to the country club. My swing needs some work. Heard you play a hell of a game, so I could use some pointers.”
Buttering him up certainly can’t hurt, and I’m willing to do what I need to for him to sign off on my paperwork. I woke up today with a purpose, and dammit, I was going to accomplish that. His signature is a big step in the direction I need to get back to work full-time. I need to be hands-on again, taking pictures and searching crime scenes for evidence. Interviewing witnesses and suspects. Not helping my coworkers with their paperwork or making phone calls to the DA’s office about cases I couldn’t give less of a shit about.
“My handicap isn’t what it used to be,” he admits, still smiling. “But I haven’t lost it yet. One day, we’ll have to go out together.”
One day. Meaning not now. “Is that your way of saying things haven’t been healing the way they should be?”
Dr. Lucero’s smile doesn’t go anywhere. “I wouldn’t say that necessarily. The wound itself has healed quite nicely, but the MRI scan you had done a few days ago showed that the muscles surrounding it are struggling to recover the way we’d hoped.”
My eyebrow twitches. “What does that mean? You said before that full recovery usually takes three months. It’s been five, doc. Almost six. I did physical therapy when you asked. I took it as easy as I could until my parents drove me mad. I’m in pain, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was. That has to mean something.”
Lucero pats my leg before standing and moving the gown off to the side to get a better look at the ugly scar mere inches from my heart. Everybody who saw me in the hospital when I was admitted after the incident said I was lucky, but I knew what most of them didn’t—that somewhere else in the hospital was a cop in a body bag.
Don’t go.
“Our concern is that the muscles may never return to their full functionality. It’s not impossible, given the extent of the injury. The bullet caused a significant amount of damage when it entered—”
“I know where it entered and the damage it caused,” I cut him off angrily. “What I want to know is when I can get signed off to go back to work. Are you telling me this is going to make that harder?”
Dr. Lucero pauses, giving the injury one last look, before putting the gown back into place and sitting. “Do you want me to be blunt with you?” he asks. When I nod once, he sits up straighter and says, “Considering this isn’t your dominant arm, I can’t give a clear reason why you can’t go back to work. Eventually.”
Hope has my shoulders easing, but the look on his face tells me not to get ahead of myself.
“However,” he adds, eyeing me, “there can be permanent damage in your left arm if you don’t consider more physical therapy or even another surgery.”
The answer comes easy. “No.”
“Lincoln—”
“In the last five and a half months, I’ve had three surgeries. If I didn’t have good health insurance, I’d be in massive debt right now that I wouldn’t even be able to pay off because I haven’t been able to work the entire time.” I grip my knees. “Doc, I need to get back to work. I don’t want to be sitting behind a desk or picking up lunch orders or helping with inventory. I’m losing my mind there.”
Sympathy masks his face. “I know it’s frustrating—”
“You’re damn right it is! This is my life . I’ve been fucked enough over the past few years. I don’t need any more bullshit that takes away the one thing I have left.”
He doesn’t flinch at my raised voice or try telling me what I want to hear. Instead, he dips his chin in acknowledgment and tells me the facts. “I can’t sign off on your paperwork until you pass your physical. Once you do that, I have no reason to hold you back. I want you to get back to normal, Lincoln. I do. You deserve it. But I need to make sure that I’m not putting you, or anybody else, at risk by not doing my job and making sure you’re good enough to go back one hundred percent.”
As much as I hate it, I know he’s right. If I were him, I’d do the same thing. If he signs off on false pretenses and I get into an altercation that gets anyone hurt because I’m unable to perform basic maneuvers, it’ll fall back on him as much as me. “So, when can I get the physical scheduled?”
Dr. Lucero stands. “You can make an appointment at the front desk when you leave. But I really do suggest at least another month of physical therapy.”
Sliding off the table, I peel off the gown and put my shirt back on. “No offense, doc, but I’ve done enough therapy for a lifetime. Not sure how much more of that I can take either.”
“It’s for your benefit,” he reminds me. “But I can’t and won’t force you to do what you don’t want to. Just remember what I advised you.”
The stiff nod is all he gets in reply, earning me a saddened smile as he scans me. He’s known me for a long time—almost my entire career in law enforcement when my last doctor moved out of state with his family. He knows I love what I do and need it in my life right now.
But that doesn’t stop him from saying the same thing he’s told me once before. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but retiring early is an option too. I know you said you were given the paperwork. I could write you a letter that backs up the medical necessity if the time comes.”
The suggestion isn’t as insulting coming from him as it was my boss back when I had little hope of recovering. But I’m not nearly as bad as I was then. There’s still hope.
“I’m not you,” I answer stiffly, grabbing my wallet and phone from the counter and sliding them into my back pocket.
“No,” he agrees, opening the door. “No, you’re not.”
His eyes are full of unspoken sympathy that’s clear in his tone, like he thinks I’m making the wrong decision. He knows it’s not his place to say one way or another. He also knows I wouldn’t listen to him even if he told me what I should do.
So, he doesn’t bother. “If you have any questions or concerns, you know how to reach me.”
I know he’s doing his job, but I can’t help the irritated feeling that creeps under my skin the entire rest of my day. Especially when the next available appointment I can get isn’t until January.
Goddamn January.
That’s another three months of sitting around with my thumb up my ass waiting to get my life back together.
Normally, when my bad mood strikes, I go to Georgia. She also distracts me enough to get me past it. I hate to admit it, but she still grounds me.
And no matter how badly I want to turn when I pass her road, I keep driving.
And driving.
And driving.
Until I get to the place where we first met.
“Your usual?” the bartender of The Barrel asks as I slide into my regular spot at the counter.
My eyes go from the stool where the brown-haired girl who changed my life had once sat over to the shelf of liquor. “Give me a glass of Johnnie Walker,” I tell her, pulling out my credit card.
Her eyebrows raise at the request, then the corners of her lips. She used to serve Georgia too, so she knows where the order comes from.
“That kind of day, huh?” she guesses, setting the glass in front of me.
I take a sip. “You have no idea, Shelly.”
*
My mood is still shitty days later when I sit down on the green suede couch. Arms crossed, I wait silently for the brunette to sit across from me and adjust her glasses.
“Where did we leave off?” the good doctor asks, setting her notebook on her lap. I’m sure if she looked at it, she could remember exactly where we stopped the last time.
Leaning back, I say, “I believe you were picking at old wounds.”
The softest chuckle comes from her, a welcoming sound that perks my ears up. “I do have a tendency to do that.”
Draping an ankle over one of my bent legs, I settle into the cushions. “Don’t you know wounds will scar if you keep touching them?”
One corner of her lips pulls up. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this profession, it’s that everybody has scars in some form. Whether they’re visible or not.”
“Deep.”
Her eyebrows go up expectantly, as if I’m just supposed to spill my guts to her without any type of foreplay. When she realizes she’s not getting anything, she breaks the silence. “There’s nothing wrong with being divorced or feeling a certain way about it.”
My eyes briefly go back to her ring finger before I look up again. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“We’re not here to discuss me.”
Evasive. A thoughtful noise rises up my throat. “I’ve never been good at opening up to people either,” I tell her, lifting my good shoulder. “My first girlfriend said I was emotionally unavailable. I believe she also used the word cold.”
My therapist stares at me for a moment before jotting down another note. “You must have felt comfortable enough to open up to your ex-wife.”
The non-question makes me smirk. She’s smart. Not asking me directly what made me open up to Georgia, but still keeping the door open for discussion. I’ve used that tactic before when I’ve questioned perps at the station. The trick is getting them to offer you the information without having to ask anything at all.
“You ever think of becoming a cop?”
She smiles a full-blown smile, not one of those small teases that I like pulling from her. It’s pretty—brightens her face. I like it. “No. I could never do what you do. I’ve always been a behind-the-scenes kind of gal.”
“I’m sure the people you deal with aren’t always easy,” I comment. “It’s probably not as different as you think.”
God only knows what goes on in her clients’ lives. I’ve dealt with some interesting people in my time—people who make a lot of dumb decisions that hurt them and others. At least I can do something about it by getting them help or walking away if they refuse. I can’t imagine having to sit here and listen to people drone on about things that I can’t change unless they’re willing to put the effort in to make a difference.
She shakes her head. “No, they certainly aren’t always easy. In fact, most of my clients are quite…stubborn.” Those lips twitch upward as she looks at me. “But I wouldn’t want to do anything else. This is what I worked hard for, and I’m proud to be here.”
“Even on days you’re with people who don’t want to be?” I doubt, brows arching in genuine curiosity.
The good doctor smiles. “Especially then. I’ve found that everybody is seeking help in their own ways. Even my most cynical clients get something from these sessions. Sometimes, it’s as simple as a person to talk to. That makes a big difference when people least expect it.”
I think about that as I study the room to avoid looking at her. I can feel her eyes on me as I examine the walls and decorations she put out at the start of fall.
Scraping a palm down my jeans, I say, “I didn’t open up to her right away.”
She silently stares at me.
“Georgia,” I elaborate. “Our relationship started on…unique circumstances. I wanted to help her because I was the reason her world seemed to flip upside down. I never thought…”
I never thought she’d go and turn mine upside down.
Her pen reappears in her hand. “Tell me about it,” she replies softly.
I drop my head back on the top couch cushion and stare up at the drop ceiling. “Where do I begin?”
“How about you start off where you ended things last time?” she suggests.