Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
HUDSON
T his is the weirdest fucking doctor’s office I’ve ever been in. Considering where we are, I should probably count myself lucky that they even have one out here, but now the pain is gone, I’m feeling less lucky and more irritable.
I have no fucking clue what happened. I’m getting snapshots of broken windows and Sutton’s text and grabbing the bike to find Wilde. Did I find him? I mean, he obviously found me, but … I might not be in pain anymore, but thinking fucking hurts.
“Why can’t I remember what happened?”
“Concussion,” the doctor says.
“No way. I would have been wearing a helmet.”
He clucks his tongue against his teeth. “Helmets don’t prevent concussions. They prevent your head being cracked into two.” His eyes look a honeyed brown through my sunglasses as they roam from my chest up to my hairline. “You avoided a lot of blood in that lovely blond hair.”
As much as the words should sound like a good thing, there’s something in his tone that makes me take him in again.
He’s a larger guy with fluffy brown hair and round, pink cheeks, like he sunburns easily, that give the impression of him being much younger than I’d assume for a doctor. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” he answers, turning back to my chest. There’s a gash concerningly close to my nipple that he pokes his finger into. “Need stitches for this one.”
“Okay …” This guy is definitely weird. “I’m thirty-three. By the way. Except I look older than you. You barely look twenty.”
A smile curls at his lips. “That so?”
“You can’t tell me no one has said that before.”
He stabs me suddenly with the needle, tugging the thread through before leaning in close to my face. “First rule about the End is not asking questions about our beginning.”
I search his eyes for any sign he’s joking. “Your beginning?”
“Our backgrounds. Where we came from, who we are, who our families are, why we’re here. None of that matters.”
Too many words for my swimming head. “It matters. What if you have a murderer move in next door?”
“More people for me to patch up?”
My eyes widen. “Was that a joke?”
“No.” But he’s still smiling. “The only thing that matters is what you do once you’re here. And what you’ve done is cause drama.”
“That was Wilde.”
“Was it?”
I scoff, unable to believe that’s actually up for debate. “Yes. He …” My brain feels like it’s squeezed too hard, and I press my hand against it while the doctor finishes stitching me up. “He threatened us and ruined our things.”
“His things.”
“What? ”
“This is his town.”
My blood pressure creeps higher as that familiar need to explode takes over me. “ My town. I bought it.”
“And?” The doctor cuts off the thread and then runs his thumb lovingly over his work. “Ownership isn’t a piece of paper out here. Wilde will never give this place up without a fight, and unless you’re ready to go to war with him, you should probably leave and save yourself the headache.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” I say through clenched teeth. None of these people intimidate me.
“Really?” He gently takes my right hand and strokes over my fingers. It’s the first time I notice how fucked-up they are.
“The fuck?”
“Broken. I could set these for you … but I’m very protective of Wilde.”
I wheeze a laugh. “You fucking him?”
The doctor squeezes down on my fingers, and I’m sure that would be painful if I wasn’t drugged. “Never. I have my own mountain to conquer.”
“He did this to me, didn’t he?”
“No.”
I’d been ready for the lie, but it doesn’t piss me off any less. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can trust me. I’m a doctor.”
I snort to let him know what I think of that. “Can I go yet?”
“If you want your fingers to set in all different directions.”
I forcibly relax back into the bed. “Make it quick.”
All up, I have three broken fingers in a splint, a large burn that needs the dressings changed for a few days, seven stitches I have to come back to have taken out, a concussion, and a sprained ankle, which luckily is only mild.
As much as Wilde hates me, I don’t think he did all this.
I want it to have been him so that it fuels my resentment some more, but it doesn’t make sense.
Where would the burn have come from? And why would he have brought me here?
My head is tight and unsteady from trying to think, and I spend the rest of the time on that bed, ignoring all the things racing through my mind.
“I don’t have crutches for you, so you’re going to have to hobble home. Keep your weight off of your foot for a few days, and keep it elevated. Lots of rest.”
Rest. Right. That’s exactly what I have time to do. The worst part is that I can’t even blame Wilde for this setback. I don’t think .
What was I even doing out here?
“Is it normal to not remember what happened?” I ask as Dr. Booker helps me off the bed and supports me to the door.
“Very. You’re concussed. Your brain has had a little reset while you slept, but there’s a good chance those memories might not come back. Go home. Stay in a dark room. No screens for at least forty-eight hours. And keep that damn leg up.”
I’m actually surprised when we get outside and Wilde is waiting, leaning against his truck, arms crossed tight and jaw clenched in a way that forces his beard wider at the sides. “Done yet?”
“Your patient is released. Next time, bring me a real challenge.”
Wilde grunts and climbs into the driver’s seat while the doctor helps me to the passenger side. “What two main things do you need to do to recover?”
“Darkness and elevation.”
“Good.” His eyes drift down to my bare chest. “Don’t forget to bring those stitches back to me.”
My face scrunches up, and I nudge him away so I can slam the door between us. I’m going to take these damn stitches out myself. “Thanks,” I mutter through the open window as Wilde guns the engine and pulls away.
I wait until the doctor is out of sight before I ask, “What the fuck is wrong with him?”
Wilde doesn’t answer me.
“He seems like the kind of guy who’d slice and dice a man and enjoy it.”
At first, I think he’s going to keep ignoring me. “Booker’s harmless.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, but that’s a lie.”
Silence wraps around us again, and I fucking hate it.
“You sure you didn’t get a bit too angry?” I ask, just to push him. “A little slip of the fist, a little squeeze of the hand …”
From his profile, I see his jaw clench again.
“Maybe you thought it would be an easy way to get rid of me.” It hurts to think of words, but running my mouth is second nature.
I swear his nostrils flare, but he’s still acting like he can’t hear my bullshit. His knuckles are little white hills, standing out against his sun-battered skin.
“Nah … I’m pretty sure I could take you.”
Nothing.
“Bet you’re all talk, no action.”
Still nothing.
“Were you the one who tore my shirt off? Wanted a closer look?”
“You’re so fucking irritating. I should have punched you.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Nothing again . I almost groan in frustration.
What the hell is with this guy? I glare at him and his messy beard, the wild hair, the way he barely fits in his seat.
In addition to the scar through his eye, he’s got tiny white ones all up and down his arms, but the sleeve tattoos on one arm make them harder to see. “What are the scars from?”
“I already told you that isn’t your business.”
That makes me frown. “When?”
“When you broke into my house. Right before you took off and broke yourself.”
I was in his house? Apparently, that was caught up in the memories I knocked from my head. I’m squinting behind my sunglasses as I try to remember, but everything from today feels like soup, and the harder I try, the more it makes me want to punch something. “Tell me something about you.”
I’m fully expecting him to ignore me again, but he answers. “I don’t like you.”
“That’s fine, no one does.”
He goes back to boring silence.
“I got this scar,” I say, pointing to the gashes across my chest, “when I fell off my dirt bike.”
Wilde throws me a disgusted look. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“This is called getting to know each other.”
“I don’t want to know you. I’d be happy if I woke up tomorrow and never saw your face again.”
My resentment only grows, so I do what I usually do when someone is pissing me off.
I use my body against them. I flex my pecs, drawing Wilde’s attention, and the reluctant interest in his eyes is exactly what I’m after.
“My face, maybe. But the way you’re looking at my body tells me you want to see a whole lot more of it. ”
His bullish snort is music to my ears. “Says the man who couldn’t keep his eyes off my cock earlier.”
His … “ What ?”
“Don’t get all shy about it now. ”
“What do you mean I saw your cock ?”
When he glances over, it’s less angry and more guarded. “You don’t remember?”
I moan and cover my face with my good arm. “No. Bring it back … bring it back …”
“Don’t worry,” he says dryly. “You were very impressed.”
And now, I’m very pissed that I don’t remember it. Considering my fuck buddy is hours away and the fingers on my jerking-off hand are broken, it’s probably a good thing though. “I wouldn’t feel too smug about it. I find any dick impressive. Especially when they’re attached to an asshole.”
He does that no-answer thing again, and it makes me want to scream at him. I don’t like the stoic and silent type. I need him to meet me on my level. To give me attention. Be petty.
The truck crosses onto the gravel road, where the trees are spread further apart, making it easier to drive.
“Where’s my bike?”
“I’ll drop it off later.”
“When?”
No answer.
“Your doctor thinks this is your town. Might want to correct him on that.”
Still no answer.