14. Cara
Cara
Emily has been awake for about three hours when she informs us that she’s leaving the hospital. Not tomorrow. Not when the doctor clears her. Now.
I stare at her from the chair beside the bed. “You were shot yesterday.”
“I know,” Emily says.
“You had surgery.”
“I was there.”
I gesture toward her hand. “You’ve still got an IV.”
She looks at the line taped to her hand as if she’s only just noticed it. “That can come out.”
“The doctor might have opinions about that,” I point out.
“He already has too many opinions,” she mutters.
Frankie laughs from her place beside the window.
I glance over at her. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Frankie protests.
“Your face did.”
She widens her eyes. “My face is innocent.”
“Your face has never once been innocent,” I tell her.
Emily shifts against the pillows and winces. Neither Frankie nor I comment on it, but we both see it.
“Stop,” Emily says, catching us anyway.
I turn back to her. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like I’m going to break.”
“Nobody thinks you’re going to break,” I assure her.
Emily folds her arms, careful of the IV. “Everyone keeps watching me.”
“You were shot, Emily.”
“Cara,” she warns.
“I watched you before you were shot too,” I remind her.
“Not this much,” she says quietly.
"Debatable." She looks toward the door. Sarah left an hour ago with Ice Pick to get her clothes from the compound. Knox is somewhere arguing with a doctor about discharge medication, and there are two Saint’s Outlaws downstairs instead of outside her room, because she told them armed men in the corridor made her nervous and they moved without a single argument.
Emily picks at the edge of her blanket. “I don’t want to go back to the house.”
I settle back in the chair. “Okay.”
Her eyes snap toward me. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
Her brow furrows. “You don’t think I should go back?”
“That’s not what I said.” I take a breath and wait.
She frowns, working through it, and I let the silence sit because she needs to get there herself.
“What if everyone else wants to go back?” she asks.
“Then they can.”
Emily stops picking at the blanket. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t,” I tell her.
She looks around the hospital room. “Where would I go?”
"There are options. The transition house is almost ready. There are rooms near the clubhouse for now. Maggie has space too, though her security's being reviewed at the moment."
Emily’s mouth tightens. “Because they found that house too?”
“We don’t know that they found it,” I say carefully. “We only know someone connected to all of this has been in the area.”
“So probably,” she says.
“Maybe,” I admit.
Her fingers twist together in her lap. “I hate maybe.”
“So do I.”
She looks down at her hands. “What would you do?”
I have to actually think about that. A week ago, I would have answered immediately. I would have assessed the security, weighed what Falcon and the club could offer, and told her which option I thought was safest.
Today, I understand that isn’t what she’s asking. Or maybe it is, but that still isn’t the answer I should give her.
“I’d probably choose differently than you would,” I say.
Emily frowns. “That doesn’t help.”
“It isn’t supposed to.”
She waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“That’s allowed too.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” she mutters.
“Because you keep trying to decide everything right now,” I tell her.
Her fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “I want to know what happens next.”
“I know. Unfortunately, I’ve been told that knowing everything is overrated.”
Frankie makes a pleased sound from beside the window.
“Don’t,” I warn without looking at her.
“I said nothing,” Frankie replies innocently.
Emily almost smiles at that.
“You don’t have to decide today,” I tell her. “You don’t have to decide tomorrow. We’ll find somewhere you’re comfortable staying for a few days, and then we’ll go from there.”
“What if I change my mind?” she asks.
“Then you change it.”
Her brow furrows. “Again?”
“As many times as you need.”
“That sounds exhausting,” she says.
“For me?” I lean back in my chair. “I’ve survived you complaining about the hospital tea for twenty-four hours. I can survive a change of address.”
Her mouth twitches. Before she can answer, someone knocks on the door.
Knox comes in carrying a folder and wearing the expression of a man who has spent far too long fighting paperwork.
“Good news,” he announces.
Emily sits straighter. “I’m discharged.”
“No,” Knox says.
Her face falls.
“I said good news, not fantasy,” he adds.
Frankie laughs from the window.
Knox opens the folder. “If your bloodwork stays where it is and you don’t develop a fever, they’ll discharge you tomorrow morning.”
“Tonight,” Emily counters.
“Tomorrow,” Knox repeats.
She tries again. “Late tonight?”
Knox raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to keep you for an extra day?”
Emily glares at him.
“Thought not,” he says.
He pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down. “You’ll need dressing changes. Not by you, at least not yet. The location is awkward, and I want someone checking for signs of infection.”
“Somebody meaning you?” Emily asks.
“Me, if that’s what you want,” Knox says. “A hospital nurse if you don’t. Cara, if she wants the training. Frankie, Sarah, or anyone else you choose.”
I watch the tension leave Emily’s shoulders as he gives her choices instead of making the decision for her.
“Not you,” she says.
Knox nods without taking offence. “Not a problem.”
“I don’t mean...” Emily begins.
“You don’t have to explain,” he assures her.
He doesn't take it personally, doesn't try to convince her she should be comfortable with him because he's a doctor. That’s another small thing that means more than it should.
"Where am I going?" Emily asks.
Knox looks at me. I shake my head, it’s her call.
"Where do you want to go?" he asks her.
"I don't know."
"Then we've got until tomorrow."
She huffs. "Does nobody tell anyone what to do anymore?"
“Oh, sweetheart,” Frankie says, “if that’s what you want, I’ve got a list.”
Emily grabs a tissue and throws it at her. It falls two feet short.
Frankie looks down at it. “Pathetic.”
“I’ve been shot,” Emily reminds her.
“You’re going to use that excuse for months, aren’t you?” Frankie asks.
“Yes,” Emily says without hesitation.
Frankie grins. “Good.”
Knox’s phone buzzes. He checks the message. “Sarah’s downstairs.”
Emily looks toward the door. “Can she come up?”
“I’ll get her,” Knox says, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
He leaves, and Emily keeps watching the door for a moment before turning to me.
“Can I see the transition house before I decide?”
“Of course,” I tell her.
“Who do I ask?” she says.
I hesitate. My instinct is to say Falcon, security planning's always run through him, but I'm not going to use club business as an excuse to pull him into my orbit.
"Use the security channel," I tell her.
She types slowly with one hand.
Security Phone:
Emily:
I want to see the transition house before deciding where I stay. Can that be arranged after discharge?
The reply comes back inside a minute.
Security Phone:
Zip:
Absolutely. We can take you whenever you're ready. No decision required on the day.
"That was easy," Emily says.
Ice Pick's voice comes from the doorway before I can answer, and Sarah's beside him with two bags, and behind them Rook's already telling somebody that armed guards should not be responsible for carrying women's underwear through a public hospital.
"You brought my pajamas," Emily says, brightening.
"And underwear," Sarah says.
Ice Pick sets the bag down as if it’s radioactive. “I was told it contained toiletries.”
“You carried a bag of women’s underwear through the hospital,” Sarah tells him.
Ice Pick straightens. “That never happened.”
Emily laughs and winces at the same time.
Knox points at her from the doorway. “Stop doing that.”
Emily presses a hand to her side. “Stop what?”
“Laughing,” Knox says.
Her eyebrows lift. “You’re banning laughter?”
“For twelve hours.”
“Harsh,” Ice Pick comments.
Knox turns his attention to him. “You want to explain abdominal pain to her every time she forgets she was shot?”
“No,” Ice Pick replies immediately.
“Then don’t make her laugh.”
Frankie looks devastated. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Be less funny,” Knox tells her.
She shakes her head. “That’s impossible.”
For a few minutes the room feels almost ordinary. Sarah unpacks Emily's things. Frankie steals the hand cream. Ice Pick pretends not to know what half the items in the bag are while identifying the phone charger in under two seconds.
My phone buzzes with a security update.
Security Phone:
SECURITY UPDATE: Transition property security installation underway. Estimated completion 1800. Maggie's house under remote surveillance. No unusual activity.
Another follows.
Security Phone:
Women's house repairs expected complete tomorrow afternoon. Residents will be offered individual accommodation choices before return.
Offered. Not assigned. I smile at the word choice more than I probably should.
Sarah notices. "What?"
I show her the message. Emily holds her hand out for the phone and reads it twice. "Can I see the transition house before I decide?"
"You already asked that."
"I know. I like the answer."
By the time everyone's settled, I've agreed to leave for a few hours, not because Frankie ordered me to and not because Sarah threatened to call Vulture, though she tried both.
I leave because I'm tired, because other people are here now, and because Emily doesn't need me every single second to stay safe.
It still feels strange to walk out that door.
Ice Pick drives me back to the compound. We’re halfway there when I break the silence.
“You don’t have to drive me everywhere.”
“Correct,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.
“You could’ve sent someone else.”
“Also correct.”
I turn toward him. “Why didn’t you?”
“Was coming back anyway,” he replies.
“Oh.”
He glances over at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, looking out the window.