Chapter 2 #2
I push off the desk and limp toward the manager’s office in the back. I need disinfectant, bandages, and a good lie to tell my father.
And I need to shake the image of the bride shivering, arms wrapped around herself like she needed to hold herself together while looking so fucking lost.
I push through the office door, flipping on the lights. My reflection in the window is a disaster. She tore me to shreds, and yet, I can’t help feeling guilty for leaving her like that.
It’s fine, I tell myself; the car will take her off the street, and she won’t come back to haunt me like a ghost bride out of a horror movie. Halloween isn’t until the end of the month.
And the best part? I’ll never have to see her again.
I lock the office door behind me and lean against the solid wood, letting my head fall back. My leg throbs with every heartbeat, each pulse a fresh hammer blow against raw nerve endings.
But I don’t have the luxury of time to commiserate or recover.
I push off the door and limp to the supply cabinet, grabbing the first aid kit from the top shelf.
After sinking into the desk chair, I pull off my ruined dress shoes and peel away my socks.
The left one is stiff, soaked through with blood that has already started to dry and has glued the fabric to my skin.
I unbutton what’s left of the shredded pants and work them down my legs, hissing as the mangled wool catches and pulls at the wound.
The road rash is worse than I thought—an angry mess of scraped flesh stretching from my knee down my shin.
Gravel is embedded in places like dark freckles, blood still oozing sluggishly from the deepest gouges, though slower now than before.
I toss the ruined pants into the wastebasket and grab the bottle of disinfectant from the first aid kit.
The label promises to kill 99 percent of germs, but offers no reassurances against the sting the slaughter may cause.
The cap twists off with a plastic squeak.
I hover the bottle over my leg, steeling myself. This is going to hurt.
I pour.
Red-hot agony explodes from my shin and tears up my lower body, straight into my brain.
My vision tunnels, the edges going dark and fuzzy.
I grip the leather armrest of the chair, my knuckles turning bone-white as I fight the urge to pass out or vomit or both.
A low groan escapes my throat. I force myself to breathe through my nose.
In for four, out for six. I count the seconds, then the breaths, until the initial blinding wave of pain recedes, leaving a persistent, manageable burn in its place.
With a cotton pad, I scrape off the gravel as best as I can. I’ll need a doctor to check this properly. But that will have to wait until after tonight. Missing this event isn’t an option.
I grab the gauze from the kit and start wrapping my leg. I work methodically, my hands surprisingly steady as I wind on multiple layers. It takes three rolls to bundle the wound from the knee to the ankle until the gash is covered.
I tape the bandage in place, waiting to see if blood will seep through, but the white gauze stays white.
It’ll have to do.
I grab the landline receiver on the desk, connecting to the concierge.
“Adam,” I say when he picks up. “Could you bring my spare suit from the laundry room? The black Armani I keep for emergencies.”
“Mr. Rockwood.” His tone carries an apologetic note I already hate. “You used it three days ago, sir. When you spilled coffee on yourself before the vendor meeting? You said you’d bring a replacement, but—”
I close my eyes and grind my teeth against a stream of curses.
“But I forgot. You’re right.” I sigh. “Then I need you to find me a pair of suit pants. I don’t care how, or where they come from. Take them off one of the valets if you have to. And clean socks, please.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
I slam the phone down and glance at my watch.
Forty-five minutes late. My father is going to be apoplectic.
I can picture him making excuses for my absence.
“Liam is dealing with a business matter. You know how the next generation is, always working.” And underneath the smooth words, the covert tally of another expectation I’ve failed to meet.
I wait in my underwear and a tuxedo jacket, my bandaged leg throbbing in time with the ticking of more seconds I don’t have to spare.
Five minutes later, a soft knock precedes Adam slipping into the office. The grimace on his face makes my stomach drop.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rockwood,” he starts, his professional calm in place. “I wasn’t able to find anything in your size. You’re… taller than most of the staff.”
“And?” I prompt, my voice tight.
“I do have a few options from the drivers’ uniforms.”
He steps forward and lays three pairs of black pants and a box of socks across my desk.
I stare at the trousers. None of them match the fine wool of my jacket. All of them are disastrously short. The fabric is a cheap, shiny polyester blend. One pair is a funereal charcoal, another a faded black that’s closer to gray.
“Thank you, Adam.”
He gives a quick, sympathetic nod and backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I stand, gritting my teeth against the protest from my shin, and pull on the longest pair. The fabric stretches over my thighs, and the hem ends a full humiliating inch above my ankles. I look at the reflection in the dark window. I’m ridiculous. A circus clown playing dress-up.
But I don’t have time to go home and change. Showing up looking like an idiot is still better than not showing up.
I grab a pair of socks from the box. Pulling up the left one is another test in pain endurance that prompts me to pop a couple of Tylenols before I shove my feet back into my scuffed-up dress shoes.
I’m borderline unpresentable, but I exit the office anyway, steeling myself for a night of thinly veiled disappointment. The painkillers must be kicking in faster than I thought possible because the first thing I hear as I step toward the lobby is her voice.