CHAPTER 50
Bailey
“Diaz!” Doc shouts as he runs up on me. “Fuck, Diaz. Don’t move.”
Don’t move? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? We’re sitting ducks if we don’t. My gun is nowhere to be found despite the sling hanging loosely across my chest. I reach into my vest for my knife, but it’s not there.
I move to sit up but am instantly forced back down by the deafening screech in my head. My eyes slam shut against the light, and I throw my arms over my face. It doesn’t help.
“Hold still. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” Doc says, then a burning pain stabs through the entirety of my lower half.
I scream.
“Doc!” I shout through gritted teeth, clawing at my legs. “Doc! Goddammit!”
Silence. No yelling, no gunfire. Nothing. Even the incessant ringing in my head is muted.
“Doc?”
I crack my right eye open the slightest bit. Doc’s nowhere to be seen, but then again, neither is anyone.
What the fuck is going on?
An intermittent buzzing pierces through the air.
In the dimness of the space, the room is cast in an otherworldly green light made by a screen next to me.
There’s a television perched in the top corner of the room, pinned between a wall and the ceiling.
I go to move my hand up to my throat to key up my mic, but it lays heavily on the sheets next to me.
Groggily, I attempt to open both eyes. Pain twinges through the left side of my face, and my eye barely opens enough for me to see a blurry vision of my lashes.
Shit. Probably swollen shut.
I lift my head less than an inch, but it bobbles unsteadily.
A wave of nausea unfurls in my stomach, so I squeeze my eyes closed again and let my head fall back, breathing through the feeling until it subsides.
Slowly, I wiggle my fingers to wake up my hand.
I let out a sigh of relief when it responds in turn.
Following the same small movements, I wiggle my arm and shoulder, activating the sore muscles until they feel functional again.
Keeping my eyes closed, I begin to slide my hand up my torso until it lands on my throat, where there’s no neck mic to be found.
I take a deep breath, which causes me to cough. My chest feels tight, and a dull pain radiates across my torso with the effort. I just thought that the ringing in my head was bad; pair it with the newfound pounding against my skull, and the sensation is nearly debilitating.
The team must have had to leave me to complete the mission.
But they wouldn’t have left me without calling for help. And if I couldn’t protect myself, they wouldn’t have left me alone.
Then where am I? And why did they take my mic?
I wrack my brain and try to reconcile what I know with what I’ve seen. I’m pretty sure it’s a hospital, but I couldn’t even begin to guess where. It’s not the first time I’ve been blown up. Why am I in the hospital this time?
Instead of focusing on what I don’t know, I try to concentrate on what I can control.
Just like with my right hand, I slowly begin to wiggle the fingers on my left.
They’re stiff, but they move clumsily. Bringing them together, I slide my hands along my arms over the ace bandage and scabbed cuts that will soon scar my tattoos.
I slide my hands to rest on my upper thighs despite the throbbing that ebbs through my legs.
Next, I focus my mind on my toes, willing them to move.
Nothing.
Okay, just on one then. My brow furrows as I mentally try to force the toes on my right foot to move, but they don’t.
It’s probably just some swelling and compression on the nerves.
That would explain the intense stinging sensation.
I turn my attention to my left foot and am met with the same results.
A frown creases my face. Why can’t I move my toes?
I force my eyes open against the pulsating pain. The knee of my right leg is propped over a pillow, but my left is—
No.
Wincing against my body’s resistance, I fumble for the edge of the blanket. Lifting it is a slow, painstaking movement, my muscles protesting the entire time, but I finally am able to see underneath.
I let out a strangled cry.
My left leg stops midway down my thigh, wrapped in thick bandages.
With trembling hands, I slide my fingers to the end of the bandages, feeling for something I know isn’t there.
Not anymore. Gritting my teeth, I position my elbow against the bed to prop myself up to turn my attention to my right leg, which now stops at my knee.
It feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. My lungs gasp for oxygen, but there isn’t any. Hot tears slide down my face as I lean back against the bed, and I cover my face with my hands. My shoulders heave with silent, full-body sobs.
My team—they did call for help. I am in a hospital because I need to be. Glimpses of my mangled legs flash through my mind’s eye. The burning pain had been a tourniquet.
That was it. My career is over.
All of the adrenaline chasing, near-death, close calls—over. The camaraderie, clapping each other on the back after a particularly successful mission—gone. Everything I’ve worked so hard for reduced to this: me, laying in a hospital bed, weeping, all alone.
My mind fills with thoughts of Palmer, and I cry harder, doubled forward, dry heaving. She wasn’t sure if she wanted me before. Would she want me now? Because now, she doesn’t just get me. She gets all the trauma and the doctors’ appointments and learning how to function as a civilian.
If she wasn’t sure she wanted me then, there’s no way in hell she’s going to want—
A loud snore cuts through the intermittent buzzing that has been in the background since I came to, drawing my attention to the couch on my left.
Palmer.
My Palmer.
She sits slouched in the corner, her mouth slack jawed and snoring, looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. Despite the aching in my chest and the sadness permeating every corner of my brain, all I want to do is wrap her in my arms and never let her go.
She came.
For me.
But how did she know?
“Bailey!” A woman’s voice gasps from across the room, followed by the sound of plastic hitting the floor. By the time I turn my head the other direction, she’s at my side.
“Hi, Mama,” I rasp, the corner of my mouth lifting in a wry smile.
She slides her finger over her lips as if to shush me. “This is the first time Palmer has actually slept since she got here. She’s exhausted.” Clearing her throat, she says, “You’re in pain.”
It’s not a question.
I nod, blinking slowly. There’s no point trying to hide my tearstained cheeks. She already knows. Besides, her glossy eyes show she’s not far behind.
“I can ring for a nurse to bring you some meds.” She reaches for the call button, stopping only when she feels my hand on her arm.
“No meds. Not yet.”
Mom puts her arm around my shoulders, squeezing firmly. It hurts, but the pain is manageable. She kisses the top of my head, and her tears drip onto my scalp. I reach up and grab her hand.
“I thought you were—” She cries softly.
“Me, too, Mom.”
We quietly cry together for a while; the only sounds disrupting the silence of the room are our sniffles and Palmer’s snores.
Mom is the first to break the silence. “She’s really special, Bailey.”
I turn my head back toward Palmer, my heart calling out for her. “I know. I just… I hope I’m—”
“Stop it. Right now,” she cuts me off abruptly. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. You are everything and more to her. She’s everything you said she is and beyond that, so don’t sell her short before you’ve heard what she has to say.”
Tears spill down my cheeks again as I reach my hand out toward her on the bed. I turn to look at my mom, the pleading words shining in my eyes.
“Please, Mom. I need her.”