Chapter Five #2
My hand shot out to grab Maximo’s, my entire body tense as I watched the doctor adjust a light so it was shining on me. The tweezers touched the angry wound, and my shoulders slumped in relief.
This isn’t too bad. Definitely not as bad as the ointment.
But then he began moving them. I was positive half the sharp tweezers were through my leg. Stabbing. Gauging. Digging.
My eyes darted down to reassure myself he wasn’t actually peeling muscle from bone, but at the sight of the open flesh— my open flesh—my head swam and spots floated across my tunneled vision.
I’d grown up in boxing gyms all across the country. I’d seen torn brows, cheeks, and lips. I’d even patched them up.
But it never got easier to see.
I must’ve looked as nauseous as I felt because Maximo put his hand on the back of my head and pushed my face into his side so I couldn’t see anything.
It was a million years—or maybe a few minutes—until the pain finally eased.
Pushing against Maximo’s tight hold, I watched as Doctor Pierce held up the tweezers. A jagged chunk of wood was pinched at the end.
“That was in my leg?” I wheezed, growing lightheaded again.
Something beeped, but my horrified gaze was locked on the wood.
“Perfect timing, your x-ray results are in.” Dr. Pierce typed something into a computer attached to the wall. A medical file loaded, and my eyes landed on my name on the top of the screen.
Dove Black.
Ha. Maybe now that I’m on my own, I’ll change my name.
Be someone other than a worthless McMillon.
With another few clicks, fuzzy black and white images popped up. I studied them as though I had any clue what I was looking at.
“Good news,” the doctor said, solving the mystery for me. “You’ve got a grade two sprain, but no break. Your knees are fine, though.”
“What do I need to do for the ankle?” I asked, knowing too much about wrapping injuries.
“We’ll get you a brace. Stay off it as much as possible for the next two weeks, at least.” He clicked a few buttons. “I’ll print out discharge paperwork with more instructions, things to watch out for, and the name of a lotion for your burns.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. Even though he’d caused me insane pain, it would’ve been a million times worse had I left the cuts untreated.
Especially the tree trunk in my knee.
The doctor shook my hand before shaking Maximo’s. “I trust you’ll be purchasing a table at the hospital’s fundraiser next month.”
“I always do,” Maximo said, not bothered by the thinly veiled extortion.
Shit, this has probably cost a fortune and my insurance barely covers a Flintstones vitamin and a prayer.
It wouldn’t be the first bill to go to collection, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
After the doctor and nurse left, I didn’t speak and neither did Maximo. My thoughts were on what was to come.
He clearly wasn’t going to kill me. My guess was he’d drop me back at home—likely after he threatened me to stay silent.
Maybe it made me a shit person or a shit daughter—or both—but I wouldn’t go to the cops. It was doubtful they’d even care about Shamus’ death. It wasn’t worth ending up in foster care. Or worse, having them think I was responsible for his death.
A quick interview with some of his buddies would show I had a lot of motive.
My plan was to go back to my house, focus on how to survive, and pretend the last few days never happened.
The nurse returned with the brace and showed me how to slide it on my foot, even though I already knew. She handed Maximo my discharge and prescription papers before recapping the doc’s orders.
By the time she finished her spiel, the pain meds had hit my brain.
Those pills were not Motrin…
My head was a floaty balloon, and I was exhaustedly loopy.
Have the lights in here always been so bright and annoying?
And has Maximo always been so hot?
No. Definitely not.
It’s the drugs.
Monsters aren’t hot.
I need to get out of here. I’m pretty sure my balloon head can just float me away.
Not waiting for help, I stood and wobbled, both from the meds and my foot.
Maximo looked ready to throttle me. “Careful.”
“I’m fine,” I said for what felt like the billionth time that day. So much so, the word didn’t even sound real anymore. “Fine, fine, fine.”
“I’ll let you get her home. Contact us if there are any issues.” She looked at me. “Feel better, Dove.”
I didn’t like her calling me that. I didn’t like her voice.
But it was better than her calling me sweetie, so I wasn’t bitchy. “Thank you.”
“Let me see if I can find you some clean clothes to wear,” she said as she headed for the door.
“We’re set,” Maximo told her.
My eyes darted to my crusty clothes and I grimaced. I’d rather stay in the open butt hospital gown than try to put that mess back on.
When she opened the door, handsome goon was standing in the hall. He tossed a bag to Maximo and left just as fast.
Maximo pulled out a pair of fleece PJ pants and a gray tee.
Oh, thank God.
He tore the tags off the shirt and handed it to me before turning around.
I slid the scratchy gown off before pulling on the super soft shirt. “Pants, please.”
“Sit,” he ordered.
Right. It’d be kind of hard for me to put them on when I can’t even stand.
I wiggled onto the exam table. Maximo took a step closer but stopped suddenly. He handed me the pants before giving me his back again.
Once I had my pants on, I stood to pull them the rest of the way up. I tried to take a step toward the wheelchair—I wasn’t a total irresponsible dummy—but Maximo picked me up. “I can walk.”
“And look where it got you.”
“Fine, I can ride in the wheelchair.”
“Or you can be quiet and let me carry you.”
I narrowed my eyes but stayed quiet. If he wanted to waste his time and energy hefting me around, that was on him.
It beat the scratchy wheelchair fabric against my back.
When we got outside, the goon was waiting with the SUV. Like the ride there, Maximo got in and settled me on his lap before handing the goon the prescriptions. “Get these filled.”
“I can do it,” I argued.
“Ash has it handled.”
“There’s a pharmacy on my street. I’ll bring them in tomorrow when I go shopping.”
“Your street?”
I nodded through my yawn, exhaustion and pain meds double teaming my brain. “You didn’t throw me out of the car. Or take me somewhere to kill me.”
“You thought I was going to kill you?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, the duh going unsaid but highly implied. “But you didn’t, so that means you’re dropping me off at home.”
His body went tight. “You’re not going back there.”
“I live there.”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean? It’s all I have.”
“Not anymore,” he repeated.
I was trying to keep up with the conversation, but it made no sense in my medicated haze. “The point is, you saved my life. I won’t go to the police. We’re even. You can just drop me off wherever.”
His voice was firm and angry. “I’m not dropping you off anywhere.”
“I can’t just stay.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re seventeen, and I’m not going to drop you at that dump so you can be homeless in a few days.”
“Homeless?”
“That shithole is in foreclosure.”
The familiar money stress settled on my chest, but I breathed through it like I always did. It wasn’t a new occurrence. I’d been managing that anxiety since I was ten and first understood how royally fucked we always were. “I’ll figure something out.”
I always did.
I always held it together. I always made it work. I always survived.
“I’m not having this fucking argument. You’re not going to live alone in that slum. You’d be dead by the morning,” he bit out, shaking his head. “Christ, I’m offering paradise and she wants hell.”
I was about to ask why it mattered when it hit me.
He felt guilty.
I wouldn’t be a charity case. I didn’t want his pity. But he wasn’t offering out of the goodness of his heart. He was offering to clear his conscience.
If I stayed for a bit, I’d have time to figure out my next step and his guilt would be alleviated.
It was a win-win.
“Maybe for a few days,” I agreed after a thoughtful moment. If things went downhill, I’d cross that bridge when I had to.
“Hear that, Ash? She’ll tolerate paradise for a few days.”
Everything caught up to me, and I couldn’t keep my head up. It dropped to his shoulder as I gave a soft laugh. At least I thought I did.
I wasn’t really sure.
Maximo
Jesus, she’s stubborn.
And deadweight.
I cringed at the phrase. Juliet had thought we were driving to her death. And yet she’d sat, quiet and brave.
It made me wonder what she’d lived through that made her grow so strong.
Or maybe what she’d lived through that made death seem not so bad.
And made me seem not so bad.
Because she didn’t hate me. I’d watched for it, expecting loathing in her gaze. I’d waited for her to scream or shank me with a broken tongue depressor. But she hadn’t. She’d smile at me. She’d reached for me when she was in pain.
She’d wanted me there.
Ash hit the brakes suddenly, and I tightened my hold. I should’ve put her down so she was buckled.
I should’ve put her down so she could sleep comfortably.
I should’ve put her down because I was a thirty-two-year-old man who had no business holding a seventeen-year-old in his lap.
I didn’t put her down.
Thinking she was asleep, I readjusted her when she murmured, “Ash.”
His surprised eyes went to the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”
“Your name is Ash.”
“Yup,” he said, amused.
“That’s a better name than handsome goon .”
Ash started chuckling before catching himself and disguising it as a cough, but I could see his cocky smirk in the mirror.
She thinks he’s handsome?
“You’re off door duty,” I bit out, pissed and irritated for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Ash muttered, not even trying to hide that chuckle.
Bastard.