27. Toren
Toren
The waiting room chair was too small for me. They always were.
I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make my back ache from barely having my upper thighs on the seat, and finally gave up.
Across from me, an old man dozed with a magazine open on his chest. A woman two seats down kept glancing at my hand, then at my face, then back at my hand, like she was trying to work out what I’d done to deserve the splint.
Fell off a mountain being a dumbass, lady. But thanks for asking.
Heaving a sigh, I pursed my lips and glanced away, staring out the window at the parking lot.
Walker had dropped me off at the medical center at six that morning, grumbling about the hour the whole drive down the mountain.
He’d offered to wait. I told him not to be stupid—the MRI would take at least half an hour, then the surgery was another couple hours, recovery another one or two.
There was no sense in him sitting in a waiting room all day when he had charters he could be flying.
He’d given me a hard look, blinked a couple times, then agreed before waving at me as I walked inside the building and he drove off.
“Toren McCrae?”
I glanced at the door as a nurse called my name. She smiled.
Pushing to my feet, I grabbed my crutches and followed her through the doorway.
The next several hours passed in the disjointed way they do under anesthesia.
After changing into a gown and going through the million pre-surgery questions, they eventually wheeled me into the MRI room, where I laid on the too short table with headphones on while the machine buzzed and whirred around me.
After that, I spent a little more time in the prep room before they took me down to the O.R.
There, they put me under and the orthopedic surgeon I met at the E.R.
Saturday drilled pins into the bones of my ring finger and pinky.
When I surfaced in recovery, two silver pins stuck out the end of a black plaster cast encasing my two broken fingers and the rest of my hand up to my second knuckles. It went over my wrist and halfway up my forearm. Cotton-headed and floaty, I stared at it, wondering why it didn’t hurt worse.
“How’re you doing, Mr. McCrae?” A different nurse from the one earlier sidled up to my bed with a smile. “Any pain?”
I shook my head and immediately wished I hadn’t. The room spun like I was on a tilt-a-whirl. “No.” I closed my eyes as a bit of nausea took hold.
“That’s good. The surgeon put a nerve block in to get you past the worst of it. We’ll load you up on the good drugs, though, before you leave.”
I waved my good hand. “I’ll be fine. Just give me some ibuprofen.”
She pinned me with a look. “You had metal pins drilled into your bones. Are you sure about that?”
I gave her a cockeyed smile. “How about you send me home with the stuff and I’ll decide later?”
She huffed a quick breath through her nose. “I suppose we can do that. Just don’t wait too long to take it. It’s a lot harder to get on top of pain that’s already there than it is to prevent it.”
“Noted. Can I have some water?” My mouth was sticky.
“Sure. Let me take your vitals, then I’ll get you a drink.” She tapped the button on the monitor overhead, and the cuff around my bicep inflated.
I closed my eyes and let her do her thing. Eventually, she left, then returned a little while later with some water and some applesauce. I consumed both, pleasantly surprised when they soothed my upset stomach. I still felt cotton-headed, but at least now I didn’t feel sick.
“Okay, Mr. McCrae. I think it’s about time we spring you from this joint.” The nurse walked in again with a rattle of curtain clips. “Do you need help changing into your clothes? I can have your lady friend come in and help, if you want?”
I frowned. “Lady friend?”
She nodded. “She just arrived. I have her sitting in the waiting room, because I wasn’t sure if you wanted her to help you dress.”
“Is she blonde? About average height?”
“Yes.” The nurse frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem.” Except Walker was going to die. “You can tell her to bring her car around. I can get dressed on my own.”
“Okay. No bending over from standing, though. You’re probably still dizzy from anesthesia, and we can’t have you crashing to the floor.”
“Not a problem. I definitely don’t want to add concussion to my list of injuries.”
Chuckling, she stepped back toward the doorway. “I’ll let your friend know to pull up out front.”
“Thank you.”
She left, and I swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for my stack of clothing on the chair.
It took a little creativity to get my pants on without getting up, but I was soon back in my clothes and ready to go. The nurse reappeared with a wheelchair shortly after I finished getting dressed and wheeled me outside.
Lana leaned against the passenger door of her dusty-blue Subaru, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair. She straightened when she saw me, and something in my chest did a slow, traitorous roll that had nothing to do with the anesthesia.
“Hey.” She pushed off the car and opened the door. “Your chariot.”
I frowned, pushing up from the chair. “Where’s Walker?” Annoyance at my friend made my voice gruff.
“Something came up.” She said it lightly, but I could hear a bit of strain in her voice. “He called this morning and asked if I could pick you up. Said he had a charter he couldn’t get out of.” I let her take my crutches and put them into the back as I maneuvered myself into her passenger seat.
That was complete bullshit. Walker didn’t have a charter.
I knew from this morning he’d kept his schedule light to take me to this appointment and pick me up. So, unless some VIP showed up, he didn’t have a charter.
The son of a bitch had set this up.
I sank back against the headrest as Lana shut my door and rounded the hood. He’d planted that seed about the “L” word on Saturday and then engineered an hour car ride back to my cabin to make sure it took root. His plan was about as subtle as a brick through a window.
Lana slid into the driver’s seat, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she checked her mirrors.
I should be angry.
And I was. At being duped. But watching her, I found I couldn’t quite get there over his motivations.
“You okay?” She glanced over. “You’re staring.”
“Drugs,” I said, glad to have a convenient excuse.
“Mm-hmm.” From the lift to her eyebrows, I could tell she didn’t entirely believe me. But she put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb without pushing it, and I was grateful for that.
For about thirty seconds, anyway. Until I remembered we had an hour drive ahead of us and I was at her mercy since it was her car.
I looked out the window, jaw flexing.
Damn you, Walker.