36. Stay With Me #2
Once I’m alone, I pull on the gown slowly, my fingers trembling as pain spreads through my ribs. My movements are sluggish, mechanical.
The nurse returns and starts working—flushing the wound, removing grit and glass, disinfecting—then she reaches for a syringe.
"This one's deep," she murmurs. "I’m going to numb the area before I start suturing."
She doesn’t wait for a response, and I don’t give one. She stitches methodically, skillfully pulling the edges together with expert precision. I feel the pain, but it doesn’t reach me—like it’s happening to someone else. I’m tuning it out, same as everything else.
In my lap, I clutch the T-shirt I used to hold pressure to Jax’s wound. The fabric is stiff, dried in places, sticky in others. His blood is mixed with mine—on my hands, under my nails, smeared up both arms like war paint I never asked for.
Then the curtain swishes open, and a man in blue scrubs steps inside, tablet in hand. His voice is professional, distant.
"Melina Roderick?"
It takes me a second. "That’s me."
"Can you tell me your birthday?"
I swallow hard. My throat burns. "2/8/89."
He barely reacts, then lifts the scanner and runs it over the barcode on my hospital band. A soft beep.
“I’m from radiology. We’re taking you for a full-body CT to check for internal injuries and fractures.”
I nod as he glances at the nurse. "She cleared?"
"Not yet," she replies. "Let me finish suturing first."
The curtain shifts again.
"Melina?"
I turn too fast, and dizziness crashes over me. Brooks stands just outside, Callahan at his shoulder.
They both freeze when they see me, expressions shifting—concern, then something harder. Heavier.
I don’t have to see myself to understand why.
I sit upright, clutching my ruined shirt.
My arms are coated in blood. The gash on my forearm is raw and partially stitched, the skin around it angry and red.
My knuckles are scraped. There’s dried blood in my hair, caked at the base of my skull. I look half-feral. Not like myself.
Brooks’ fists clench at his sides. Callahan studies me, cool and clinical, face unreadable.
“Do you know anything?” My voice cracks. “Is he—”
Brooks shakes his head. “Still in surgery.”
I nod once.
The nurse ties off the final suture and begins wrapping my arm.
"You’re all set," she says. "Let’s get you into imaging. You’ll also need staples for that head laceration—looks like you’ll be getting the full treatment today."
"We’ll wait for you out here," Callahan murmurs.
When I return from radiology, the curtain has barely swished closed when I hear a new voice. "Ms. Roderick?"
I look up at the two men standing in the doorway—Officer Miller and Detective Carter.
The detective clears his throat. "We need to ask you a few questions about the accident and shooting."
My stomach twists. Rage crawls up my spine. Of course, they care now—blood on the pavement, a bullet in Jax’s gut, a wrecked truck in a ditch. Now that the damage is done, they want answers.
Where was this urgency when I told them I was being followed? When I showed them the threats? When I sat in that damn station and begged them to do something?
My hands curl into fists under the hospital sheet. I clench my jaw. "What do you want to know?"
"What do you remember?"
I blink. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I remember everything—the gunshots, Jax hitting the pavement, the blood between his fingers.
The detectives stare at me, waiting.
I shake my head, disgust curling low in my gut. I fight the rage simmering beneath my exhaustion—the urge to tear into them.
Fuck these guys.
I take a slow, measured breath and force out the facts.
“We got T-boned by a dark SUV. The driver was my ex-husband, Darren Smith.” My tone is flat.
“He climbed out and came straight for me. Jax stepped in. They fought. During the struggle Darren grabbed Jax’s weapon and shot him.
I fired a warning shot — it scared him off. He ran into the woods.”
“Where did you get the weapon?” Miller asks, tight with suspicion.
“Jax’s backup,” I reply evenly. “It was in the glove-box.”
He nods and jots something down. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”
That’s it. That’s when my resolve breaks.
“Yeah.” The words are bitter, angry. “If you’d taken the threat seriously from the start, Jax wouldn’t be upstairs fighting for his life, and I wouldn’t have come face to face with the man who once raped me and left me for dead.”
Silence. Their faces don’t change.
My voice rises, fueled by exhaustion and grief and rage. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve answered your questions. Leave.”
The raised inflection must have alerted Callahan and Brooks, because within seconds, they’re inside my curtained room.
"You heard the lady," Brooks announces, hard and cold. "Time to go."
"We aren’t done here," Miller snaps, impatience and accusation in his tone.
Callahan steps between us, an immovable wall. “Yes,” he asserts, leaving no space for argument. “You are.”
The message is clear.
Detective Carter taps Miller on the shoulder in a silent let’s-go . "You know what, we don’t need to do this now," he says, voice lighter. "Get better soon. We’ll be in touch."
I exhale as they step away and disappear through the curtain. Then it swishes open again.
"For fuck’s sake," I mutter.
The doctor in the doorway pauses, one brow raised. I immediately regret it.
"I’m sorry," I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. "It’s been a long day."
She quirks a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse.” She checks the tablet. “Good news—your scans came back normal. No internal injuries.”
The breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes in a shaky breath.
“You said the driver’s side took the brunt?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. “Jax’s injuries were more severe than mine, and that was before he…” I swallow and let the rest hang.
The doctor gives me a second, then continues.
“You have three non-displaced rib fractures on the right,” she says, calm and clinical.
“You also show signs of a mild traumatic brain injury, most likely a concussion. For the ribs we’ll manage the pain with acetaminophen.
No heavy lifting, limited movement, and regular deep-breathing exercises to prevent atelectasis.
Use a brace sparingly—don’t overdo it or it can weaken your muscles. ”
I nod. The words register but feel distant, like they’re happening to someone else.
“As for the concussion,” she goes on, “symptoms can last from a few days to several weeks. Rest, limit screen time, and absolutely no driving for at least twenty-four hours. If you get worsening headaches, vomiting, confusion, or increasing dizziness, come back immediately.”
I nod again.
“We’ll be discharging you within the hour,” she adds. “You can go home.”
I shake my head. “You can discharge me, but I’m not going home.”
The room freezes. Callahan, Brooks, the doctor all turn to look at me.
“Melina…” Brooks starts, careful.
“I go home when Jax goes home.”
“Mel—”
“This isn’t up for debate,” I say, low and steady. “He nearly died for me. He might still. He has no one here. I won’t leave him.”
I scan their faces, daring any of them to argue.
Callahan shifts, slow and deliberate. “Melina, you’re still in danger.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I snap. “Let him come.”
Brooks lifts a palm, placating. “We have a safe house set up for you and the kids.”
“Take the kids. Do whatever you have to do to keep them safe.” I straighten, biting back the pain in my ribs. “I’m staying.”
A heavy silence drops over the room. They want to fight me on it—I can see it, feel it—but they won’t win. Not on this.
Callahan drags a hand down his face. “Brooks, when Mercer’s out of surgery he’ll be admitted to the surgical floor. We can’t lock down the whole hospital, but we can secure his floor. Find security. Make it happen.”
Brooks nods and moves. “On it.”
I glance at my gown—thin, stiff with dried blood along the seams. It clings to my skin like another layer of trauma.
“Callahan?” I ask, quiet. “Can someone bring me a change of clothes?”
“Yeah. We’ll grab a few things from your place.”
“Thank you.”
He shifts. “Brooks will pick up the kids from school and take them to the safe house. How much do you want us to tell them?”
“Nothing. I’ll call them.”
“They won’t be alone. We’ll be with them around the clock.”
“Brooks needs to sleep,” I reply.
A faint smirk tugs at Callahan’s mouth. “Bravo Team’s stateside. Don’t worry—he’ll get his beauty rest.”
Then he pauses, something changing in his expression. He hesitates, then speaks quietly, “I thought you’d like to know—Matt’s okay.”
I almost collapse. “You heard from him?”
He nods. “They made it out.”
My heart stutters, then picks up. “Are they all—” The remainder of the question breaks on my throat.
“They’re okay,” he says gently. “A little banged up, but headed home.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The weight cracks and relief hits—hot and staggering.
The tears fall.