Cash
Ever notice how, in life, it either feels like nothing at all is happening, or it’s all happening at once?
As I stare at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling above my hospital bed, it’s almost impossible to sort through the cascade of events that have occurred over the past twenty-four hours, or make sense of any of them and what they’ll mean for the future. Then again, maybe it’s the headache that’s keeping me from putting it in perspective.
Nope. Scratch that.
This isn’t a headache. I know a headache. I’ve lived with a headache for months.Thisis a red-hot ball of agony that makes me squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw around the need to scream.
The doctors, the sadistic bastards, refuse to give me narcotics. Something about clouding my mental acuity and making it difficult to do reliable neurological examinations. Never mind that with pain this bad, my mental acuity has gone straight down the shit shoot.
At some point—time is wonky for me, so it could’ve been two minutes ago or two hours ago—a nurse came in and offered me a couple of acetaminophen pills.
“You’re joking, right?” I asked the young man in the mint-green scrubs. But all he did was smile and hand me a glass of water.
Took the damn pills, but I was right. Theyarea joke. And I would love nothing better than to know where my flask is. Because—oh happy day!—on top of the head wound and the headache, I’m sweating like a whore in church, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
It’s been almost eighteen hours since I spent any quality time with my dear friend Gentleman Jack. My body is doing a damn fine job of letting me know it doesn’t approve of the situation.
“We’ll have your father picked up and put behind bars.” Broussard’s voice cuts into my misery.
After being transferred from Tulane Medical Center to the VA hospital, I gave my statement to two cops while battling the urge to jump out the window to escape the pain. Once they left, I listened in stunned silence while Maggie recounted the tale of Sullivan’s death at Luc’s hands, her realization that shehadn’tkilled Dean—I’m still fuzzy about why she ever thought she had—her night spent at the police station, Luc’s continued incarceration, and her finding me unconscious and bloody on the floor of my living room. And now Broussard is here to hear my take on what transpired to put me in this hospital bed.
I do my best to pay attention to what he’s saying, but it’s too hard with the devil himself doing a steel-toed tap dance in my head. Plus, that damned ear buzz is back. Only now, instead of sounding like a hungry mosquito, it’s more like I’ve stuck my head inside a wood chipper.
Think I get the gist of what Broussard is saying, however. Something along the lines of revoking my sperm donor’s bail and keeping him locked up nice and tight until his trial.
Sounds about right to me.
“You want to press charges?” Broussard asks.
I open my eyes to find he’s moved from the foot of the bed to stand next to my shoulder. “Will it matter?” I ask, every word a misery. “I mean, considering all the other stuff you’re already looking to get him indicted for?”
Broussard shrugs. “Depends. You got any proof you weren’t the one to start the fight? Security footage or something? In situations like these, with no witnesses and with both of you bruised and bloody, it comes down to a case of he said/he said, and those are damned difficult to litigate.”
“Then forget it.” I close my eyes again. The overhead light is killing me. “Focus on what you know you can make stick.”
“Right. Okay, then.”
Bursts of color swirl and congeal behind my eyelids. I concentrate on naming their shades, anything to take my mind off the pain and—
“Cash?” Maggie’s voice pulls my eyelids open. I blink when I find Broussard long gone.
Must’ve dozed off—or blacked out—for a bit. Hard to tell one from the other right now.
It hurts to turn my head, but I do it so I can get a good look at her. As far as I can recall, she hasn’t left my side since they wheeled me into this room. And after what she saw me doing with Scarlet last night, her unflagging loyalty is a particular punch to the gut.
Of all the things I wish Icouldforget, that sorry scene after the New Year’s Eve party ranks number one. When I think back to the look on her face, it’s like I have a glowing hunk of coal lodged under my heart. It burns so bad I can barely breathe.
And yet, here she is. My beautiful, steadfast, steel magnolia of a woman.
That’s the thing, though, right? She’snotmine. And by all rights, she never shouldhave been.
My vision isn’t so screwed up I can’t see the heavy bags under her eyes or the rat’s nest that is her hair. When she puts a hand on my arm, I know she’s been nervously picking at a hangnail on her thumb. It’s formed a tiny scab.
“Is there anything I can get you?” She’s careful to keep her voice barely above a whisper. “Another blanket? Some water?”
“Go home and get some sleep, Maggie. You look like hell warmed over.”
