In perfect condition, according to the doctor who left me alone to stew in my shock.
I mean, he did say that besides the concussion I have two broken ribs, and he had to dissect a corner of my liver, but apparently that was four days ago and I’ve been semi-sedated for most of that time. I also have some pretty impressive bruising... all over, but that will go down soon enough according to him.
I look down at Maggie on instinct.
I want to hold her. More than anything I want to feel her soft breaths and make sure each of her perfect toes are still there, but I know better than to wake her. Besides, if she’s woken up to the punching bag I’m currently impersonating, her cries will probably break my heart.
Instead, I convince myself that the call of my bladder is stronger—lie—and test out my legs.
It becomes obvious pretty quickly that I can’t walk on my own, so I drag the IV stand into the bathroom with me and leave the door open so I can hear Maggie if she needs me.
I think I remember everything, or well, pretty much everything.
I have no clue who rescued me, except that it was probably someoneheworks with. I remember seeing him in a wheelchair, holding Maggie, and also the pain.
Before that befuddling image, all I remember is pain.
I wonder when that happened. Was it three days ago? Two? One? I’m going to have to find a way to get some answers before Maggie and I take our leave and move to another country.
I hear New Zealand is very nice this time of year. I bet they’d welcome us with open arms over there, and Maggie and I would be far, far away from this joke of a hospital, these people, and this godforsaken city where dreams come to die.
I make the mistake of looking at my reflection in the mirror, and the sharp, keen edge of not havinganyonehits me.
I have Maggie, I remind myself. But she can’t help me through this. I’m going to have to do it on my own.
I give myself five minutes to wallow, to feel the self-pity in every pore of my body. Once those minutes are up, though, I stand up straight—as much as I can—and square my jaw.
I will get us through this.
“You’re awake.”
I stumble but manage to right myself using my IV cane. When I look over at the door, equal amounts of relief and rage fill me.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I askhim. “And will you just fucking tell me your name so I know who to make a voodoo doll of?
The asshole snickers.Snickers!The fucking gall of this dude, I swear.
“I’m Duffy.”
I’m confused enough to react without tamping down my emotions. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing, at least I don’t think so.” A tiny frown scrunches up his forehead. It’s not adorable, it really isn’t. “Anyway, I’m glad you survived,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Mostly because now I get to ask you, what the fuck were you thinking? Going to that warehouse was the stupidest thing you could ever have done. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to save you from the boss, Colby. Seriously, how the hell did the Italian trash get you?”
That grin from before? Yeah, it vanished faster than a blink.
“I was looking for you,” I hiss at him. “I thought that for whatever reason, you didn’t call me for backup on one of your weird missions and got hurt or something, and I was right, wasn’t I?” I’m still recovering from the whiplash hismood just gave me, so the screeching tone is justified, isn’t it?
He stares at me for a long few seconds like he doesn’t know if I’m joking or not.
“I mean, of all the stupid, idiotic shit to do, you decided to follow those assholes around? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I am smart!” I argue, and no, it does not sound petulant, though... I know it was stupid, I do. “I just wanted to?—”
“What? Pretend you’re part of the mob?” He scoffs and shakes his head at me as he rolls his wheelchair into the room and stops it two feet away from me. “Colby, you have that adorable girl to take care of. You’re not made for this life. Not the action part at least. That’s why I kept you on the sidelines.”
I know he’s right, but?—
“I know how you feel.”
