Emergency contact
Me. Fuck if I know who else she might list, but for now I’m gonna have to do.
Allergies
Penicillin. She mentioned it once when Duck had a chest infection and Maggie was pushing antibiotics on everyone in sight. “Not all of us can take those,” she’d said, waving Maggie off, and I’d filed it away without thinking.
Primary care physician
Dr. Sarah Cousins, Stoneheart Medical. I’d overheard her making an appointment once, months ago.
My pen hovers over the form.
I know her coffee order—black, no sugar, an extra shot when she’s been working late. I know she takes her whiskey neat, her wine red, and her beer cheap. I know she stress-cleans her office when a case is going sideways, and she taps her pen against her teeth when she’s thinking. I know she gets a little crease between her eyebrows when she’s trying not to laugh at something I’ve said, and doesn’t frown at all when she’s annoyed in the court room.
I know she hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s around—old jazz songs, the kind her grandmother used to play. I know she kicks off her heels the second she’s behind closed doors, and her real laugh, the unguarded one, sounds nothing like the polished chuckle she uses in meetings with clients.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been cataloging this woman for over a year. Every detail, every habit, every tiny piece of her I could collect without crossing the lines I drew between us.
What a fucking joke.
I fill out the rest of the form with a steady hand, even though I’m beginning to feel like I might have been blind sided by a fucking truck as well. When I hand it back to the receptionist, she scans it with raised eyebrows.
“This is thorough, thank you.”
“No problem.” I step back from the counter. “When can I see her?”
The receptionist gives me a tired, sympathetic smile. “As soon as the doctors stabilize her.”
I step back, taking a seat on an uncomfortable plastic chair.
The waiting room is surprisingly quiet for an emergency department. A few scattered souls dot the rows of seats—an elderly man with a hacking cough, a young woman scrolling her phone with red-rimmed eyes, a couple huddled together in the corner speaking in hushed, urgent tones. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead.
The TV mounted in the corner plays some late-night infomercial on mute. A woman with unnaturally white teeth demonstrates a blender. Riveting stuff.
I should call the club and check in, let someone know what’s happening. But I can’t make myself move. Can’t do anything but sit here, staring at the doors Josie’s behind, replaying that fucking form in my head.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and scrub my hands over my face.
Twenty years of running this club. Twenty-plus years of keeping my shit locked down, of never letting anyone see weakness, of making the hard calls and living with the consequences. I’ve buried brothers. Held men while they bled out. Delivered news that destroyed families.
None of it—noneof it—prepared me for the sight of Josie Bright bleeding in the wreckage of her car.
The couple in the corner gets called back. The young woman with the phone steps out for a cigarette. The old man coughs and coughs and coughs.
I sit there, surrounded by strangers and their private tragedies, and finally let myself feel the weight of my own.
I know everything about Josie. Every detail, every habit, every tiny piece of her I could collect without crossing the lines I drew between us.
I told myself I was keeping my distance. Protecting her from the mess of my life, the danger that comes with my patch, the long shadow of every mistake I’ve ever made.
But I wasn’t protecting her.
I was protecting myself.
Wanting something—really wanting it, the way I want her—means risking losing it. And fuck knows I’ve lost everything before. My marriage. My wife’s respect. Years with my kids I’ll never get back. The version of myself that used to believe good things could last.
