She’s hesitant again, looking down at the hand she wrapped around my arm when we were helping her. She squeezed the shit out of it at one point, but I don’t think she noticed. Not that Icared. She could dig her nails in until I bled if it took away even an ounce of the pain she was dealing with right now.
“A little,” Austin admits through a mumble. I’ve never wanted to praise her as much as I do right now, but I have a feeling she won’t be up for hearing it.
“That’s understandable,” Megan says, nodding. “We have several options that aren’t addictive, such as Toradol. It’s like ibuprofen but stronger and it would go through your IV so it can start working quickly. Would you like to try it and then we can try heading to the restroom again in about 15 minutes?”
She’s quicker to reply this time and I have to wonder if it’s the reassurance that the medication isn’t addictive, the implication of quick relief, or the promise of the bathroom that has her agreeing. “Sure.”
FORTY-FIVE
AUSTIN
It sort of pisses me offhow much better the medicine makes things. Or at least how much more bearable it makes them. An hour later, I’m able to actually talk to Maddox, though I don’t do much of it. For one, he’s practically radiating pity for me, and I fucking hate that. He’s also treating me with kid gloves, which I might just hate even more.
The nurse tells me to rest and then actively prevents me from resting by coming in to poke and prod me every hour for the next several. When it’s not her doing it, it’s a social worker, who sends Maddox out of the room and makes me repeat what happened over and over again.
Or it’s the cops, who also make me repeat what happened, though hearing that Chase’s loud mouth is what led to Maddox calling me and ultimately saving my life is a new facet to the story I wasn’t aware of. Not a huge fan of the fact that I owe my life to Chase fucking Cartwright.
I tell the story so many times, you’d think I’d have it down pat, but every time I tell it, I remember more and more. It’s almost like time slowed and my mind had the ability to catalog every millisecond and micro-interaction, but at the same time, everything is blurry.
“He said he killed my mama,” I blurt out at one point, interrupting Officer Hamilton’s most recent question as the memory hits me.
His mouth snaps shut and Maddox’s head swivels around comically. I don’t look at him. I’d made that mistake a few times while hashing out the tale, only to find him either teary-eyed or red with rage. I couldn’t handle either emotion right now.
“Are you sure? This is the first time you’ve mentioned that detail,” the cop says, looking over his notes as though he may have forgotten a murder accusation at some point.
“I was more focused on telling you how he was choking the life out of me at the same time,” I snap, overtired.
The men are quiet for beat. “I think maybe it would be best to take the information you have and check back in a few days, Hamilton. She hasn’t gotten any rest and her pain medication will probably be wearing off any time now,” Maddox excuses.
My eyes flick up to the clock. It’s a blatant lie. The too-cheerful nurse had re-upped my medicine three hours ago at the shift-change and I still had about two hours left to go of this dose before they gave me more. I’d been tracking it closely to make sure they didn’t try to give it to me any more frequently than necessary.
“Of course,” the cop says anyway, and I’d roll my eyes at how easily everyone bends over for a Whittaker if I wasn’t fond of bending over for him as well. Maddox walks him out, shaking his hand and promising to reach out when I’m discharged.
“Do you need me to lay the bed down some?” I hear him whisper, much closer to me than I thought he’d be. He’d just been over by the door. I jolt and then wince. The medicine they gave me dulls a lot of the pain, but doesn’t erase it completely.
I can’t risk it though. I’m too much like my father as it is. We don’t need to tempt the addiction gene.
“Sorry,” he says unnecessarily. It’s not his fault I’m jumpy. I must’ve been drifting because the clock says it’s been a littlemore than twenty minutes since the cop left. Maybe I can sleep now.
I nod and Maddox lowers the back of the bed a bit for me, helping me lie back against the pillows with as little movement as possible. Neither of us bring up the way I cling to his hand, the way I’ve been doing on and off since he got to come back and sit with me.
More than anything in the world, I wish it were yesterday morning and I’d never gotten out of his bed to go to brunch with his sister. Maybe he would’ve been able to convince me to stay with him a couple more days and I would’ve returned home to a dead father and not a coked up, murderous one.
“Can it wait? She just got to sleep,” I wake up to Maddox whispering.
“I’m afraid it can’t,” another man tells him. “I’ve already had to wait longer than I wanted to, but she’s been very popular this morning. Besides, she’ll likely wake while we’re taking her vitals anyway.”
“‘M not asleep,” I mumble, blinking my eyes open. The man speaking looks vaguely familiar—a doctor, based on his coat.
“Nice to see you again, Austin.” I blink at him as Maddox helps me sit up and the new, less cheerful nurse starts taking my vitals, maneuvering the bed back into place.
When I don’t respond right away, he must realize I have no clue who he is. He chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m Dr. Carson, the Trauma Surgeon?—”
“I got surgery?” I blurt. The blanks in my memory are becoming steadily more concerning if I’d somehow blanked out on being told I’d had surgery at some point last night.
“No, no,” he’s quick to correct with a tired smile. “I care for all of the patients that enter the trauma bay, regardless of if they’re in need of surgery or not.”
They should change his title then, I think, but that’s probably the least of his concerns.
