Boxer sat in the chair next to my bedside. His eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed. He was leaning over, elbows on his jeans, his hands linked. He looked horrible.
“Get out,” I whispered. My voice was choked. I cleared my throat, which only made it hurt worse, but I said it again. “Get out.”
“Linden, I—”
“Get the fuck out of here, Boxer!” I screamed. My anger obliterated the morphine-induced state of fog. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see youeveragain.Get out!” I looked around for something to throw at him. I reached over to the bedside table with my left hand, grimacing as the rolling movement of my body pulled the bandage flush against the brand on my skin.
“Linden, don’t—”
Ignoring him, I chucked the plastic cup and sent it flying.
He didn’t even bother trying to move out of the way, and the cup bounced off his arm. When he still didn’t budge, I snatched the call button, pressing it like my life depended on it.
Boxer’s expression was resigned. And then he rose swiftly from the chair and strode from the room, all but ripping the door off its hinges on his way out.
I leaned back against the less than stellar hospital pillow, my breath coming in rapid pants. I closed my eyes in an attempt to ward off the panic attack.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for all of this.
How dare he be here when I woke up? He was the cause of all of this. I’d suffered at the hands of a madman because of Boxer and the club.
The door to my hospital room opened, and Peyton rushed in. She wore a pair of light blue scrubs, her red hair pulled up into a high ponytail.
“Linden,” her voice cracked. “What is it? Are you in pain?”
I shook my head, but it only made it throb.
Peyton went to the bedside table and picked up the pitcher of water, only to stop and look around for the missing cup.
“Floor,” I said, gesturing with my chin in the direction.
“Why is the cup on the floor?” she asked as she went to retrieve it.
“I threw it at Boxer.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably not,” I agreed, grimacing. Morphine dulled most of my pain, but not all of it.
“Let me get you a clean cup.”
“It’s fine.” If only she’d known that I’d been drinking brown Mexican water for days.
“You sure? It’s no trouble.”
“Peyton,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve got bigger problems than a cup that’s hit a sanitized hospital floor. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered, nodding.
She poured water into the cup and then brought it to me. She stuck a straw in it and held it while I drank.
I was greedy for it, my throat parched even though I was on an IV to restore my fluid levels to normal. It reminded me of the last time someone had held water to my lips.
The water had been lukewarm and brackish.
Memories assaulted me, flashing before my eyes like pinwheels of light.