“I already told you.” Her tone sharpened. “I don’t know. I was just trying to go out with my sister, and then I was in your head. Believe me, I didn’t want to be there. But you should be grateful I was because otherwise, you’d be dead, asshole.”
My brows furrowed. Granted, she was right. She saved my life, and I should’ve been grateful. But since this made no sense, and since I’d just been fuckingshot, I had the right to be confused. “Watch your mouth.”
Brooke’s eyes narrowed to slits, staring me down for a long moment.
She hoisted her purse from the chair beside her. “Alright. I’m going home. Glad you’re alive.”
“I wasn’t telling you to—”
And she was gone.
Fucking teleporters.
* * *
They’d given me drugs while I was under, which explained the irritation and confusion. I was a dick when I was high, which was why I didn’t get high. They made me stupid, and they made me an asshole.
A nurse was in to see me shortly after Brooke left. She seemed nice, but I was short and snippy with her too. I told her I needed to go home. The bar opened at five, and I needed to clean up the blood.
Yeah. That was the first thing on my mind.
Like I said. Drugs made me dumb.
Nonetheless, I was mostly healed by then, and I needed to leave. I needed to tell Emory I was okay before he called the cops, I needed to talk to Brooke about whatever the hell had happened, and I needed to figure out who the fuck shot me.
They let me make a call instead. Emory was the obvious first choice.
He panicked a little. I told him I was fine. Was I though?
Not really.
Dumbfounded doesn’t come close to describing how I felt.
None of it made sense.
Spades may have been a biker bar, but I didn’t have beef with anyone. No more than usual, anyway. Sure, I’d threatened to eat Tommy’s hand last night, but that wasn’t unusual. My threats were empty ninety percent of the time, and I knew he didn’t have the balls to shoot me.
Of course we had the occasional bar fight, but attempted murder wasn’t the same as a sucker punch.
Aside from being confused, I was hanging in there. The euphoria of the morphine had worn off before I’d woken, but the disorientation and irritability lasted well into the afternoon. By dinner, I felt fine, and again, I said I wanted to go home. They insisted I stay the night. I began to argue, but one of the nurses recognized me. Apparently, she also worked at Mom’s nursing home.
She said if I tried to leave against medical advice, she’d call her.
Obviously, I conceded. But I asserted that I was leaving first thing in the morning. I also reminded the nurse that it was illegal to relay my private health information to anyone without my consent. She said that was true, and that it was also illegal for the hospital not to report a shooting.
I kept my mouth shut after that and let the sleep aid they gave me do its job.
* * *
Mom’s quiet hums vibrated throughout the room. Her fingers slid through my hair, drops of water falling to the back of my shirt. Smiling, I rested my head on her thigh, cuddling my stuffed dog close to my chest. Flames fluttered in the fireplace in the corner, shining the coziest glow.
Warm.
I was so warm. Comfortable, and safe, and happy.
“Mommy,”I tilted my head up to look at her. “Can you tell me that story again?”
She smiled down at me. “Which one, kiddo?”