Page 9 of Haze's Jewel

“My bedside manner is reserved for my patients, not their boyfriends,” he flings back. This man has got to be seventy if he’s a day. Clearly, he’s one of those pompous old school physicians used to saying any damn thing that pops into his mind. It’s hilarious that he thinks I’m the arrogant and overbearing one.

“I’m her fiancé, not her boyfriend,” I make sure to drag out the words and speak loudly, like he’s slow-witted and hard of hearing.

The implication is not lost on him. He frowns at me before launching into his little discharge speech, I tune out because I know he’s already gone through all this with Anna, but like the fossil he is, he’s also the type who think women can’t hold too much information in their pretty little heads.

When he’s finished, he slaps her discharge paperwork against my chest and states, “My medical assistant typed all that out for you. If you can’t remember the instructions, just ask Miss Bryan to read it back to you.”

This old man is insinuating that I’m illiterate. I’m not really offended. Maybe, I even grudgingly respect him a little more for answering my disparaging comments in kind. Before I can respond, Anna speaks up.

“Does this mean I’m discharged?” The hopeful tone of her voice makes me ashamed that I was reluctant to take her home with me. I’ve been visiting the poor woman nearly every day, doing what I can to distract her from the endless rounds of physical and occupational therapy and keep her entertained with my cunning wit.

Franny had me dead to rights about the flirting. Something about spending time with Anna brought out the best in me. I liked being around such a sweet woman. Of course, she allowed it. Why not, since I was about the only entertainment she had. Heck there were several times that she even flirted back.

“Yes Miss Bryan, you’re discharged, but the nurse has to take you down in a wheelchair.”

She frowns at the doctor. “What’s the use of working so hard to get strong again if I can’t walk out of here on my own two legs?”

His voice holds a note of exasperation when he answers her question, “The reason for that has more to do with the facility protecting itself from allegations of negligence if you were to have an accidental fall on the way out of the building.”

She smiles up at him. “I didn’t really think of it from that angle. That’s really smart thinking on the hospital’s part.”

The older man gives her an indulgent smile because even if he thinks I’m a jackass, he’s not holding it against his patient. “Yeah, our center has a team dedicated to risk management and they do a good job.” Switching gears, he states reassuringly, “Your injuries are healing nicely. As long as you follow your discharge instructions carefully in terms of no lifting with that injured arm, there is no reason to suspect you’ll experience any complications.”

“Thank you, doctor. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” Anna is so sugar sweet that no man alive would be able to stay angry with her.

Her physician states mildly, “Well, it was a group effort. I was just one member of a dedicated team of professionals.” I can tell this is his pat response to expressions of gratitude by his patients.

When a nurse brings in a wheelchair and the doctor finally steps out of the room, I smile down into Anna’s pretty face. “You ready to blow this joint, princess?”

She seems giddy at the thought of being discharged at long last. “Absolutely. Make it so!”

“Aye Captain, engaging engines to warp!” I say with a laugh. We both discovered we had a shared love of Star Trek, so we’ve been watching episodes on her tablet during my visits. I wheel her down the corridor fast, much to the disapproval of the nurse who’s accompanying us, and one of the bags resting on her lap goes flying.

“I’ve got more stuff than I realized, thanks to your generous club members and their wives.”

Anna is not wrong about that. I’d helped her pack up earlier. Trix brought her a suitcase and clothing when she was first admitted to rehab. By the time we added all the gifts that my club brothers and their old ladies have dropped off over the last four weeks, her suitcase was stuffed, and there were two carrier bags of books and other items.

When I hand her the bag and wheel her towards the elevator—this time at a slower speed—she asks timidly, “Are you sure about giving me a place to stay?”

“Yeah, the room is just sitting empty. If you need a temporary landing pad, it makes sense for you to stay there.”

“I just don’t want to interrupt your business in any way,” she responds with no small amount of worry in her voice.

I can’t help the grin that jumps onto my face. “I own a tattoo shop. Ain’t nobody gonna give two shits if you’re living there. My customers are mostly regulars and they’re more preoccupied with the ink we drop than anything going on in the back of my shop.”

“If you’re absolutely sure,” she responds with a hopeful eagerness that hits me right in the feels.”

“Of course, I’m sure. If anything, your beautiful face will just brighten our otherwise dull shop.”

I can tell my words alleviate her anxiety because the worried expression lifts and is replaced by a relieved smile. “I’ll be on my way as soon as possible.”

“It’s all good, stay as long as you need.” I say as we reach the elevator.

Her brow crinkles, “Did you bring your bike or a car? I only ask because I don’t see my suitcase fitting on the back of your motorcycle.”

“Like most of my club brothers, I own a cage, they might not be as cool as a Harley, but sometimes a bike won’t do. Mine doesn’t have a roof though, so there’s that.”

Her voice turns excited. “You drive a convertible? That sounds amazing. I’m going to enjoy the wind blowing through my hair after being cooped up in this room for the last month.”

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