Page 7 of Haze's Jewel

Instead, I ask, “Why are you still here after seventeen days? And why are the medical staff sharing all my personal medical information with you?”

His expression shifts into an uncertain one. “We found a partially completed application in your purse. It had your name on it, which we already know because you came to talk to us about a job. Since there was no other identifying information like a driver’s license or social security card, we didn’t have much to go on when it came to notifying your next of kin. Our club’s IT guy tried to locate your family but came up empty handed. Since you got injured on our watch, I convinced my club that we should stick by your side and make sure you’re okay.”

I tilt my head, trying to work out why he was doing this for me. His club isn’t responsible for my injuries. Those other bikers who set up the roadblock that panicked the other drivers were the reason I got injured. Still, I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“The hospital shouldn’t have been sharing my healthcare information with you.”

He reaches up one hand to scratch behind his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Our club attorney might have insisted that as your fiancé, I’m legally your next of kin.”

Completely baffled, I stammer, “Say what now?”

“I didn’t want you lying here all alone with no one to advocate for you. So, I fibbed a little. Didn’t think you would mind. Especially, since your doctors wanted to keep you in a medically induced coma even after you started waking up. Lucky for you I was here to stop them.”

“Wait. Explain more about that.” To say I’m shocked would be an understatement. Who in the hell wants to be intentionally put into a coma? Not this girl, that’s for damn sure.

He frowns as he recounts what happened. “To be honest, there was a bit of disagreement between your attending physician, the anesthesiologist, the orthopedic surgeon, and the neurologist tasked with treating what they believed to be a traumatic brain injury. The neurologist and anesthesiologist were worried that a medically induced coma following an eleven-day trauma-induced coma might make waking you up more difficult. The others believed that giving your brain and organs a prolonged opportunity to recover, would give you the best chance of living a normal life.”

A feeling of dread begins to creep forward from the back of my mind. To be honest, the idea of not being able to wake up from a coma fills me with naked fear. “So, I was in coma for eleven days and even though they decided not to intentionally keep me in a comatose state, it still took me another six days to wake up on my own?”

“Not exactly,” he says with a frown. “Like I said you’ve been waking up sporadically and it’s taking your brain a few days to jump start. This is day seventeen, the first day you’ve really been alert and able to hold onto information. This is the longest we’ve spoken for.”

Still trying to get my head around the whole situation, I ask, “What was the deciding factor that kept them from keeping me under intentionally?” I ask quietly.

He sighs, looking all kinds of conflicted. “As your nearest kin, they invited me to their treatment team meeting. My gut told me that since the neurologist was most knowledgeable about the innerworkings of the human brain and the anesthesiologist was an expert in putting patients under and bringing them back out again, their opinions should carry the most weight. I thought it best to err on the side of caution. I hung around to make sure they stayed on their toes.”

He glances away, looking somewhat embarrassed before adding, “I might as well tell you that most of the hospital staff hate me. I’ve been accused of micromanaging your care more than once.”

Some of the anxiety in my chest loosens as I listen to the thoughtful approach he took making life and death decisions on my behalf. A chill creeps up as I realize that my actual fiancé, or rather my ex-fiancé, probably wouldn’t have been so cautious. Most certainly my stepbrother would have just left the medical team to duke it out. God knows, my mom would have been a basket case trying to decide what to do and truly devastated by not being able to come to the hospital to be with me. It was best that this big biker with a heart of gold stepped up for me. But I still didn’t quite understand why.

“Tell me one more time, why you decided to create a farce in order to be involved in my care.”

He steps closer to my bed, looming over me. Instead of feeling threatened, his close presence makes me feel warm and safe. I feel myself blushing under his careful gaze. A little voice in the back of my mind is worried that this brain injury of mine might be messing with my ability to logic my way through this situation.

Haze reaches out to untangle my IV tube from around my arm before stepping back. His big hands are warm and gentle. I like his touch way more than I should. This man’s presence affects me in ways I can’t fully understand.

Haze explains, “My club decided that because you got hurt due to a conflict between us and another club, that we were obligated to make sure you got the best care possible. One of our club members is an older physician with admitting privileges in this hospital. He worked with the financial office to get your treatment covered under a charity program for the indigent. It’ll be activated once you prove that you don’t have health insurance and meet the financial requirements.”

I swallowed thickly, seriously touched by their dedication to doing the right thing. “That’s really generous. Please thank your club brothers for me.”

He gestures to a side table that was overflowing with gift bags, flowers, and balloons. “The woman who arranged your interview with the club is Mel. She’s been to visit several times and brings one of the old ladies with her each time. They’ve loaded you down with snacks, books, and other distractions to make your stay more bearable.”

I find myself tearing up, because no one has been this nice to me in a very long time. “I appreciate everything your club has done on my behalf. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay their kindness. Maybe if the job’s still open, I could work off my debt once I’m back on my feet?”

“That’s not necessary. In fact, making you work to pay off a debt that doesn’t exist in our minds, might be taken as an insult by most of my club brothers.” He hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “There is one more thing you should be aware of. Your medical team thinks your recovery is going to be intense and prolonged. They want you in a full-time rehab program for the next four to six weeks.”

I freeze as a feeling of dread settles in my stomach. “I’m not sure that’s going to be possible.” The only rehab program like that within a hundred miles is the one my mom is in. While it would be amazing to be with her, if I go there, my ex will know immediately because my stepbrother is on her contact list. I can’t chance running into Trevor. Also, and more importantly, there’s no way on earth I could afford the care. So I say, “I won’t go to the Rialto Physical Rehabilitation Center.”

A shocked expression jumps onto his face so briefly that I think I might have imagined it. Once it’s gone, he tells me, “That wasn’t the plan. The veteran’s administration opened a rehab center here in Las Salinas. It was a rural healthcare pilot project using a combination of federal, state, and private funding. They reserve fifteen percent of their open slots at any given time for local members of the community. One of our old ladies is a nurse who transferred there when it first opened. We think that because of your level of need, they might take you in.”

I can feel myself becoming emotional. “I’m unemployed and don’t have health insurance anymore. I was on my father’s plan, but he passed away a few months ago.”

“Then I guess you might qualify to get both your hospital stay and rehab paid for. Don’t feel bad about accepting charity. Those programs were created for people in need after all.”

When I nod a sharp jolt of pain shoots down my neck. I automatically push the button on the fob that’s still locked in my grip. Just then the nurse walks in. Her face lights up and she rushes over to me.

“You’re awake again, I see. That’s wonderful. How do you feel this time around?”

As I answer her, my new protector melts into the background. I find myself hoping that he doesn’t leave. My life has been chaotic as of late, and this man makes me feel safe.

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