Page 5 of Shattered

“What the fuck are you doing!?” I shout, making Bane jump beside me.

The movers freeze in place, the one in my view looking at me like a deer in the headlights.

“Why the fuck are you putting my bed in the den!? I told you it’s going upstairs!”

“He told us to put it here,” the man says, motioning to Bane.

“I don’t give a fuck what he said, put it upstairs!”

As the movers reluctantly redirect my bed, I feel my best friend turning to ice beside me. I slowly turn to him, my anger boiling.

“Don’t you have an appointment to get to?” Bane asks, running his fingers through his short red hair.

“Don’t fucking change the subject!”

Bane’s anger explodes across his face. “Just take the den as your bedroom, you stubborn asshole. Why do you make everything so fucking hard on yourself?”

“I can walk up a flight of stairs,” I growl.

“Until you overdo it, which you will, because you refuse to admit that you need something to help you get around like, I don’t know, a fucking cane? You’re gonna push yourself until there’s nothing left, and then you’ll fall down those stairs and break every bone in your body.”

Anger boils in my blood, and it takes all my strength not to punch Bane out for that one. “No one fucking asked you.”

“Fine, be a dick. Don’t you have an appointment to go to?” he repeats.

“It can wait. These guys will be done soon.”

“No, they won’t, and you know it. Go!” he snaps.

“I wouldn’t have let you move here with me if I knew you were going to nag me worse than my mother did back in the day.”

“Is that your line for everything now?”

“Fuck off. You’re still my apprentice; I am still technically your boss.”

Bane opens his mouth but makes the smart decision to shut it again.

My appointment is at the hospital. The parking lot has lots of free spaces, but there’s nothing available near the front except handicap spots. I can still hear what that asshole doctor in Kingston said when he told me to get a handicap parking pass. “You may not want it, but you’ll need it.” I’m pretty sure I told him to get bent.

I slam my car into park near the back of the lot and begin the long trek inside on foot. My damaged leg nearly gives out halfway up, and I catch myself on the bed of a truck, just managing not to fall on my ass as pain pulsates through my thigh.

Thankfully, I don’t have to walk much further before I’m directed to a stuffy waiting room. I sit there for a while, trying to discreetly rub my pained leg before I’m called into the exam room. A few minutes later, the doctor enters briskly, nodding a cold hello.

“Hi, Mr. Wallace. I’m Dr. Ramos; what can I do for you today?”

“You’re not the specialist,” I say simply.

“No, I’m not. She’s on leave at the moment, so I’m helping out. Thankfully, you don’t need a specialist,” he says as he sits at the desk.

“Perfect. My leg is fucked. How long before it’s un-fucked?”

His brows pinch in confusion before he examines what must be my medical documents on the monitor on the desk. When he looks back at me again, he has that same abysmal expression that the bastard doctor in Kingston had when we spoke the last time.

“Your femur was shattered, it’s being held together with plates and screws. It won’t get any better than it is right now.”

Anger boils in me. “I want a second opinion.”

“I’m your third opinion, aren’t I?” His expression softens. “Asher, I know adjusting to something so serious can be challenging. We have resources that will help you.”

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