Page 69 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
Irene reappears with stickers and wristbands. “All right, you two, screening questions first, then we’ll get you in a chair. Juice and cookies after.”
“See?” I murmur to Quinn as we follow Irene toward the curtained cubicles. “There is a parade.”
“Cookies are not a parade.”
“Speak for yourself.”
As we walk, Quinn slips her hand into mine. “I’m proud of you,” she says under her breath.
I don’t answer right away. My chest is suddenly too full, my throat too tight. I just nod, and when I can trust my voice, I manage, “Thanks for getting me here.”
“You got yourself here,” she says, almost stern, as if she’s correcting the record. Then softer, “I’m just happy to see it.”
We reach the curtain. Irene smiles, holds it open. “Step right in, Mr. Morgan. We’ll start with you.”
I shoot Quinn a look—mock bravado, the kind that used to cover the cracks and now just makes her roll her eyes in fondness. “Watch and learn,” I say.
“Try not to cry,” she fires back, and the tiny, private grin she gives me is better than any cupcake.
I push through the curtain, shoulders squared, heartbeat steadying to a rhythm I recognize. Not fear. Not shame.
Something better.
The vinyl chair sighs when I sit back, cool and sticky against the crook of my arm. A nurse with quick, competent hands ties the blue tourniquet around my bicep, and the pressure makes the veins stand out like a roadmap. For a second, my brain betrays me—I remember other times I’ve stared at those veins, hunting them for a different reason entirely.
I swallow hard, blinking that ghost away. This is different. Better. Way better.
“Big squeeze,” she instructs, offering me a red rubber ball.
I wrap my hand around it, flexing, and she nods approval. I can tell she’s done this a thousand times. She doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile, but doesn’t rush me either. Just steady, sure movements as she swabs my arm with cold antiseptic.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, and to my surprise, it’s the truth. “More than okay.”
Because when she slips the needle in, it’s not a sting of shame. It’s proof that for the first time in years, I’m clean enough togive something back. I’m not poisoning my body anymore; I’m letting it do what it was meant to—help, sustain, maybe even save someone else. Blood that once carried chemicals and regret now runs free and clear into that little plastic tube.
I glance sideways, and Quinn is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, biting the inside of her cheek as she tries not to hover too much. But her eyes don’t lie. They’re soft, shining, the same way they get when she looks at a perfect sunrise or when one of her brothers surprises her. She’s proud of me, and that look—I’d donate every pint I’ve got if it means she’ll never stop looking at me like that.
The bag slowly fills, warm and heavy, and I feel it like a tide pulling out of me—not weakness, but release. It’s as if every drop that leaves me is a piece of the old Beck siphoned away, making room for something cleaner. Something I want to be.
Quinn finally steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo over the sharp tang of antiseptic. “You okay?” she asks, her voice low, private.
I grin at her, a little crooked. “Told you I’m not afraid of needles.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand brushes my shoulder in a quick, grounding touch. “You’re doing good.”
Her words hit deeper than they should, because it’s not about the blood. It’s about her seeing me, really seeing the man I’m trying to become, and not flinching.
The machine hums, the bag fills, and I lean back in that vinyl chair with something I don’t feel often: pride. Real pride, the kind that doesn’t need a cover story.
And when the nurse finally unclips the tube and tapes a cotton ball to my arm, I think: maybe this is the first real proof I deserve a second chance.
I’m still flexing my arm when the nurse waves Quinn over. She hesitates for half a second, as if she’s thinking of making me rest before she goes, but then she shakes her head and takes the chair next to mine.
“You’ve done this before?” the nurse asks her.
“A couple of times, yeah,” Quinn says, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her voice is steady, but I can see her nerves in the way her foot bounces.
