Page 45 of Holding On to a Hero
Ramirez this time. “And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. Washburn and Mr. Shelton?”
“Uh? Good? Uh, friendly?” I knew they could hear my heart rate increase on the monitor.
“Would you describe it as sexual in nature?”
“Uh, I mean.” Shitshitshitshit! “I’m not sure I want to—”
“Mr. Shelton told us that the three of you had sexual relations when you were there for dinner.”
Well, okay then. “Uh, yes, that’s right.” I was cold and sweating at the same time. All three of them looked absolutely impassive.
“And have either of them indicated to you that anyone was threatening Mr. Washburn or Mr. Shelton?”
“No, they didn’t.”
Ochoa now. “And what about you?”
“Me? I haven’t threatened them!” I struggled to sit up but the pain zapped through me and I collapsed back onto my side.
Ramirez shot Ochoa a look. “No, that’s not what Detective Ochoa meant, Will.”
“Yeah, sorry, Will. What I meant was, has anyone threatened you? Do you have any enemies.”
I gaped at him, my mouth open like a fish. “Me? They were shooting at Cole!”
“But you were there both times, so we just need to be thorough.”
“Uh, okay. Well, I don’t know anyone who wants to kill me.”
“No threats? What about after the dock accident in Denver? The detectives there told us that the mother of one of the victims was blaming you for her daughter’s death.”
I flashed back to my recurring nightmare. But that was a guilt nightmare, not a danger nightmare. I felt an odd protectiveness over Mrs. Robinton. “She was grieving. Grief can make people do funny things. And that was well over a year ago. It hardly seems like she would be coming after me with a gun now.”
They asked me a few more inconsequential questions and then finally left with a promise to return my laptop to me next week. All three of them put their business cards on the bedside table, reminding me of Brian yesterday.
I had lots of business cards but no friends. No Cole or Jason. I fell asleep missing them.
* * *
Later that afternoon the doctor came by when I was actually awake. He told me I’d be in the hospital for two to three more days and then I’d have six to eight weeks of physical therapy. “Or more,” he added cheerfully. “I’m a little concerned about how your gunshot wound is going to affect your pre-existing back issues.”
“Uh oh. What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ll be favoring your right shoulder, which will put tension on your back muscles. That stress could trigger back spasms. I’ll be sending you home with some muscle relaxers.”
I made a face. I didn’t like to take pain pills. Back injuries were common precursors to opioid addictions. That was not going to happen to me.
“Isn’t there anything else I can do other than pills?”
“Your physical therapist will probably have you do some stretching. Light yoga. Make sure you have a good mattress, like a memory foam one. Soak in a hot tub once your stitches are out.”
Basically the same shit I’d done after the original injuries. Fun.
The rest of the day was spent alone with the hospital’s basic cable TV. Fortunately Animal Planet drowned out the hospital noises nicely so I could nap. Ally and Abigail came to visit that evening and not only brought some Torchy’s Tacos, but they also brought Cole’s PA, Tracey.
“Wow,” I marveled. “I thought you wouldn’t come to Texas.” She was tiny. Shorter than Ally even.
She grimaced. “Cole had to go and get himself shot at. And you, mister, you actually got in the way of those bullets!”
