Page 8 of Discover Me
I wait until I'm sure he's really gone, that he's not going to come back because he forgot something. Then I carefully, painfully, shift myself up slightly in the bed. Every movement is agony. My ribs protest, but I need to do this.
I reach out toward the flower table, stretching as far as I can without pulling my stitches. My fingers just barely brush the edge of the vase with the white lilies and roses. I try again, gritting my teeth against the pain, and manage to get enough of a grip to slide it closer.
The vase is heavy, probably crystal or something expensive. I drag it across the table until it's within easy reach, then carefully pull a single rose from the arrangement. It's perfect, a deep red bloom that hasn't quite fully opened yet and then like a fucking weirdo, I bring it to my nose and inhale.
The scent of the rose hits me first, but underneath it, is something else.Sweet rum.
He touched these flowers. Maybe he picked them out himself, or maybe he just happened to be near them when they were being arranged. But his scent is there, clinging to the petals, marking them as his in that primal Alpha way.
I breathe it in deeper, my eyes falling closed. Sweet rum fills my lungs, and for a moment I'm back on that concrete. Strong arms holding me. A rough voice telling me to stay awake. Worried eyes and tattooed skin and piercings that caught the morning light.
It had only been a brief moment but it feels important. I blame it on the drugs coursing through me and the weariness stealing me into the darkness again.
However, lying in this hospital bed with his scent on a stolen rose, I let myself imagine something impossible. What if he came to check on me? What if that wasn't just an Alpha responding to someone in distress, but something more? What if he felt even a fraction of what I felt in that moment?
I know it's stupid. Kellan Hayes is a rockstar, a famous drummer in a band that's big enough to headline charity galas. He probably saves people all the time, probably has that same intense concern for everyone. It didn't mean anything. I was just another stranger, another person who needed help.
But god, the way he looked at me…
I clutch the rose to my chest, careful not to crush the petals. Just holding it makes me feel closer to him somehow, connected to that moment when everything hurt, but his presence made it bearable.
Micah
It’s been one week since the fall. Seven days of in-and-out rehab appointments, physical therapy sessions that leave me in what feels like more pain, occupational therapy to learn how to do basic tasks with one functional arm. Every breath hurts. Every movement sends sharp reminders through my ribs that my body isn't what it used to be.
The bruising has turned from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green that spreads across my entire torso, and the stitchesrunning from my neck to my stomach itch constantly even though the doctor told me not to scratch.
I shift in my chair at the kitchen table, wincing as the movement pulls at tender muscles. My right arm sits useless in its cast, propped on the table in front of me. The cast is already covered in signatures from coworkers and neighbors who've stopped by.
Jamie drew a dick on it the second day, which earned him a glare but no real anger. It's hard to be mad at someone who's been showing up every morning with food and coffee.
The local county jail houses Derek and Colt now, but not because of what they did to me. They got charged with assault from that bar fight Morrison mentioned, the one that happened the same day they shook my ladder.
Karma, maybe.
Or just two violent Alphas finally getting caught. Either way, they're behind bars and I should feel safer, but mostly I just feel tired.
My coffee sits cooling in front of me, steam no longer rising from the dark liquid. I take a sip anyway, grimacing at the lukewarm temperature but too exhausted to get up and reheat it. The stack of bills next to my coffee mug mocks me with its sheer volume.
Hospital bills. Emergency room fees. Surgery costs for repairing the damage to my scent gland. Physical therapy invoices. Occupational therapy charges. Medication costs. The numbers blur together into an impossible sum that makes my chest tight with anxiety rather than pain.
I'm out of work until my ribs heal, which the doctor says will be at least another month. Maybe six weeks if I'm unlucky. Too much movement and I feel like I'm going to pass out, black spots dancing across my vision and nausea rising in my throat.
Henderson Construction has been understanding, told me my job will be there when I'm ready, but understanding doesn't pay my mortgage. Understanding doesn't keep the lights on or put food in my fridge.
I've always been sturdy. The Davis family is known for being tough, for bouncing back from injuries and illnesses that would lay other people out for months. My dad worked through a broken leg once, just wrapped it tight and kept going because the bills didn't stop coming just because he was hurt. But this? This pisses me off. Not being able to work, not being able to do basic things like lift a bag of groceries or take a full breath without pain. Being reduced to sitting at my kitchen table in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, staring at bills I can't pay and feeling useless.
The excitement from the fall hasn't died down. If anything, it's gotten worse. Fans post constantly on social media, their feeds flooded with photos and videos from the scene. Every local station ran the story, and some national ones picked it up, too. "Rockstar Hero Saves Local Beta" with dramatic reenactments and interviews with witnesses. The entertainment building downtown has become a minor tourist attraction, people taking selfies at the spot where I fell.
Kellan's heroic acts dominate every conversation in town. The charity gala was apparently a huge success, raised tons of money, and everyone wants to talk about how amazing it is that he stopped to help instead of just calling 911 and moving on. He's being painted as this perfect hero, this example of what celebrities should be. The praise is everywhere, inescapable even when I'm hiding in my house trying to heal.
I watched one press conference three days ago, late at night when I couldn't sleep because the pain medication wore off and moving to get more seemed impossible. Kellan sat at a table with his bandmates, microphones pointed at them like weapons.
He looked both peeved and constipated at the same time, which was a feat in and of itself. The questions came rapid-fire, all about me, all about the rescue, and he answered in clipped, short sentences that made it clear he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Just did what anyone would do," he'd said, the same line he'd apparently been repeating for a week.
"Is there any update on the Beta's condition?" a reporter asked.
