Page 144 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Casts? Plural? I have casts on my legs?”
“And on your left arm. Apparently your bones are as brittle as a sardine’s, love.” He adds brightly, “At least you didn’t snap your neck!”
“What about my brain?” I ask frantically, struggling to sit up, though it sends stabbing pain everywhere. “Do I have brain damage? Swelling? Posttraumatic whatever? Am I going to need help feeding myself and forget everyone’s names and get lost when I go for a drive in my own neighborhood?”
I can tell the nurse is trying not to roll his eyes. “You have no brain damage. The scan showed no evidence of hemorrhage or swelling, and the EEG was normal.”
I exhale in relief, flopping back against the pillows, letting out a little grunt when I’m reminded by my nerve endings that I’m not supposed to be flopping against anything at the moment.
“Just relax, miss. I’ll have the doctor come in and go over everything with you, all right?”
I feel weepy. In four seconds, I’ve become overly fond of this male nurse with the strongly accented English and the cowlick that needs a professional stylist to wrestle it down.
“Okay,” I say, trying not to blubber. “Tell him to bring good drugs.”
The nurse smiles. “I can help you with that.”
He presses a button attached to a cord hanging from a metal stand next to the bed, on which also hang two bags of clear liquid. The liquid runs down a plastic tube, ending in a catheter inserted into the vein in the inside of my elbow. Within seconds, I’m infused with a warm, fuzzy glow.
“Oh boy.” I laugh, giddy. “Those are good drugs. Lord.”
“If you need another dose, just push the button.” He tucks the cord next to my arm and leaves, pulling a curtain around the side of the bed closest to the door.
“How did I get here?”
Jenner pulls up a chair, sits, and takes my hand. “In an ambulance.”
“How are you here?”
“Believe it or not, Brad.”
I think about that for a while. My brain swims with images of a grinning blond prepster with a broken nose wearing a leisure suit while riding a unicorn. Oh dear. I’m hallucinating. “I don’t get it.”
“The paramedics found your phone in your handbag. Brad was under your emergency contacts.”
Note to self: change your emergency contacts. I crinkle my brow in confusion. “How’d they get past the lock screen?”
“Your thumb.” He says it like Duh.
“So they called Brad. Who was in . . .” I struggle to recall his whereabouts through my lovely drug cocktail. “Florence.”
“Yes. He called me, and I got here before he did—”
“Wait, he’s here?” I look around, expecting him to pop out from the bathroom waving his hands and yelling, “Ta-da!”
“He was. Earlier.”
The way Jenner says that makes me suspicious, but I can’t figure out why. I peer at his face. It’s slowly getting closer, then retreating, then getting closer again. This is some stuff.
“How long’ve I been out?”
“Since they brought you in last night.”
It hits me with the force of a wrecking ball—last night.
The show.
Matteo.
