Page 112 of Because of Logan

The worst partof being shot isn’t the actual shooting. It’s being trapped in this bed and not being able to get up and walk away when my father came into the recovery room with Amanda late yesterday after they finally moved me out of ICU. My mother trailed a few feet behind them, like the second thought she’s always been to my father. One look at the both of them and I can tell they’re still carrying on with their affair. Fucking sick.

Thankfully, they left in fewer than twenty minutes. Dr. Marcus kicked them out. If anyone missed the anger on my face when they came in, the loud and erratic beeping on the monitors attached to my chest made it very clear.

When I first woke up three days ago, I wasn’t aware of what was going on. I have fragmented images, more like a dream than a memory, a result of my concussion.

I remember following a driver who was swerving in and out of his lane. I remember putting the lights on the cruiser and pulling the driver over and telling him to stay in the car. He was high on some fucked up shit... then a huge guy tackling me, falling down, the sound of cracking bones, pain, loud pops so close it hurt my ears, the taste of blood, and getting dizzy. Sirens, someone telling me to hold on, then nothing.

The chief visited while I was in ICU and filled me in on what’s missing from my memory based on what the other guys told him. The suspect got out of his car and attacked me, knocked me down. I hit the ground hard enough to break my arm and nearly crack my head open. He had a handgun, luckily for me, a small-caliber one. He was able to squeeze off a few rounds. Two hit me, and the Kevlar vest took the rest and saved my life. I can go home tomorrow. I have to take it easy for a while, look into some physical therapy for my arm, but I’ll make a full recovery. The perp survived the shots he took. He’ll go to trial for attempted murder, among other felonies.

I haven’t seen Steven or any of the other cops I usually work with. Being in the ICU has kept them out—the hospital can’t have every cop in town trying to visit. They usually have a chain of command setup. One or two guys come in and pass information along. In our station, the chief is the one who does the rounds. But now that I’m in a private room, I expect they’ll come once visiting hours start later this morning.

I wasn’t supposed to be working that night. If I hadn’t caught Skye cheating on me, I would have been in her bed, safe in her arms. Instead, I’m stuck in a hospital and my father thinks he can start right where we left off. I’d rather get shot again than go anywhere near my father and Amanda.

I don’t blame Skye, even as part of me rationalizes all the steps that brought me to this moment and loop back to Skye cheating on me. I have to take responsibility for the part I played. I was hungover, tired, and distracted. I didn’t follow protocol. I put myself in danger. It’s all on me.

I have to tell the hospital I don’t want them coming back to see me. My father didn’t even ask how I felt. He didn’t ask me anything at all. He just went on and on about the business and that as soon as I was released, we’d go back to Connecticut and leave the playing at cop foolishness behind. I feel bad for my mom, though. She’s just a puppet in his hands. I don’t understand why she stays with him. I’m getting tired again, and my eyes close.

The hustle of feet by the door drags me back from the claws of sleep. It's too early to be a visitor and the nurse just left. I keep my eyes closed, ignoring whoever is in the room now. I’m hurting, but the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. My mind got a break for a few days. Getting shot will do that to you. An occupational hazard, you could say. But now that I’m out of the woods and the doctors guarantee I’ll be fully recovered and able to get back to work in a few months, my OCD brain goes back to obsessing over Skye and Bruno.

The squeaky sound of sneakers on cheap linoleum comes closer and stops at the foot of my bed. I keep my eyes closed in the hope that whoever this is, they’ll go away. I’m in no mood to see or talk to anyone.

“She didn’t cheat on you.”

What?

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

Is this for real?

My drugged-up brain must be playing a trick on my ears, but that voice, the voice I just heard, the words, it sounds just like Fuck Buddy. And if it's him standing right here, right now, well, it's probably a good thing we’re in a hospital because he’ll need it.

I open my eyes.

It is him.

My jaw locks so tight, my teeth hurt.

“Get out,” I growl at him.

“She didn’t cheat on you. You must know that. Skye does not have it in her to ever cheat on anyone. Much less you. She loves you.”

“She has a funny way of showing it.”

“She didn’t. You have to believe it—”

“I believe what I saw with my own eyes. The two of you were sleeping together in her bed, nearly naked.”

“Nothing happened.”

“No, I’m sure it didn’t. Did she send you here to try to convince me you two have not been fucking behind my back all along?”

“No, she has no idea I’m here. River called me yesterday. I didn't know about what happened to you. I was giving Skye a little space and time to stop hating me. Nothing happened that night or any other time before. We really are just good friends.”

“Good friends who sleep together. Oh, wait, there is a name for that—fuck buddies. Save it and get the hell out of here before I fuck you up.”

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