Page 97 of Bad For A Weekend

My muscles stiffen, and all the air leaves my lungs. There’s no way this is real. Am I still dreaming?

“What?” I say through a breathy inhale.

“Your stalker. She somehow made it past security.”

My mind spins, and the monitor next to me beeps rapidly. The memory of hearing a loud blast comes back to me. I scan the room as if only now grasping reality.

“Am I okay?” I wiggle my toes and fingers, thankful to feel each digit.

“You’ll be fine.” He strokes the top of my head. “You lost a lot of blood and gave us quite a scare, but you were so strong, Bay. So fucking strong, and you fought so hard.”

Fear rips through me. “Did you catch her? What about the other guy?”

“Yes and no. Yes, we caught the other guy but no, not her.” My shoulders draw up, and Dad’s right there to comfort me. “We didn’t need to catch her because Owen shot her. She died at the scene.”

“Owen?”

“He’s quite the hero. I’m regretting letting Hudson fire him for your little outing.” Dad is trying to make light of the very heavy situation.

“Where is he?” I ask because I know him enough to know he’s out there somewhere, beating himself up. He’ll think this is his fault and that he let this happen right under his nose like last time.

“You just missed him. He’s been here for three days, taking turns sitting with you while I rested. I only just talked him into going home for a few hours.”

“I need to see him,” I say, not caring how it sounds. He’s hurting, and I need to make sure he knows he isn’t responsible.

Dad chuckles. “You’ll see him tomorrow morning. I know you’re eager to thank him, but it can wait.”

He mistakes my urgency, but I don’t correct him.

“Okay.”

“Let me get a nurse in here to check you over now that you’re awake.” He presses his lips to the top of my head for a long time, his breaths stuttering. “I was so worried you wouldn’t come back to us.”

I place my hand over his. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

He doesn’t laugh. “That isn’t a joke. I nearly lost my whole reason for living.”

A lump forms in my throat. “I know, Dad. But I’m here now.”

“Thank Christ.”

I stare out the hospital window, wondering when they’ll set me free. It’s been a week and a half, and I’m bored out of my mind. This isn’t how I envisioned my first real taste of freedom post-high school. I should be preparing for college, spending time with my friends who are leaving for college, and sleeping in—something that’s impossible with the nurses fluttering in and out of here.

It wasn’t until my second day here that I found out the woman I saw was my birth mom. How fucked up is it that the woman who pushed me from her womb was the same person who tried to kill me?

I sure could use Owen right about now to help me sort through that shit. But Dad was wrong. He hasn’t come back to the hospital since I woke up. Apparently, all he was waiting for was to make sure I would make it. Now that he got that confirmation, he’s moved on with his life. Dad says he had to go back to work, but I know it’s just an excuse.

My lower lip quivers, and my throat clogs. My emotions are all over the place, ranging from relief over having this nightmare over with to who the hell shoots their own daughter? It feels unreal, and I swear to God, if one more news outlet contacts Dad for a briefing on what happened, I’ll lose my mind.

This is my life, not some juicy drama to follow on TV.

“Good morning,” Dad says, throwing back the ugly green curtain that separates me from the door to my room. Brandy’s with him, carrying a backpack and a plate of food. The woman can’t stop feeding me, as if all my favorite meals will make me better.

That was bitchy. I didn’t mean it. She’s trying her hardest to make me comfortable and happy.

“Hey.” I blink away the emotion threatening to take over and press the button to raise my bed to sit, only wincing a little at the pain from the shifting position.

“How are you feeling?”

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