Page 101 of Of Grief And Gratitude

My arm was on fire. And somebody was using my head as a punching bag.

I groaned. Even scowling hurt. Was I in a vehicle? I was jostled again and whimpered when my head bounced against something firm.

“Riona.”

I wanted to sleep, but somebody was bouncing me like a baby.

“Fuck off.” Had I slurred? Had I been drinking?

“Riona, eyes on me.”

Unable to resist that voice, I forced my eyes open, squinting at Romeo, who looked like he’d been through hell. Everything came rushing back—the creek, the masked man, running to warn Romeo. “I was shot!”

“Yes,” he said carefully. “We’re on the way to the doctor’s office now.”

“The car,” I groaned as we hit another bump. I tried to cradle my head in my hand, but my arm screamed when I tried to move it. “Fuck. It hurts.”

“I’m sorry, mia fiamma.” Romeo brushed a kiss across my forehead. “It will be over soon.”

Alarm shot through me. “I’m dying!”

He cut off his chuckle abruptly. “No, you’re not dying. The ride will be over soon. It’s a bit bumpy in the truck.”

The road proved him right with a pothole that had me gritting my teeth. I looked down, noticing the white bandage on my arm. Somebody had torn my sweatshirt off.

“How bad is it?” I asked, biting my lip. At least that part of me didn’t hurt.

“Not terrible,” Romeo answered. “You get some stitches and a cool scar.”

I made a face. “Scars aren’t cool war trophies for girls.”

“I’ll always look at yours and remember how brave you were,” he whispered, stroking my cheek with his thumb.

My eyes filled with tears. “You can’t go being all sentimental and shit. Crying hurts my head.”

“I’m sorry, mia fiamma. I wish I could take all the pain away.”

“Me, too.” That didn’t sound good. “Not that I’d wish the pain on you. I wish nobody had to hurt.”

“Fair enough.”

The truck's brakes squeaked as we stopped in front of a nondescript, single-story building. The door opened, and a skinny man smiled warmly. A fluffy, mottled brown dog hopped around his legs.

“Hi, Riona. I’m Doc Adams.” He pointed to the dog. “That’s Sadie. She’s got terrible manners, but she’s sweet as pie.”

I laughed when the dog jumped into the back of the truck and licked my face. “Nice to meet you both.”

The doctor stepped away from the truck and called Sadie to his side. “Do you think you can walk?”

I moved my legs, and they seemed to move well enough. “Yeah, I think I’m fine.”

“Careful now,” he said, offering his hand as I slid to the ground, Romeo’s hands supporting under my arms. “Good job. Take a step for me. I want to see how steady you are.”

I walked toward him, but when I turned, the world spun, and Romeo had to wrap an arm around my waist to help me inside.

“I suspect you’re concussed,” Doc Adams explained, flipping the lights on in what looked like a waiting room before leading us through a door and down a short hallway to an exam room. Old-timey photos on the wall and a corkboard of family photos helped it appear less sterile and cold. “Have a seat on the table. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get that sweatshirt off so I can get a better look at your arm. It’s pretty dirty, too.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Romeo lifted me onto the exam table, and I realized how muddy my clothes were. “It looks like I tried to take a mud bath.”

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