Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I quietly reply, allowing her to keep my focus.
“It’s expected with the injury we were informed you suffered upon being brought in.” Her fingers quickly glide across the keys. “Any nausea?”
Not brought on by whatever happened to me, I’m sure.
“No.”
“Vision issues?”
A playful point is delivered the direction of my glasses. “Just the regular ones.”
“I’m glad your husband brought you another pair,” she sweetly exclaims. “That other pair was-”
“He’s not her husband,” Harv interrupts on a small huff.
“Closer than you are,” Slater absentmindedly mumbles.
Or…at least I think it’s absentminded.
And is he closer than Harv is?!
Is anyone that close to marrying me?!
“Oh!” Ali squeaks, pink words bouncing about. “When he said he was family, I just assumed-”
“He’s not even really that,” our boss needlessly clarifies. “They’re just friends.”
The other male in the room growls. “Best. Friends.”
“Don’t be childish, Wahl.”
“Rich comin’ from the man who can barely even admit the status of my relationship with Arlette.”
“Could you please stop calling me Arlette?” I less than warmly throw his way. “It’s giving me caught falling asleep in The Business History of Popular Culture vibes I so don’t need at thirty-five.”
Slater’s amused smirking is cut short by Harv asking, “Since when do you not like to be called Arlette?”
“You didn’t even know she doesn’t like to be called Arlette?” my best friend grunts a laugh. “How long did you two exactly date? A week?”
“Almost a year,” my ex snarls before I can push for us to discuss this later.
“A fuckin’ year?!”
“Blink twice if you’d like me to have them wait outside,” Ali whispers at a much lower volume. “It’ll be no problem.”
Maybe not for her.
I have the sneaking suspicion that kicking them out would just multiply my problems.
And my headache.
Let’s not forget the splitting headache.
“How about we get back to the symptoms questions,” my suggestion is purposefully louder.
Forceful.
Attention grabbing as well as argument ending.
Or so I hope.
“Right,” the CNA promptly concurs. “Have you had any trouble hearing?”
“Unfortunately not,” is rather clearly reported.
“Any trouble speaking?”
Oh, lots of that in these past twenty minutes.
Sensing what I’m thinking prompts the man I adore to say, “She’s talkin’ about slurs or stutters or trouble recallin’ words not why you’ve kept secrets.”
It’s almost impossible to ignore the way the last word sizzles through the air. “No.” My eyes lock with Ali’s. “Nothing like that.”
“Good. That’s all good.” Her fingers use the mouse to click around. “According to the person who brought you in, you appeared to have tripped or been pushed, and managed to hit the side of your head resulting in loss of consciousness leading us to believe you’re suffering from a concussion. These things have already been put down in your chart for Dr. Kurtzman; however, is there anything else you – or someone in the room – would like added to the information in regard to the incident that brought you in?”
“I…I honestly don’t remember anything.”
“She has ligature marks around her neck,” Slater factually reports forcing my attention to him. “Thin. Most likely from some sort of wire. Closer to deep sea versus piano.”
Ali nods in acknowledgement while clicking away. “And you’re sure they’re from the incident?”
“Positive.” His hands slide into his jean pockets. “They weren’t there before I left for my date.”
“That’s right…” I thoughtlessly proclaim. “You did ditch me for a date!”
“I did not ditch you.”
“You totally ditched me.”
“I rescheduled with you.”
“Kinda last minute.”
“With your blessin’.”
“Hoes before bros…I remember that now.”
“And yet you don’t remember me askin’ you not to call me bro.”
“It’s quite alright to reschedule on ‘bros’ when you have an actual date,” Harv casually concurs, hands reaching over to re-fluff the pillow behind my head. “There’s no need to be defensive, Wahl.”
“I’m not defensive, Seventeen.”
Tell that to the almost red words filing out of his mouth.
“And can we get back to the reason we’re here?” Slater rushes to demand. “Angel Cake’s attack.”
“Angel Cake?” Ali school girlishly giggles. “That’s so cute!”
Slater flashes a toothy grin that causes me to roll my eyes.
It is cute.
And he is sweet.
And seeing his chest all puffed out in jealousy is tying my stomach in knots.
But now is not the time for that shit.
Especially not when my life could possibly be in danger.
“Those marks weren’t there earlier. And accordin’ to the security footage, she never left the buildin’ before she went down to her vehicle to head out for the night; therefore, they had to have occurred during the attack.”
“Can’t say I love hearing that word,” I softly confess.
“Can’t say I love sayin it,” my best friend immediately comforts, body crossing over to give my leg a loving touch. “But I will handle this situation, Angel Cake.” A comforting squeeze is offered. “You have my word.”
“We will get it handled,” Harv corrects in a way meant to instill more relief rather than frustration.
“Any other notes for the doctor?” Ali asks the pair. After both answer in the negative, she turns the device off, gently touches my arm, and asks, “You want some water? Ice chips? Maybe a whistle for when they start at it again?”