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Owning your own business was exhausting. You may wish that you are just the boss, but there are so many things that you have to take care of personally that sometimes you don’t get to do just the fun things like you wanted to.
Though it was a very satisfying job, it also made me lonely.
I got to see everyone else’s kids, got to love on them and squeeze them, but never got to take them home.
I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d forever be alone.
Just as I was about to begin answering emails and starting to gather donations for my second job—the actual love of my life—my dog rescue, my phone rang.
I frowned at it and considered not answering it, but since it was the hospital and likely Kourt, I did.
Only, it wasn’t Kourt.
It was the emergency room.
“Mrs. Johnson, I’m calling about your husband coming in with a gunshot wound…”
***
Shot in the thigh. Lacerations to his liver and broken ribs from being beaten. A concussion that was considered quite severe. A fractured foot.
The list went on and on, and by the time the doctor was finished explaining the full list of his injuries, I nearly broke down and cried.
“He’s in surgery right now to remove the bullet from his leg. Once we’re finished, we’ll call down here and let you know how surgery went.”
That was two hours ago.
I’d been sitting in the surgical waiting room for what felt like forever, surrounded by men that I knew despised me.
The moment that Wade and I had broken up, I’d become numero uno on their dislike list.
At one time, I’d been the wife. At one time, I’d been loved.
At one time…
Needless to say, if I saw one of them, they went out of their way to avoid being in my presence.
It hurt.
It hurt even more due to the fact that they’d called me first, and when I’d shown up, all of them had looked at me not only as if I did not belong there, but that I was also unwelcome.
Honestly, if they could wish me gone from a room, I’d have disappeared hours ago.
To make matters worse, everyone was talking about me like I wasn’t even in the room.
I could hear the woman that was with Rome speaking about me—complete untruths—as she tried to get more information on me. Rome was talking too softly to her for me to hear his replies, but I was sure those were just as untruthful as the things coming out of the woman’s mouth.
Each word that came out of their mouths caused me to hunch further and further into myself.
There I sat, in the corner, praying that Wade didn’t die.
Praying that one day, being a cop in this world wouldn’t automatically make you hated.
I’d just finished asking God to take me instead—because what was I good for, anyway?—when a commotion had me lifting my head.
That’s when I saw a gun aimed at me and thought, this must be it.
It hadn’t been the way that I expected to go.
Honestly, I always expected that I’d die on an operating table.
The man fired the gun.
I raised my hand as if that would protect me, and I felt fire race through me moments later.
The entire room went electric.
Another shot was fired.
And then another.
And another.
And another.
All the while, I felt like laughing.
Up until this point, I’d always thought that God wasn’t listening to me. Thought that he didn’t care.
I guess I was wrong.Chapter 4I’m not on drugs. I’m just weird.
-Coffee Cup
Wade
I opened my eyes to darkness—at least semi-darkness anyway.
Everything hurt.
My face. My teeth. My toes and elbows.
Honestly, there wasn’t a single thing on my body that didn’t ache.
I rolled my head and yep, even my neck hurt.
Super.
When I turned my neck to the other side, my eyes caught on something—a lumpy form—and I blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus.
My hand twitched, and that was when I felt the remote in my hand.
Closing my fingers around it, I lifted it up and sat up slightly, finding that it was the intercom thingy that allowed you to connect to the nurses’ station, as well as turn on the lights and adjust the bed.
I hit the lights, and the harsh bright glow of the ones right above my face had me blinking rapidly to dislodge the stars now flashing in my eyes.
I blinked once more and then tried to focus on the lumpy form that was actually a woman—my woman—or my former woman.
Landry was passed out in a chair, her upper body and head plastered against the soft weave of the blanket that was covering three-quarters of my body.
And, unlike when we used to be married, the stark overhead light didn’t affect her in the least.
Guess her hating me wasn’t the only thing that had changed since she’d last been in my bed.
