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“Thank you.”
“Beau,” the doctor says. “Could you be pr—?”
“Is there any water?” My mouth feels parched, my throat rough.
“Here.” James reaches for a bottle on the unit beside the bed and unscrews the cap, and I start shuffling up the mattress. As soon as I’m sitting, he holds the bottle at my lips. He is not feeding me water.
I try to take the bottle and get nowhere. “I’m not an invalid, James.”
“You’re going to argue with me? Now? Just drink the damn water, Beau.”
I look at him incredulously as the doctor backs out of the room. “I’ll give you a moment.”
The door closes. “Glad your mood’s improved since I last saw you,” I snap, and his jaw twitches wildly. He’s fucking rich. I’ve found a shell casing in his apartment, and he’s the one mad with me? Then I realize. He doesn’t know that I found that in his apartment. So I tell him. “I found a shel—”
“Beau!” Lawrence barrels into the room, overwrought, and shoots around the side of the bed, taking me in, feeling me everywhere. “Oh my goodness. What happened?”
“I fell,” I mutter, reaching for the water again, and this time James lets me take it. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? You’re in a hospital!”
James remains silent by the bedside, while my uncle fusses around me. “I’m fine, Lawrence,” I say. “Just a cut on my head and a broken wrist.”
“Just?” He looks up and glares at James, and I quickly realize why. It’s obvious James does too, judging by his mild head shake. Lawrence thinks James did this to me? For the love of God, has he lost his mind? But my uncle doesn’t say anything. And James doesn’t appear in the least bit surprised by his conclusion. Or offended.
The tension in the room is thick, to the point I can’t bear it, so when the nurse wanders in, I’m grateful. “Okay, then, missy. Let’s get you all sorted out so you can go home.” She pulls a bed tray over and goes to the sink to scrub her hands.
Lawrence moves in, crowding me, basically cutting off James’s access. I hate the genuine worry on his face. Hate it. Because he’s worrying over something he should not be worried about. “I’ll cancel my show,” he says, stroking my hair from my face. “We’ll order your favorite ice cream. Veg. We haven’t done that in ages, have we, sweetheart?”
Oh God, I wish everyone would stop panicking. “You shouldn’t cancel your show,” I murmur, glancing across to the nurse, mentally hurrying her along. I just want to get out of here, separate Lawrence and James, and be rid of this God-awful tension.
“But I must,” he insists. “So I can look after you.”
I flick my eyes to James. He’s standing a few feet away, keeping his distance, holding himself back. Not happy.
“Okay, can I get some room, please?” the nurse says, shooing Lawrence away from my bed.
“Why don’t you wait for me outside?” I suggest.
Lawrence recoils, looking injured. “And him?”
I turn my attention James’s way. He’s still glaring. Still tense. “He can wait outside too.” With Lawrence panicking and James brooding, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Add in the matter of a shell casing, my pounding head is spinning.
James says nothing, backing out of the room, his expression fierce, and Lawrence reluctantly follows, leaving me alone with the nurse. I flop back on the bed and hiss when my head brushes the pillow. I reach up and feel at the back, finding matted, damp hair.
“I think we’ll clean your head first.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, closing my eyes and turning onto my side as ordered, giving the nurse access. I feel like I could sleep for a year. The door opens again, and the doctor slips back into the room. I know it’s only because he deems it safe now James has left.
“I just have a few more questions,” he says, settling in a chair by the bed, facing me. “Your boyfriend said he didn’t know of any allergies.”
“My boyfriend?” I blurt without thought, and the doctor looks back over his shoulder, indicating the door.
“The man who just left with your . . . uncle?”
“Oh yes. Him.” I smile tightly. “No allergies.” Except James Kelly at this moment.
“And are you or could you be pregnant?”
“No,” I answer instinctively, but his question makes me pull up. Makes me think. Tomorrow. My period’s due tomorrow. “Why do you ask?”
He stands. “Just routine questions. We need to ensure the medication we prescribe is suitable.”
“Medication?” Something flares inside, my defenses flying up naturally. Do they think I need to be committed again? Has he read my records and assumed I’m a danger to myself?
“Painkillers.” He smiles, and there’s sympathy hidden within it. He’s definitely read all my records. “I’ll leave the nurse to finish.”
I swallow and close my eyes.
