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“The fuck do you mean‘was’? She stillis. She just needs to recover,” I snap, snatching the bottle from his hands.
“Damn, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that, man,” he backpedals.
I sigh, breathing deeply again. I keep coming so fucking close to losing my temper that I’m worried it will boil over into something terrible if I can’t get a handle on it.
All I want is to hold her, to smell her hair as she falls asleep on my chest. We’ve never been so intimate; we’ve only ever fucked. But now, at the possibility of losing her, I crave her presence to the point that it feels like a drug withdrawal.
When the doctor finally comes through the waiting room doors, I simultaneously want to punch him in the face and fall to his feet in tears.
“She’s fine, just recovering in post-op for now. She did great. There were multiple small hematomas that we needed to remove, so that complicated things a bit,” he says. I notice that he’s standing somewhat far away from me, almost like he’s expecting me to hit him even after delivering good news.
“Damn, what’s the recovery on that look like?” I ask, feeling the color finally return to my face as I realize that she’s alright.
“Probably close to six months if we keep an eye on her. You’ll have to go over the medical leave details with her. I’m not sure how your company works with that sort of thing,” he replies.
“Fuck the bureaucracy of it. I just need to know that she’s okay,” I say assertively. “I’m more than just an employer to her.”
He looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Well, that sounds profoundly more complicated than I thought it was. She’ll be ready for visitors in a day or so. Just make sure you’re very careful with her. She’ll have a headache for sure. Most side effects subside quickly enough with proper care,” he says.
I sigh heavily. “Look, I appreciate it. Sorry about before,” I respond. I’m overcome with a combination of relief and shame.
“Listen, I’ve been doing surgery for twenty years. You have no idea how insane people can get when they need me to play god and I’m unable. You responded fairly appropriately given the circumstances,” he says, shrugging.
I sigh again as I sit down, but the muscles in my neck and shoulders don’t loosen at all. I feel like they’re going to be permanently stuck like that until Cambria is well again.
Within the hour, my uncle Josiah arrives.
I never told him I was here.
“How did you know to come here?” I ask, not feeling particularly thrilled with him after the way he behaved when Dean hit Isabelle.
“You think I wouldn’t come here after a shooting happened five blocks away at our club? Do you think I’m slow or something?” he asks. “How’s she doing?”
“Who? Cambria?” I ask, realizing my mistake as his eyes narrow.
“What? Who the fuck is Cambria? No, I meant the curvy Spanish one. The girl who runs your books,” he says, crossing his arms.
I rise from my seat to meet his gaze. “She’s stable. Not sure about much else,” I reply defensively. I feel a wave of guilt for not being more concerned with Ariella’s condition, but I have no space in me for anybody else’s well-being right now.
“Alright, fine. Listen, Abram, I know how you are with these new girls, and you need to have some goddamn self-respect. Don’t be fucking around with them if you’re going to get attached. If you get attached, she’ll suck you dry, and I don’t mean in a good way,” he says, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder in a show of condescension.
I shove his hand off me. “Thanks, I don’t need you to tell me how to live. It isn’t whatever you think it is,” I mutter.
He leaves to get more intel from James and Isaac, who respond with the attention of well-trained soldiers. I taught them the best I could, but I hate how easily my uncle can extract information from people. It’s as if nobody believes they have the right to keep anything to themselves when he’s around. I have no idea how he has such a stranglehold on everyone at the club.
