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It sure sounded like my ass needed to get to church.
Shot, stabbed, shot, hit-and-run.
I needed to douse my whole fucking body in holy water. They needed to bring in one of those damn kiddie pools and let me bathe in blessed water.
I needed to get to my phone.
I had to call Salvatore, let him know that I couldn’t get to the diner.
But it wasn’t in the cupholder where I’d had it.
The crash had likely sent it flying onto the passenger floor. But I couldn’t move to try to find it.
It was right about then that I heard the sirens, making their way toward me, then stopping.
Within a few minutes, I was surrounded by paramedics and firemen, everyone trying to see how I was and how to get me out.
“No, I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I insisted even as they were putting me on the gurney.
“Listen, I will feel better knowing you got an x-ray done of that foot, at least, okay?” the female paramedic said as the ambulance pulled off.
And, well, I couldn’t exactly object to that, could I?
I figured that once I got to the hospital, I’d find some way to call my mother who could call my brother who could call Salvatore, since hers was the only number I knew by heart since it hadn’t changed since I was a little kid and she’d been drumming it into my head for emergencies.
But, as it would turn out, no, that wasn’t as easy as I’d thought.
I’d tried to tell myself that it was going to be okay, that despite Salvatore’s overprotectiveness, Whit was safe at the diner with the cook and the busser and all the customers.
It was fine.
But it damn sure didn’tfeelfine.
I was given a job.
And I’d been working really fucking hard to make a name for myself, to be someone that the Family trusted, despite all my fucking mishaps.
I was fucking up royally.
Eventually, the scan came back.
Broken tibia and ankle.
Because, again, of-fucking-course it was broken in two places.
After the doctor finished casting me up and giving me crutches, I signed my ass out, despite his insistence that he wanted to monitor me for a little bit because of a possible concussion.
He didn’t understand that I’d have a definite concussion if Salvatore found out I’d been shirking my responsibilities.
Grabbing a cab since I’d luckily had my wallet in my back pocket, I’d made it across town and into the diner, sure I would find Whitney looking over with concerned eyes, then insisting I sit down while she brought me some food and drinks.
Yeah, okay, I was a sucker for being waited on a little bit. Sue me.
The problem was, Whit didn’t greet me when I got there.
Because Whit wasn’t there at all.
But there was a guy beaten to a bloody fucking pulp.
