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“What? No. Yes. But no,” I admitted. “Just trying to think if I know anyone who could have done this,” I told him. “What?” I asked at his little head tilt.
“Just thinking how it’s always the fuck who hauls off and kills his wife and kids that no one thought was capable of it,” he said.
“Good point,” I agreed, shoulders slumping.
“Miss Sullivan,” a voice called, making us both look to find the doctor walking in, heading right to that light box thing on the wall where he stuck some of my X-rays. “We have mostly good news. Your ankle isn’t broken. You just have a good sprain. We can wrap or brace it, but a cast won’t be necessary. And your ribs aren’t broken either.”
“And for the bad news?” I asked.
“You do have a concussion,” he told me. “And you do have some small facial fractures,” he explained, putting another X-ray up on the light, and pointing to just around my eye socket and cheek. “I would recommend a follow-up with an ophthalmologist just to have him check that all out.”
“And for the concussion?” I asked.
“You might get nauseated, dizzy, motion sickness, clumsiness, forgetfulness, that sort of thing. If it keeps getting worse rather than better, you might want to bring yourself back in. You are also going to want to avoid strenuous physical or mental activity. No ibuprofen or aspirin. And no driving for at least twenty-four hours. Your cousin can give you a ride home when you’re ready, right?” he asked, looking over at Voss.
“N—“
“Yeah, I got her,” Voss cut me off, nodding. “And I’ve had a concussion or two, so I know what to look out for,” he added.
“Good. Well, we are still waiting for some of your labs to come back. But we should be able to release you in a few more hours,” he told me.
When the doctor was gone, Voss looked back over at me. “Want me to grab you a drink or something to eat?” he asked, looking a little lost. Like maybe he hadn’t been in the position of caretaker before. And, really, I wouldn’t have expected it from a rough-and-tough biker sort.
“I would do unholy things for a cup of coffee right now,” I said, watching as a smirk tugged at his lips.
“How do you take it?”
“Cream. Sugar. With a side of something sweet and terrible for me,” I told him.
“Got it,” he said, nodding, then moving out.
I felt the absence of him instantly.
Which was absolutely ridiculous. Yet, somehow, true.
Alone again, it seemed like the headache started to pound with more insistence, like the swelling and bruises on my face were pulsating with their own sorts of pain, like my ribs were screaming when I tried to take a breath.
Eventually, the nurse came in with some well-meaning but utterly useless acetaminophen.
I was still lying there, arm draped over the very top of my forehead since the pressure seemed to be the only thing helping the migraine hammering through my skull, when the door creaked open again.
I thought it was Voss, back with my coffee and food, but it was a stranger’s voice who spoke instead.
“Miss Sullivan. I’m Officer Polk.”
I just barely managed to fight back a sigh. Not because he was doing his job to try to find the asshole who’d attacked me, but because the idea of talking or listening to someone else talk just seemed to intensify the headache.
But this had to be done. And when things were fresh. I mean, not that I had much to go on.
Someone kind of average height, average build, but strong. Stronger than me at least.
The rest, it was all just a blur.
He’d gone for my face instantly, like he knew that by disorienting me, he would be able to hide his identity. Or, maybe, he just wanted me unconscious as quickly as possible.
“He didn’t say anything?” Officer Polk asked as I relayed what I knew, trying to dig deep in my memory for more, but I wasn’t coming up with anything fresh.
“No,” I said, recalling this hiss of his breath, the way he grunted as his knuckles met my flesh, crushing bones beneath.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I said anything either. It all just happened so quickly.
Another couple of questions and an exchange of information later, Polk was just about to head out when the door opened.
And there Voss was.
With a to-go coffee cup and a little white bag.
He and the cop eyed each other for a second.
“Find ‘em yet?” Voss asked.
“Just getting the statement now,” Polk said, sounding defensive.
“You done?” he asked.
“I… yeah.”
“Good. She’s got a migraine,” Voss said, dismissing the cop as he made his way to the side of my bed.
“This doesn’t look like vending machine coffee and treats,” I said, trying to sit up, only to fall back with a string of curses as my ribs objected.
