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The doctor shoots me a scolding look.
I’m used to it by this point. When the emergency responders showed up, they asked me a thousand questions, half of them grilling me on why Sydney was on the back of my bike without a helmet.
Like I wasn’t already feeling like a guilty piece of shit.
Sydney might’ve felt like we were going faster than anybody’s ever ridden before, but the truth is that I was intentionally driving slower than usual. I was driving more cautiously, keeping wide berths between us and any other vehicle on the road.
I forgo a helmet all the damn time. But I’m an experienced rider and I don’t give a damn if I eat shit a time or two.
It was stupid of me to allow Sydney on my bike without one.
“Well,” sighs the doc, “if you want my advice, she’s absolutely not fit to be on the back of your bike anytime soon. Certainly not tonight. There’s a motel across the road. They usually have vacancies. I’ve written her a prescription for some pain meds that’ll be ready for pickup in the pharmacy. You and your girlfriend have a good night.”
I’m too concerned for Sydney to give a shit that he’s called her my girlfriend five times in the last forty minutes.
Sliding my arm around her waist, I help her down from the exam table. She’s still a little dazed, noticeably exhausted as she sags against me.
“Hey, we’re gonna get some rest, alright?”
“Hmmm?” she hums. “But… the ride home…”
“Don’t worry about it. There’s been a change of plans.”
* * *
The ER doc was right. The Sweetheart Inn is the closest motel from the hospital. It also makes me sick to my stomach from the second we step into the front office decorated in Pepto Bismol pink and sugary hearts that sparkle and give me a toothache. You’d think it was Valentine’s Day 365 the way they got the place looking.
One thing’s for sure—the Sweetheart Inn isn’t the fanciest place to lay your head down at night. Even with the neon hearts and the color pink puked everywhere, you can tell it’s been a while since a remodel.
There’re water stains in the ceiling and shag carpet straight out of the ’70s.
I ease Sydney into one of the floral-printed armchairs in the lobby and approach the front desk. “We need a room. The best room you’ve got.”
The guy behind the counter with round glasses and a bad combover holds up a key with a huge plastic heart attached to it.
“That would be our Sweetheart Suite. It’s normally for honeymooners.” He stands on tiptoe to look over my shoulder at a slumped Sydney. “Are you and your wife on your honeymoon?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me the damn key already.”
The Sweetheart Suite is on the top floor… which for a motel this shitty, is just the second level. I unlock the door and guide Sydney inside to the overpowering stench of apple cinnamon air freshener. She crinkles her nose and so do I.
“I’ll open a window.”
We move in opposite directions. Me to the window. Her to the bed, where she plops down, and struggles to unzip her boots.
“Here. I got it.” I crouch low, resting one foot against my forearm as I draw down the zipper and then slip off the leather boot.
My gaze travels up the length of her bare legs. I’d be admiring how nice and shapely they are if I wasn’t distracted by the scrapes marring her skin.
“Damn it, Syd.” My hand glides up her shin, stopping at her bleeding kneecap. The scrape there has opened back up and started dripping blood.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs sleepily. “I just want to lie down. My head’s killing me.”
“We should clean you up some more. I got you some stuff from the motel store downstairs.”
She’s so exhausted, she doesn’t fight me on it. A first for Sydney. She lets me escort her into the bathroom, where I twist on the shower and test the water. I’ve set the plastic bag of stuff I picked up on the counter.
I turn around to find her collapsed on the closed lid of the toilet seat. Her eyes are wide but slow-blinking, like she’s trying her damnedest to fight sleep and stay awake.
