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“Ah.” She nodded. “They found your phone. I have it in my bag. Slash’s wife—what’s her name?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Yes, Brooklyn. She said she’s having the place painted.”
“That place needs a lot more than a clean and fresh paint. It needs an exorcism.”
Mom brushed my hair off my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to live there after what happened either.”
Sharon returned with my discharge papers and I quickly signed them. An orderly came with a wheelchair and they got me situated.
The orderly wheeled me into the hallway and my mom trailed behind us. She called my dad to let him know I was being discharged.
Smoke was outside his room in a wheelchair as well, talking to a man in a white doctor’s coat. “Normally, I’d want to keep you for at least a week due to the severity and placement of your wounds…but legally I can’t stop you from being discharged. It appears you…people, will have a private nurse on hand. If she notes any changes other than slowly improving health, I’ve asked her to bring you back to the hospital. Eat simple, bland foods for the next week. Single ingredients. Lots of fiber. Scrambled eggs with nothing on them, plain pasta. Broths are good. And drink plenty of water.”
“Doc, I’m on a lot of pain meds and I don’t know if I’m going to remember all this. Can you write it down?”
“Don’t have to,” Mom announced. “We’ll take good care of you.”
The doctor touched Smoke’s shoulder before walking down the hallway.
“Hi, Smoke,” Mom greeted.
“Mrs. Monroe,” he said respectfully.
I met his gaze and raised my brows. He blinked his one open eye at me.
“Did you just try and wink at me?” I asked.
“Yeah. Pathetic, huh?”
My smile wobbled. “Super pathetic.”
The orderlies wheeled us toward the elevator and pushed our wheelchairs close enough that Smoke reached over and took my hand in his. We had to let go when the doors opened.
My father was waiting for us in the lobby. He smiled when he saw me, but the moment he looked at Smoke, his expression hardened.
Smoke and I sat in our wheelchairs while my dad went to get the rental car. I shivered despite it being warm. I looked at Smoke. Was he cold? His complexion was pale and he had sweat at his temples, but when he caught me looking at him, he gave me a smile.
I returned his smile and forced back the tears that seemed to be right at the surface the past few days.
My dad returned with the car and he climbed out of the driver’s side.
“Smoke should take the front seat,” Mom said.
“No, Logan should,” Smoke insisted.
“Don’t be a hero,” I quipped.
“Too late,” he teased, causing me to giggle. “And I can’t strap the seatbelt. It’ll press against my incision. I need to be in the back.”
The orderlies helped Smoke into the car and I winced while adjusting into a comfortable position. Mom buckled me in and then went and sat behind the driver’s side.
“You okay, Smoke?” Mom asked.
He grunted. “I’ll live.”
“Take it slow, Dad,” I said.
