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“No. It’s a hospital.”
“Hospitals don’t look like this,” I insisted.
“Luxury private suites at hospitals do.”
“Luxu… what?” I asked, squinting at him.
“There are rooms for normal people. Then there are rooms for people who are willing to pay for it. Rooms like this.”
“I am not willing to pay for this,” I told him.
Hell, even if I wanted to, it was clearly out of my budget. The sheets on the bed felt softer than my ones at home, for God’s sake.
“I’m paying for it.”
“No,” I insisted, almost shooting up in the bed, but he was faster, his hand shooting out, and holding me against the mattress.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t let men pay for my coffee; I’m not letting one pay for my luxury hospital stay.”
“First off, I’m not men. Second, you got your ass kicked because of me. Can’t make that shit up to you, but I can make sure you’re comfortable while you recover.”
“It was my fault I got my ass kicked,” I said, shrugging a shoulder.
“How you figure that?” he asked, brow raising.
“I wasn’t paying attention. I let my guard down.”
“Should be able to walk to your car without getting dragged in an alley and beaten, mama.”
“Yeah, I should be. But that is not the reality for women. Sure, this was Luis. But it literally could have been any random creep.”
At the mention of his associate’s name, his eyes darkened, and his jaw went tight enough for a muscle to start ticking there.
“This happened because of me,” he reiterated. “And I’m doing what little I can to make it suck a little fucking less.”
He was being so sincere. And some part of me wanted so badly to have someone care about me right then. I let it drop.
“This definitely doesn’t suck,” I said, looking around. “I mean, the migraine sucks, but the room is nice.”
“I got more of them strips,” A said, turning away to take something off the nightstand. “For your head,” he clarified, reaching out toward me, and peeling the old one off before opening the new one.
He applied it lightly, running his finger back and forth over and over.
And my stupid body had a little, you know, reaction. Which should have been completely impossible given the situation. But there was no reasoning with desire, it seemed.
“That helps,” I said as the cool started to sneak in.
“Got some other shit too,” he said, pulling open the drawer of the nightstand. “This thing,” he said, pulling out what was a sleep mask, but was big and bulky, “is a massager. Lady at the store said it works for her Ma. Also gave me a migraine cap,” he said, showing me another sleep mask. “Ice packs go in it. They’re in the fridge,” he said, waving behind him, making me realize I’d missed the small section near the door with a coffee pot and a mini fridge.
“Ginger lozenges,” he said, putting a bag on my stomach.
“For what?”
“Nausea. Pain cream,” he said, producing three separate boxes. “Bag of chips… the lady said salt can help migraines. Figure that might be for the normal kind, not the head whacking the wall kind, but got it anyway.”
My stomach, empty since the morning before, grumbled hard at the idea of food.
“Ordered you breakfast too,” he said, taking the items and piling them back on the nightstand.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “What’s that?” I asked, seeing something else in the drawer as he was sliding it closed.
“This?” he asked, pulling out a book. “This is for distraction if the TV hurts your eyes.”
“How will reading be better?”
“When I read it to you,” he said, shrugging.
My mind flashed back to the last time he read to me. All those dirty words he’d said, the way my body had responded.
Judging by the way his eyes heated, he knew exactly where my mind was going right about then.
“How long do they want me here?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation, knowing it was useless to think spicy things while stuck in a hospital bed.
“Another day. Maybe two, depending on what the bloodwork says.”
“Okay,” I said, deciding if my hospital room was nicer than my own apartment, that it wasn’t exactly a hardship to spend another couple of days in it.
“And after that, you ain’t going home.”
“What? Yes, I am.”
“No, ma,” he said, shaking his head like he was sorry about it, but was putting his foot down.
Like he was my father.
Or my boyfriend.
Not that I would let my father or a boyfriend tell me what to do either, but still. The point stands. He was overstepping.
“A, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” I told him.
To that, his lips tipped up at one side. “Normally, I wouldn’t even try,” he said, shrugging. “This shit? This isn’t normal.”
“Where do you suggest I go then?” I asked. “I don’t exactly want to face my family until some of this,” I said, waving at my face, “goes away.” I hadn’t seen my face, but it didn’t take a genius to know it had to be all bruised, maybe even swollen.
