Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
The tears sting my eyes, and I have to swallow down the lump forming in my throat. This whole thing is just too much for me. “Did she pack some apple pie?” Shirley asks. He reaches into the bag and takes out container after container.
I look down at my legs, seeing all of the containers spread out on my bed. So many containers, he has to leave some in the bag. “Is that blueberry?" I ask when my eyes spot the purple in one of the containers.
"Yes." He nods, grabbing it. “It’s my favorite,” he says and looks at Shirley. "Can she?"
"Maybe just a touch,” Shirley says. “You need to start with liquids first." She is about to say something else when the doctor comes into the room.
“Pie?” he asks, looking at the containers. “Pecan."
"She packed it especially for you,” Quinn says, handing him the container. “For taking care of Willow."
My head spins as I take in the words. Why would she do that? My heart starts to speed up. “What is the verdict?" Shirley looks at the doctor.
"Looks like you were right," he says, looking at Shirley. “Her clavicle is broken."
"Her clavicle,” Quinn says, shocked. “She’s had a broken clavicle for the past four days, and no one knew?" His voice rises a bit, and then he looks at me. "Fine, my ass,” he says and walks out of the room.
"What just happened?" I look at Shirley.
"That is him trying to show you that he’s not a horse’s ass,” Shirley says, and I look out the window and watch him look up at the ceiling with his hands on his hips. “You should have seen him three days ago."
Chapter 9
Quinn
I walk out of the room with my heart in my throat. My hands shake, and the anger and rage roar through me. If I would have stayed in the room, I don’t know what I would have done or said. Neither of which would have boded well for anyone. I run my hands through my hair and then hold them behind my head.
Walking down the hall before and seeing her shaking like a leaf while she threw up was as if someone was pushing me to the edge of a cliff.
I tried to reel it in as I rubbed her back. I couldn’t tell her that she was going to be okay; I didn’t trust any words to come out of my mouth, so I kept silent beside her as Shirley made sure she was okay. It was going as well as it could have gone, but then I saw that her whole fucking leg was bruised. Not just one spot, either. Her whole fucking upper leg was bruised a dark purple. It screamed at me that this wasn’t just one punch that created that. I closed my eyes, trying not to see it, but it was the only thing I saw in my mind.
I had to walk out of the room because I thought I was going to be sick in the middle of the hallway. Knowing someone put their hands on her, I felt this rage soar through me, and I had no idea what the fuck was going on inside me. All I wanted to do was push the hair back from her face, just stare into her eyes, and hold her face in my palms. I wanted to take her in my arms and promise her that she would never be hurt again. I wanted to tell her that I would die before I let someone else put their hands on her. Then hearing that she had a broken clavicle and just fought through the pain? Well, that was the push I needed to go over the edge.
I put my hands on the nurses’ desk and look up at the ceiling, trying to calm myself. I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder at her as she looks down at her lap, probably unsure as to what the fuck happened.
"Well, that was smooth," Shirley says. Coming out, she shakes her head and gives me the biggest glare ever. "Idiot." I can’t even say anything to that because she is right. I have no idea what’s come over me, but I’m in uncharted territory, so I have no idea how to act. "I’m going to get her a sling for her arm." She turns and walks down the hall while the doctor comes out with his pecan pie in his hand.
"She’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s a common injury."
"Really? How many adults do you know that come in with a broken clavicle?" I ask, my eyes staring straight at him.
"A lot more than you think,” he says, and I tilt my head to the side, not believing him for even a second. "It could happen riding a bike or playing sports." He tries to sugarcoat things. "Car accidents."