Page 10 of Full Throttle

“For shits and giggles,” I repeated, opening my mouth and shoving the food inside. Pulling the spoon out, I tried not to gag as it landed on my tongue, chewing and breaking up the oatmeal as quickly as I could before swallowing. With greedy hands, I reached for the huge cup of ice water and sucked down three big gulps, cleansing my tongue.

I repeated this process until the bowl was nearly empty and the pain in my stomach diminished. When I was done, I pushed the tray away, refusing to look at what I’d just consumed, and focused on downing the rest of the ice water as my eyes focused on the small TV on the wall across from me.

Soap operas.

“A girl like me could use more drama in her life,” I mumbled, leaning back against the uncomfortable pillows. After a few minutes of watching two women argue over the male lead, I looked to the cracked door.

Cain hadn’t returned after I threw his command back in his face. I expected him to fight back, but he only glared, leaving a few seconds later. That was over four hours ago. Sighing I looked back to the TV, wondering when the doctor was going to get here.

I wanted to get back to the loft.

During my short time here, I’d grown comfortable in that loft above Sullie’s bar. It was just what I needed: large windows, a nice kitchen, a walk-in shower, and a bed. I loved it, and Sullie, despite his huge, threatening exterior, was a really kind man. He checked on me daily, asked me to join him and everyone for dinner on Sundays, and even brought me breakfast on occasion. He reminded me of my dad, always the caretaker. My eyes dropped away from the TV to the rough blankets covering me, and I picked at the stringing sticking out from the edge.

I pulled on it, unraveling a section, the image reminding me of how my little family had fallen apart over the last few years. My parents were still married, but the love was gone. If I was being completely honest, I think the love died when my father lost his dream job and we moved to Detroit. I think that was something my mother never expected to happen, not in her perfect life. She was born and raised in a wealthy upper-class family, and went to college with the only ambition of finding a husband. My dad attended the same university, coming from the lower middle-class, determined to build a life for himself and his future family as a marketing director.

Dad told me once that the second he laid eyes on Mom, he was a goner. He would do anything to have her. She wanted what her parents had—wealth. He promised to give it to her, and when they got married, they were on the right path. They’d purchased a nice home in the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina and then had me. Things were wonderful. We were the picture-perfect family, cut right out of the American Dream.

Then, it all went to shit.

Very, very slowly.

Compared to Cain and his older brother, Xander, my childhood had been bliss.

Still, no one ever talked about how hard it was to watch your parents slowly fall out of love, replacing it with toxicity that they couldn’t hide from you, even if they tried. They did, but the house Dad moved us into was old, with thin walls…and windows. At night, when I tried to sleep, I heard every foul word they tossed to each other. My mom’s words were far more cruel than my father’s. When the fights began, he would just apologize and take the verbal beating. Then, somewhere along the way, he got tired of taking it. So, he gave it right back to her.

Every. Single. Night.

On the outside, we looked happy, and they loved me—that never changed. Though, looking back on it, I’m pretty certain that in some cases, my mom resented me and the bond that Dad and I shared. I didn’t realize or care what social class we were in, I had a home, food, and two parents who loved me.

What more did a kid need?

A knock at the door jolted me out of my memories, and my head snapped up as I released the string I’d been yanking. Standing in the doorway was a young female doctor with a beautiful lilac hijab covering her head. She smiled at me, her beauty like a breath of fresh air.

“Good morning, Ms. Wells,” she greeted, closing the door.

“Good morning,” I replied, giving her a smile, ignoring the pain around my temple.

“I’m Dr. Raza. I’ll be going over your injuries with you today.”

My eyes immediately went to my right foot; I’d been too chicken to lift the damn blanket and feel what was on my ankle. Swallowing, I asked the tough question, “How bad is it?”

Dr. Raza had been looking at my chart in her hands, her eyes scanning over everything. She looked up at me, and the expression she wore made my stomach twist. “I’m going to be honest with you, Ms. Wells. Based on the information I was given, you’re very lucky to be here.”

Nodding, I agreed with her. I should’ve died last night, but I didn’t.

“Your injuries are minor, given the circumstances. The laceration on your right temple, four cracked ribs." She moved, walking to the foot of my hospital bed, and gently lifted the blanket from my ankle.

A soft breath left me as tears stung my eyes.

It wasn’t in a cast. It was just wrapped. “You’ve sprained your ankle in three places,” she told me, setting the chart down on the bed. Her hands went to my foot, lifting it slightly. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

She twisted it outwards and inwards. I winced, hissing. That hurt. Her eyes met mine. “I’m going to have you keep your weight off it for at least a week. There’s nothing that can be done about a sprain, except letting your body heal. So keep your weight off it, elevate it, and keep it wrapped. Okay?”

I nodded again, a wave of gratitude crashing into me. I looked to the ceiling, silently thanking the Big Man upstairs. When I looked back to her, she was picking up her chart again, moving up to my right side. She set the chart on top of my breakfast tray, her eyes going to my heart monitor. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Oh yeah.

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