Page 21 of Pocketful of Shame

The nurse stared hard at me for the longest moment before finally shaking her head in what looked like defeat. "Okay, lovely, how does an ice-cold soda sound?"

"Awesome," I whispered, and I actually meant it. My throat felt like sandpaper and my lips were so dry that it hurt to swallow.

"Coke?"

I nodded.

"Okay." She smiled again.Another sad one."I'll be right back."

The moment she left the room, I released the sob I'd been holding in and yanked on the restraints on my wrists that shackled me to the bed.

Not a minute later, the door flew inwards and a doctor in a white coat strolled in, clipboard in hand, stethoscope draped around his shoulders. "Good evening, Miss Dillon," he announced in a strangely familiar voice, pushing his black glasses up his nose. "Are you ready to get the fuck out of here?"

"Huh?"

"Romi, it's me."

"Pres?"

"The one and only," he replied, tossing the clipboard on my bed.

Moments later, a huge orderly, dressed in green scrubs, came bounding into the room with a linen cart in tow. "Let's bounce," he hissed, dragging a knife from his pocket. "We have about five minutes until she comes back."

"Then you better get to work," Presley drawled, tone laced with sarcasm. "Cut her loose.Obviously."

"Sketch?" I strangled out, chest heaving as my brain slowly processed what my bleary eyes were seeing. "Sketch?"

Intense blue eyes locked on mine, causing my skin to flush with heat. "Hey, Ro."

Two words.

Two fricking words and my heart was bucking wildly in my chest.

"H-how are you even here?" My voice cracked and I swallowed down a swell of emotion fighting its way to the surface and threatening to overwhelm me. "I don’t understand."

"I'm getting you out of here," he explained, coming towards me with a gigantic freaking knife. "Stay still," he instructed, clamping his large hand on mine while he sawed through the leather restraint on my wrist. "Don’t move, Ro. I've got this." Moving quicker than my eyes could keep up, Sketch cut through all four cuffs until I was free. "Let's go."

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

"Romi, come on, I said let's go!"

"Sketch, she's doped to the high heavens on some mighty fine tranquilizers," I heard Presley say. "Seriously, she's as weak as a baby kitten right now, man. She can't get up on her own."

"Then help her," Sketch countered, sounding like he was in pain.

"Dude, have you looked at me lately?" Presley demanded, hurrying towards me to rip the I.V from my hand. "I'm 143 pounds soaking wet. Mysistercan bench more than me and she'stwelve. How am I supposed to carry her?"

"You're an athlete, ain't you?"

"I like to swim," Presley deadpanned, tossing the needle away. "It's a very freeing pastime – good for the heart. You like to hurt people, full back. You've got this. Pick the girl up and let's get the hell out of here."

"Presley, you don’t understand. I can't –"

"Come on, Sketch, do you want her to stay in here?"

"Goddammit to hell," Sketch snarled, returning to my side, eyes blazing with a torrent of emotions. "Come on, Ro, get up," he urged, pulling me into a sitting position. "Pres, hand me the hoodie."

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