Page 13 of The Demons We Hide

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nolan plants his legs on the floor and stands.

“Bathroom,” I say, waving him off as I get to my own shaky legs, giving myself a moment to make sure I’m not going to take a head dive towards the cold, tiled floor. When I’m sure I’m good, I ignore his outstretched hand and shuffle towards the door with no window on the opposite side of the room.

“I thought the catheter would’ve taken care of that.” I freeze at Nolan’s amused words and slowly turn back to face him.

“Awhat?” I gape as his amusement morphs into a shit-eating grin.

“They took it out when they stopped the meds that were keeping you under, but yeah.” He shrugs. “A catheter.”

“You let them shove something up my dick!”

Nolan lets loose a bark of laughter and gestures to where an IV pole is stuck to my arm via a long clear tube. “Oh, shut up and don’t rip out your fucking needle, man. It was necessary.”

“Fucking prick.” I lumber back to the IV pole, gripping it, and then shuffle my way back to the bathroom doorway, muttering to myself.

My bones ache and creak with each movement and walking around with the damn rolling pole at my side is an annoyance, but once I’ve finished relieving myself, I feel marginally better. That is—until I spy my face in the mirror above the sink.

Nolan hadn’t been kidding when he said I was beat to hell and left for dead. One of my eyes is so black and blue that my actual eyeball is little more than a slit in the cavern of darkness. My lips are dried and cracked with a split over one side, and though it looks like someone had attempted to clean me up, there’s still dried blood crusted around my upper forehead.

The rest of me didn’t fare much better, and I pull the front of the hospital gown away to glance down my front. There are more bruises than any my father had ever given me decorating the side of my body. Playing football—if I even heal before the end of the season—is going to suck ass.

I wash my face as best I can and scrub my hair away from my forehead, wincing at the sharp pain in my skull. With little else to do, I finish up quickly enough and make my way back into the room. Nolan watches me move across the room with the speed of an old man riddled with arthritis but doesn’t say anything until I’m back in bed.

“There’s something else.” He sits back down.

I arch an eyebrow as I shuffle the bed sheets over my legs and recline against the single pillow at my back.

“Juliet’s apartment burned down last night.”

My jaw drops. “The whole complex?”

He shakes his head. “No, just her building and the six units attached.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuck.” I let the word out on a long breath. “She’s gonna be pissed.” Something niggles at the back of my mind. A memory. A promise. “Oh shit.” I sit up straighter. “I was supposed to take her to the prison … I …shit.”

Nolan’s enigmatic expression cracks and his lips twist. “Yeah… she went,” he tells me.

A frown tugs at my lips. There’s no way that Nolan or Lex would’ve driven her hours away to talk to Allen fucking Donovan while I was in the hospital. Before I can ask what the hell he means, he leans forward and folds his hands together so that they dangle above his spread knees.

“She took a bus and went by herself.”

My head thunks back before I can think better of it, and a fresh wave of nausea and pain assails me. I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut, counting backwards from ten until the sudden urge to upchuck the absolute rock in my stomach recedes.

As it does, a recollection of the fight resurfaces.Leave the Donovan girl… or else.

If my father just found out about Juliet, then he couldn’t have orchestrated the attack. Unfortunately, that doesn’t bring us any closer to who could have. “They said something about her.” The words burst from my lips as I try to push my thoughts further back.

The fight had been quick and brutal. Blows exchanged. Pain. Exploding behind my eyes. What else? Was there something more I’d forgotten?

“About … Juliet?” Nolan’s voice deepens. “The guys who attacked you mentioned her?”

I nod. “They told me to back off—to leave her alone.” My temples fuckingthrobwith agony as I try to remember any more hints. The attack was about her, but why?

Before I can summon more words, the door to the room opens and a woman with straight black hair and almond-shaped eyes shuffles in. “It’s good to see you awake, Mr. Vargas,” she says, shifting around the bed with a tray on wheels. “How is your pain level?”

I try not to scrunch up my face as I turn to face the nurse. “My head’s killing me,” I say honestly.

She passes me a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it is, sweetie.” Her hands go to the tray and I glance down to see what she’s brought. A few syringes and a small bottle of clear liquid with a label too small for me to read.

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