Page 9 of Room 1017

He stood at my bedside, arms crossed over his chest. He’d already made sure I didn’t have any questions and had given me pamphlets with FAQs and information about my diet, how to keep my wound clean, and what I could expect for the weeks ahead—or more specifically, what warning signs to watch for and when to see a doctor or go to an emergency room.

“Do you have someone who can come check on you, someone you can call if you need help?” he asked, staring down at me sternly. I hadn’t seen this side of him yet, but it was clear he held some reservations about my recovery. “We can arrange for a home care aide if you need—”

“Yeah, I’ve got it covered,” I replied, which I did, but he hadn’t asked if I would actually call them when I needed help. Which I wouldn’t.

He seemed reluctant to leave, but at last, he nodded and told me he’d see me for my follow-up appointment next month. “Take it easy,” he said, “but nottooeasy. Alright? Just be patient. Healing from injuries this severe will take time.” I’d heard all this before. I nodded and waved him off.

Without family as support, I was pretty much relying entirely on Amy, which wasn’t really fair on her, but she would never complain. This was what partners were for, even outside the job. There was a good chance she would get called away on assignment, though. Who would I call then?

My thoughts immediately went to Casey, unbidden. My brain had been doing that a lot since I met him, recalling the way his blond hair shone golden in the light or the way those full lips stretched into an enticing smile that begged me to join him in his happiness. It was almost enough to make me resent him, but the emotions he’d dredged up had so far been anything but.

Casey was a member of the team assigned to help with my repair and recovery, but there was something different about him, something that set him apart from all the white-coat-wearing doctors and surgeons. I’d flinched when he first touched me because I was so used to contact as a medical thing, being poked and prodded. I’d been so unprepared for the way he touched me, more like being stroked and brushed, his hands gentle and caring, and honestly, it scared the damn hell out of me.

When Amy had shown up, though, Casey couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He went from hot to cold in seconds, then ran out of there like his ass was on fire.

With this morning’s meds still coursing through my bloodstream, I managed to get myself mostly dressed, grunting and swearing, in some loose sweats and a t-shirt. By the time Amy came to pick me up, though, the painkillers had started to wear off, and the pain flared, radiating from all sides.

Amy leaned on the doorframe and watched me with a wry smirk. “Hey, partner. What do you say we blow this popsicle stand.”

My laugh turned into a groan as heat pulsed in my gut. “Owww, don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry,” she said, her smile drooping. She stepped into the room and grabbed the pair of athletic socks lying on the bed, then helped to slip them over my feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

She tied my shoes, then I moved from the bed to the wheelchair because there was no way I was going to have the energy to shuffle all the way to her car. In fact, I wasn’t sure what I did have the energy for. I was so wrung out. Besides the way surgery took it out of you, trying to sleep in a hospital was the worst. There was all this beeping and people coughing or sniffing. The hospital paging system calling codes or directing staff. Strange sounds and smells, not to mention that it was always too cold… except when it was too hot. All I wanted was to go home and to pop a few painkillers so I could go to sleep in my own damn bed.

But of course, we had to make a quick stop at the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions.

Amy struggled to get my wheelchair out of the back of her car, the device awkward and unfamiliar. I wished I could help, but that’s all a bit beyond me at the moment. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” she assured me. At last, she had it figured out, and after transferring once again from car to wheelchair, she pushed me through the store to the pharmacy at the back.

I sat there pretending to listen to what the pharmacist had to say, nodding and adding an appropriate, “Yes, I understand,” whenever she looked down at me expectantly. She was going on about all the side effects, but the pain had moved into a never-ending pulse that battered at me, radiating up and down my spine and making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. I heard words like “habit-forming” and “constipation,” which was when she showed me the other pill container, which I gathered was a laxative.

More words, more nodding, and then at last, I was finally on my way home.

The drive itself was a blur. I’d let my eyes drift shut, floating in a sea of pain, letting it wash over and through me, but I startled when the car came to a stop. I opened my eyes to see we were parked in my driveway.

“Thanks, partner. I really appreciate the ride,” I gritted out, but I was already struggling with the door handle, eager to get inside. With the pharmacy bag clutched tightly in one hand, I shoved the door open roughly.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, hopping out her side and running around the hood.

I tried to shake my head, but it made my brain slosh around in my skull. “Nah, it’s fine, Amy. I’m sure I can make it the ten feet to my front door.” If I couldn’t, I had bigger issues than I was willing to admit.

Amy was already there, though, wrapping an arm around my waist for support. She was surprisingly sturdy for someone so small. Came with the FBI training, I supposed. We hobbled up the temporary ramp to the front door like we were in a three-legged race, about to come in last place. As soon as I got the front door unlocked, I said, “Okay, Amy. I’ve got it from here. Thanks again.” I barely managed to get the words out through the wave of pain pressing down on me from all sides. All I wanted was to be alone.

“But… your wheelchair,” she began.

I was already shaking my head. “It’s fine, just leave it on the porch. You don’t need to come in. I’m just going to take a nap anyway.”

“But Peter, I bought you groceries. At least let me put them in the fridge.” As sunny as her natural state was, she looked genuinely hurt that I wouldn’t accept this help from her.

I really didn’t want her to see the inside of my house. I hadn’t kept a tidy house even before the injury. I’d had a cleaning service come a couple of times in the early days post-injury, but alphas were supposed to be independent, and eventually, I’d stopped their services, fully intending to do it myself. Yeah, no. Turned out it was even harder to keep up with it from a wheelchair, even if motivation hadn’t been a bitch. I supposed I could’ve learned ways of making it easier, but I didn’twantto learn. That would mean accepting everything I’d lost.

Now? Shame mingled with the pain, the frustration, and depression. “Fine, whatever,” I snapped. “Have it your way.” I lurched into the house without looking back at her, and just barely managed to keep myself from falling flat on my face. I couldn’t even see straight.

Leaving the front door wide open, I used the walls and furniture as support as I staggered to the couch. I couldn’t even just flop down like I used to with a long blissful sigh of relief; I had to lower myself carefully, always aware of what movements might trigger spasms. I perched carefully then leaned back against the black leather cushion. The room was dark and dreary, motes of dust floating through the beam of light peeking between the curtains. All my plants were long dead and gathering dust, their crunchy brown leaves littering the floor. The air smelled stale and slightly rancid. I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else. Anywhere would do, I wasn’t picky.

I listened as Amy first brought the wheelchair in and set it inside the door. Her next trip brought the shiny new walker, which she deposited within reach of the couch for me, and then began a parade of grocery bags, back and forth in front of me as she walked through to the kitchen. As much as I appreciated the thought, did she envision me standing at the stove, cooking? Irritation dug its claws into me, scratching at my already sensitive nerves. Gods, I knew there were still dirty dishes stacked in the sink from before I went to the hospital. I hoped like hell she wouldn’t stay to wash them.

“That’s too much,” I grumbled at her when she made another pass through the living room, and when she didn’t seem to hear me, I tried again, louder. “Amy! Cut it out!” The clench of my abs ached something fierce, making me curl in on myself.

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