Page 53 of Bad Husband

“Dude, it’s turning black at the end,” Brantley notes, handing me a towel to wrap around it.

Of course I’m in pain, but I’m more pissed than anything because I’m supposed to be at Callan’s soccer game in two hours, and this is more than likely going to take more than two hours to fix. Kicking tools and shit out of my way, I mumble, “No fucking shit,” to Brantley and nod to my truck. “Can you take me? I might pass out.”

And I do, I think, because the next thing I remember I’m in the ER and there’s a girl staring at me. “What did you do?”

“Nailed my hand to the wall.”

“You’re supposed to nail women, not your hand,” she says, her cheeks warming with her words.

Is she for fucking real? Probably. I roll my eyes. Ordinarily I’d come back with something equally as snarky but I’m not in the mood today. “That’s highly inappropriate.”

“Oh stop,” she teases, unwrapping the towel from my hand. “We need to get an X-ray to see if you broke the bone and then we’ll clean it and get you stitched up.”

The next two hours seem to go by so fucking slow. They X-ray it, tell me the bone splintered, but they don’t think I’ll need surgery. I’m not convinced because I don’t trust these inappropriate flirty doctors. Then they clean it—which hurts about as bad as the waxing experience—and then stitch me up.

“Have you ever done stitches?” I ask the girl, the one who was flirting with me earlier, when she digs the needle in and practically hits the bone. “This isn’t economics class. Pay attention.”

“I’ve done stitches before.” She flips her hand at me, as if to blow me off and then concentrates on my hand. “Stop complaining.”

When I’m all stitched up, my hand is bandaged, and I’m given a prescription for antibiotics.

“You need to see an orthopedic surgeon next week to make sure the bone’s healing.” She hands me my discharge papers. “Try not to nail your hand to any more walls.”

I slide down off the table. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Brantley laughs—who’s stayed with me this entire time—gets the girl’s phone number and then nods to my truck. “You good to drive home?” He gives a tip of his head toward the room I was just in. “I’m gonna see what that chick’s doing for the next ten minutes.”

I know what you’re thinking. Is he for real? Sadly, he’s serious. He’ll probably bang her in a storage closet and have no shame about it.

Grunting, I practically drag myself out the ER doors. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Try not to feel bad if I wreck my truck.”

He shrugs and turns to walk away. “I won’t.”

He’s telling the truth. I own 70 percent of Cooper Custom Homes, hence why my name’s on it. If I die, my share goes to the boys but he gets to run the company. Some days I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to kill me off yet.

NOT ONLY DO I think my finger might explode with pain, but I can’t believe I’m running late to his first game. It’s probably not even his first game and the fact that I don’t know that only confirms the fact I’m a shitty dad these days.

Sure, I have a good excuse considering I nearly ripped my finger off, but for some reason, I don’t think that’s going to be good enough for Madison. It seems like nothing I do is good enough lately, but I’m not going to let that discourage me from my plan. As you know, I’m a pretty dedicated guy and I’m not about to let this stop me.

After parking my truck next to Madison’s car, I head over to the fields I remember Callen practicing at but realize there are actually several games going on at the same time.

Shit. What color uniform does Callen wear? Shit. Shit. They all look alike.

Shaking my head at myself, because I really should have planned this better, I walk around looking for anyone I might recognize. It’s the third field on the left when I spot Madison standing on the sidelines smiling and cheering the team on, Noah hanging onto her leg with what looks to be grass in his mouth.

I laugh, shaking my head. As crazy as that kid is, his personality will always bring a smile to my face.

As I approach, I’m annoyed at the dress she’s wearing today. Do you see this shit Madison’s wearing?

Right? Totally inappropriate. It looks like a fucking evening gown.

All right, all right, it’s not an evening gown, but this is a kids’ soccer game, not Berns Steak House. Cover your fucking tits.

And I’m about to tell her that as I approach, but then I can clearly see her cleavage, and my thoughts move to my hands on said tits and then my mouth and other nasty thoughts I shouldn’t have in public because of the sudden tightening in my pants.

No wonder these douche heads were remarking about Madison’s tits the other day.

“Why are you late?” is her first question to me.

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