Page 128 of Breaking Point
“Can we just focus on what’s important?” I walk over to Bella, not giving her a moment to object before I’m sliding my arms under her back and knees and lifting her. “Don’t puke on me,” I drawl, trying to make light of a horrible situation.
She snorts. “Damn, there goes my evening plans.”
Bill comes back with the stretcher. I gently lower her onto it in perfect time because she does cramp up, her entire body writhing in pain.
They push her down the driveway and I want nothing more than to be next to her, but instead, I call out, “Wait!” Rushing for the younger paramedic, I explain, “I’ll ride with you. Just please give me thirty seconds to get her belongings.”
Bill’s lips thin, probably about to say no, but the young guy dips his chin. I certainly need to learn his name. “Make it fast, though,” he says.
Chapter 33
Bella
LAYLA
have you been kidnapped by aliens?
stolen by a pack of wolves?
is Grayson keeping you chained to a bed and doing magical things with his tongue?
I hope it’s the latter because you’re starting to freak me out, B
please pick up
your mom is worried sick
I’m driving back. If Grayson is keeping you naked find some clothes
please don’t be dead in a ditch
I can’t do this horrid life without you
okay I’m full-blown freaking out now
your voicemail is full
damn it, B, pick up the damn phone!!!!
Grayson hasn’t left my side.
He’s even gone so far as putting onthat golden boy charm of his and befriending the nurses so I get, and I quote, “better treatment.”
The man packed a duffel bag, not just with random items but with things I actually need or use. He got everything right. Phone, charger, toothbrush, toothpaste, comfortable pajamas, fresh underwear—which I was slightly mortified by—and a set of jeans and a T-shirt for when I’m discharged. The only other person that has taken care of me like this is my mom and not even to this extent because, well, it’s hard to take care of someone when they’re a control freak and can’t let anyone help unless it’s done their way specifically.
Grayson reads over my chart as if he knows what it means, and by the slight furrow in his brow, he most certainly doesn’t. Checking the time on the clock, my heart sinks at what it reads: 2 a.m.
I didn’t respond to anyone for two days, and the one weekend Layla is out of town I’m stuck on the bathroom floor, unable to move.
“Could you pass me my phone?” I ask softly. “It should be charged by now.”
I can finally sit without withering around like a worm. The medication and liquid they gave me through the IV worked wonders, as well as the anti-nausea meds.
My phone is in his hand, outstretched to me in a heartbeat, now fully charged with the dozens of text messages and calls on the screen.
“I think I’m not the only one who was worried sick,” Grayson muses.
“You were worried sick?”
