Page 51 of Wicked Spite
“No, but I wish I was near mine,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. My stomach twists into knots, and the sterile smell makes me want to puke. I’d rather smell blood and vomit.
“Psycho,” Reagan’s voice cuts through the fog. Her tone is ice cold, meant to slice through my bullshit. “Can you stop fidgeting for one damn minute?”
“Why? Is it bothering you?” I shoot back, my sarcasm sharp enough to wound. Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she might actually pull that switchblade she always carries. I’m lashing out when she’s been nothing but fucking soft and kind since I walked out of the locker room earlier.
“Both of you, knock it off,” Jeremiah snaps, finally tearing his gaze away from Oakley. “This isn’t helping.”
“Like anything helps in this shithole,” Ramsey grumbles, kicking the base of the vending machine. It clatters loudly, making Oakley jump. She’s been silent, tears streaking her cheeks, clutching Iris’ hand like a lifeline.
“Ramsey, stop being a dick,” Lincoln warns. “You’re gonna get us thrown out.”
“Let them throw us out,” Ramsey challenges, crossing his arms. “I’m not leaving until I know he’s okay.”
“None of us are,” I say, standing up, feeling the tension coil tighter in my muscles. The hours drag on, each second heavier than the last, pressing down on us, suffocating. I can taste the metallic edge of my own frustration, bitter and unyielding.
“Anyone got any good jokes?” I ask, trying to break theoppressive silence. No one laughs. Figures. Even my charm can’t cut through this level of dread.
“Not now, Penn,” Reagan sighs, rubbing her temples. She’s exhausted, barely holding it together. But then again, aren’t we all?
“Just trying to lighten the fucking mood before I go postal,” I reply, sitting back down. The chair creaks under my weight, the sound echoing in the almost-empty room. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second mocking our impatience.
“Well, stop,” she snaps. “It’s not helping. Take your mommy issues and deal with them instead of defaulting to humor in fucked up situations.”
“Fine,” I mutter, folding my arms across my chest. “I’ll just sit here and stew in misery until I snap, and then we can deal with that fucking aftermath. And speak about my ‘mommy’ a-fucking-gain and you’ll end up just like her, wife or not.”
“Good plan,” Lincoln comments dryly, his eyes never straying from the double doors that we all watch like hawks.
“Great, glad you approve,” I retort, rolling my eyes. The energy in the room is ugly, filled with sludge just cloying at our senses to swallow us. And when it does, I have a feeling it’ll be foul.
“Think they’ll come out soon?” Oakley asks softly, her voice trembling. All eyes turn to her, and Jeremiah reaches out to squeeze her hand.
“Yeah, they will,” he assures her, though his voice lacks conviction. We all know he’s lying, but no one calls him out on it. We need to believe it, even if it’s a lie.
“Keep telling yourself that. Robert probably is offering to build them a new wing if he doesn’t make it,” I mutter undermy breath, earning a glare from Reagan. She opens her mouth to say something but stops herself, biting her lip instead.
“Shut up, Penn,” Jeremiah says quietly, his tone more weary than angry. “Just... shut up.”
“Whatever,” I reply, slumping back in my seat. The waiting room feels like a prison, and we’re all serving life sentences.
Two hours pass by and I’m ready to climb the fucking falls. I have to get the fuck out of here. I move to get up from this hard as fuck chair when a noise has my head whipping to the side.
The double doors swing open and a doctor steps into the waiting room with everyone’s father of the year. Robert sneers at us before walking right past and away from the doctor. Instantly, we all snap to attention, eyes locked on the doctor like he’s the goddamn messiah. His white coat is pristine, but his face tells a different story—it’s drawn and tired, worn down by his day. Well, get the fuck in line doc because we’re all fucking tired and beat down. You ain’t fucking special.
“Family of Graham Blackwood?” His voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold.
“Yeah, we fucking are and you know it. Now tell me about my goddamn brother,” I answer, standing up. The others follow suit, a tense, quiet army ready for battle.
He takes a slow breath, almost like he’s stalling. “Graham has severe brain swelling. He’s sustained numerous broken bones, and…we have him in a coma. We explained all this to your father as he’s his next of kin.”
The words hit me in my sternum like a sledgehammer. My vision darkens at the edges, rage surging through my veins. Jeremiah clenches his fists, knuckles turning white. Lincoln swears under his breath, looking like he wants to punchsomething—anything. Ramsey just stares, mouth agape, as if he can’t process what he’s hearing.
“Fuck,” Jeremiah mutters, his voice cracking. He punches the armrest of his chair, the sound echoing in the sterile room.
“Fix it. Fix him or I swear to fucking Lucifer, God, and all the in-between’s you’ll wish it was you laying in a hospital bed,” I spit, stepping closer to the doctor. He takes a step back, eyes wide.
“Please,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “I understand this is difficult?—”
“Understand? You don’t understand shit,” I growl, feeling every muscle in my body coil tight. I itch to slice his throat and let his blood flow out if he opens his mouth one more fucking time to placate me. It’s only the touch of Reagan’s hand on my arm that keeps me from completely losing it. My eyes cut to her and narrow, but she doesn’t back down. Of course, she doesn’t.
