Page 52 of Wicked Spite
“Chill, psycho. Not the place,” she whispers, her voice a thread holding me tethered to sanity.
“Goddamn it!” Lincoln shouts, kicking a chair, sending it crashing into the wall. Oakley shrinks back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Iris wraps her arms around her, both of them collapsing onto a chair.
“How long?” Ramsey asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “How long will he be like this?”
“There’s no way to know,” the doctor replies, his tone softening. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“Everything you can?” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, that’s just comforting. I’ll make sure I use that next time.”
“Penn, stop,” Reagan pleads, gripping my arm tighter.
“Stop what, Reagan? Stop caring about my brother?” I snap, turning to face her. Her eyes bore into mine.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says softly, but the damage is done. I pull away from her, pacing the room like a caged animal.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. The scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils, making me feel even more trapped. I want to smash something, break free from this hellish waiting room and the bleak reality it holds.
“Please, just try to stay calm,” the doctor urges again.
I turn and punch the wall at hearing the fucking word calm one more goddamn time. Pain shoots up my arm, but it’s nothing compared to the ache inside me, knowing my brother isn’t himself. The doctor jumps back, fear flashing across his face before scurrying back behind the ‘do not enter’ door.
“Penn, enough!” Lincoln barks, stepping between me and the doctor. “You’re not helping.”
“News flash, none of it is going to help.” I challenge, but I know he’s right.
A voice shouts from behind us, startling everyone. I turn to see Memphis Hartford striding toward us, his expression full of desperation. “Where’s Graham?”
“Who the hell are you?” Lincoln demands, stepping forward protectively.
“Memphis fucking Hartford,” I answer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Graham’s…fuck buddy.”
“Christ Penn, have some tact,” Memphis says, ignoring Lincoln’s glare. “What happened to him?”
“Bike accident,” I say flatly. “He’s in a coma.”
“Fuck,” Memphis whispers, running a hand through his hair. “I need to see him.”
“Not happening,” I growl, stepping in front of Memphis. “Family only.”
Memphis’s eyes flicker with something—guilt or perhaps fear, maybe both. “Look, Penn, this isn’t the time for your crazy bullshit. I need to see him.”
I take a step closer, the distance between us reduced to mere inches. The smell of stale aftershave clings to him. I tilt my head, eyes narrowing as I peer into his goddamn soul. “How the fuck did you even know he was here?”
His jaw tenses, and for a moment, he looks like a cornered animal. “I have my ways,” he mutters, eyes darting around the room, refusing to meet mine.
“That’s not an answer, you fucking junkie,” I growl, fists clenching at my sides.
Memphis’s gaze shifts, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. “I…I just heard, alright? People talk.”
“People talk,” I mock, my voice a dangerous whisper as I lean in. “Bullshit. You were there, weren’t you? At the accident site.”
He doesn’t answer, just stares to the side, jaw clenched tight.
Reagan squeezes my arm tighter, which should be grounding but only makes me want to explode further. Memphis holds his ground, though; either he’s brave or too stupid to realize how close he is to getting knocked out.
“Tell me,” I demand again.
He hesitates. “I was just around.” His voice is shaky.
