Page 35 of Wilde's End
“No.” But he’s still smiling. “The only thing that matters is what you do once you’re here. And what you’ve done is cause drama.”
“That was Wilde.”
“Was it?”
I scoff, unable to believe that’s actually up for debate. “Yes. He …” My brain feels like it’s squeezed too hard, and I press my hand against it while the doctor finishes stitching me up. “He threatened us and ruined our things.”
“His things.”
“What?”
“This is his town.”
My blood pressure creeps higher as that familiar need to explode takes over me. “Mytown. I bought it.”
“And?” The doctor cuts off the thread and then runs his thumb lovingly over his work. “Ownership isn’t a piece of paper out here. Wilde will never give this place up without a fight, and unless you’re ready to go to war with him, you should probably leave and save yourself the headache.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” I say through clenched teeth. None of these people intimidate me.
“Really?” He gently takes my right hand and strokes over my fingers. It’s the first time I notice how fucked-up they are.
“The fuck?”
“Broken. I could set these for you … but I’m very protective of Wilde.”
I wheeze a laugh. “You fucking him?”
The doctor squeezes down on my fingers, and I’m sure that would be painful if I wasn’t drugged. “Never. I have my own mountain to conquer.”
“He did this to me, didn’t he?”
“No.”
I’d been ready for the lie, but it doesn’t piss me off any less. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can trust me. I’m a doctor.”
I snort to let him know what I think of that. “Can I go yet?”
“If you want your fingers to set in all different directions.”
I forcibly relax back into the bed. “Make it quick.”
All up, I have three broken fingers in a splint, a large burn that needs the dressings changed for a few days, seven stitches I have to come back to have taken out, a concussion, and a sprained ankle, which luckily is only mild. As much as Wilde hates me, I don’t think he did all this. Iwantit to have been him so that itfuels my resentment some more, but it doesn’t make sense. Where would the burn have come from? And why would he have brought me here?
My head is tight and unsteady from trying to think, and I spend the rest of the time on that bed, ignoring all the things racing through my mind.
“I don’t have crutches for you, so you’re going to have to hobble home. Keep your weight off of your foot for a few days, and keep it elevated. Lots of rest.”
Rest. Right. That’s exactly what I have time to do. The worst part is that I can’t even blame Wilde for this setback. I don’tthink.
What was I even doing out here?
“Is it normal to not remember what happened?” I ask as Dr. Booker helps me off the bed and supports me to the door.
“Very. You’re concussed. Your brain has had a little reset while you slept, but there’s a good chance those memories might not come back. Go home. Stay in a dark room. No screens for at least forty-eight hours. And keep that damn leg up.”
I’m actually surprised when we get outside and Wilde is waiting, leaning against his truck, arms crossed tight and jaw clenched in a way that forces his beard wider at the sides. “Done yet?”
