Page 35 of Lucky Laces
Only, she doesn’t get that far.
Because I hear, “Where’s my son?”
Right before my dad bursts through the curtain.
Eleven
Diana
Yeah,it took me precisely one glance at the man bellowing for his son for me to know that this wasn’t going to be a happy reunion.
And one second beyond that to recognize how much of an asshole the man was.
Demanding that the nurses get the doctor “immediately” and then when she came in, clearly exhausted after dealing with the influx of patients in aftermath of the quake, he demanded to see a “real doctor.”
Yup.
Asshole.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to step in because Hudson took care of it—kicking his dad out a heartbeat after he’d spouted that bullshit.
Something that was made easier because the IV antibiotics were administered and the discharge instructions were in the computer and Hudson was ready to be sprung from hospital jail.
That didn’t mean we—and I do mewe—were free of torture, though.
Mostly because Hudson’s parents had taken a cab from the airport to the hospital.
So, I was driving all of them home.
“I always knew my parents living an hour plane ride away was annoying, but who knew that not updating my emergency contact information would come back to bite so hard?”he mutters from the seat next to mine.
Not that he needs to keep his volume down.
I have to strain to hear him over the bellowing in the back seat.
Jesus, this is what he grew up with?
His dad bitching about how much the emergency flight up cost.And bitching about having to fly into San Francisco instead of Oakland because flights were grounded on this side of the Bay where the quake was centered and hit hardest.Oh, and bitching about the lack of cabs at the airport whose drivers would take them across the bridge.And don’t forget bitching about how long it took for the hospital staff to let him back to Huddy’s room—and God, I get that there were visitor limits, but did the parent they let in to see Hudson have to be his dad?His mom—whom I’ve literally heard speak less than a dozen words—would have been a far superior choice.
Mostly because she’s not talking.
But not an ideal one—because she’s not doing anything to shut her husband up.
Though, I’m not sure anything will stymie Jim’s bitching.
He’s bitched about the back seat being uncomfortable and then when I offered to let him drive (because no fucking way would I let him displace his son from the front seat) he bitched about not knowing the way.
And as we’ve driven, he’s bitched about the traffic—worse because of damage from the quake—and he’s bitched about stoplights being out and debris on the side of the road and diversions that mean the drive to Hudson’s house has taken about five times longer than it should.
He’s also bitched about me making him wear his seat belt, the speed I’ve been driving at, and, oh yeah, he’s still bitching about the fact that the back seat of my compact is well…compact.
I grind my teeth together, smothering the urge to agree with Hudson about it being a big mistake to not update his emergency contact information—a freakinghugeone—and flick a glance over at him, attempting to keep my tone neutral.“Almost to your place.”
Which also, thankfully, means that we’re almost to my place.
Turns out that Hudson and I live within three blocks of each other.
Far too close to where Jim and Betty Blackwood will be staying.
