Page 125 of Darcy
Holy shit.
Buried under wires, and tubes, and casts and bandages, our girl’s angelic blonde hair peeks out.
“Dark,” Arlo whispers, shoving past my frozen ass and approaching the bed. Somehow, he manages to dodge the tubes and IV lines and make his way to her side. He can’t take her hand without dislodging her cannula, so he settles for stroking a thumb reverently along her hairline.
Dodger is the next one to break free of his paralysis. He takes her other side, and his face is actually wet as he rests both hands on her bed’s side rails and just stares at her. Prophet shoves me forward, and the two of us end up at the end of her bed. I can’t even touch her toes; they’re wrapped tight in bandages. What little skin I can see is black and blue.
“Mr. Belladonna?” A cool female voice with the slightest hint of an accent asks. “I’m here if you’d like an update on your daughter’s condition?”
I turn to find a short but curvy doctor in scrubs waiting quietly with Man by the door.
He nods, then introduces her. “This is Doctor Ebrahim. One of the world’s leading reconstructive surgeons specialising in crush wounds. Doctor, these are my daughter’s partners.”
She nods. “Darcy is very lucky to have so many devoted men in her life.”
“Will she recover?” Dodger asks, voice breaking.
Doctor Ebrahim’s smile is small, and her brown eyes twinkle with sympathy. “With time. She’s suffered a gunshot wound to the shoulder, which fractured her scapula and nicked a major blood vessel. Then there are several crush wounds, including the main ones to her lower legs. Luckily, since the anterior and interior tibial nerves were intact in both cases, we believe we’ll be able to salvage both limbs without shortening or amputation.”
Shortening? They do that? Wait… amputation?!
The back of my throat burns, and my fists clench by my sides.
“We expect her to come ‘round in a few days, but we’re keeping her in a coma until the swelling on her brain heals. We’re predicting six months until she regains full ambulatory motion, though it could be longer if she requires more surgeries.”
My mind short circuits.
Six months of healing.
Oh, cariño. Why would you bring that building down if you were still in it?
Even as I silently ask the question, I dismiss it. I know why.
Our girl is fiercely protective of those she loves. If Miguel and his goons were chasing after us, she would’ve done whatever she had to to keep us safe. Even raze an entire arena to the ground.
Now she’s fighting a completely different battle.
My eyes land on her phone, lying silent on the bedside cabinet. The glass screen is cracked, and the chassis has warped under the stress of whatever fell on top of her.
My thoughts are racing, and it takes a conscious effort to bring myself back to the present. Ironically, I find myself reaching for the breathing exercises I learned years ago to control my temper.
What I need right now is control over something. I can’t fix Darcy’s broken bones. I can’t lower the swelling in her brain or wipe away the bruises covering her.
What I can do is figure out our next steps. She’s going to need a place to recover, and we can’t exactly offer her Mama P’s sofa.
Our apartment in Florida is out too. As is our holiday place in Hawaii. She’s going to need to be close to her specialists, and stairs are out of the question.
“How long until she’s discharged?” I ask, interrupting the list of injuries that Doctor Ebrahim is still listing off.
The doctor’s hand comes up to fiddle slightly with the fringing of her headscarf as she thinks. “A month, perhaps longer. It’s hard to tell until we see how she responds to the treatments.”
So we’ll need accommodation as close as possible to this place until she’s discharged. With Miguel gone, there’s nothing to stop us from cancelling the tour. In fact, I’m sure most people will be expecting it. What kind of band would go on touring after their concert was literally blown up?
“Dodger, you’ll need to announce the cancellation of the rest of the tour,” I begin, though I don’t envy him the task of dealing with whoever is left at Miguel’s sham agency. “Prophet, find us a place nearby to stay until she’s ready to leave. Arlo, sort out getting some of her stuff here so when she comes around, she doesn’t go stir crazy.”
Darcy will hate being confined to that bed, but we can make it bearable with her favourite streaming services and a gaming laptop. Hell, we’ll bring LAN parties back if it keeps her happy.
“What are you going to do?” Prophet asks.
