Page 7 of Chelsea’s Knight

“Care to share?” I ask, hoping the phrase we’ve used countless times, since first meeting, will generate something meaningful inside her memory banks.

Sighing, she tells me about her past procedure and why she ended up needing to go under the knife in the first place. “When I was a little girl, I had a stepmom and stepbrother who were abusive to me. He pushed me down a flight of stairs one day and I ended up needing immediate surgery to repair the damage.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she continues. “It’s why I have a seizure disorder now. It’s thankfully controlled with several different medications, but with this newest injury and surgery, they’re having to readjust the prescriptions and dosages because I’ve been having them pop up sporadically again.”

“Babe, just to say, you don’t wear one of those medical alert bracelet things that tells outsiders about your condition. Most people wear them on their person when they’ve got a serious health issue.”

She raises her brow at me and retorts with a look of disgust plastered on her face, “Have you seen how ugly those things are?”

“They may be ugly but if you’re unable to speak due to being unconscious or even in the middle of a seizure, having one could save your damn life!” I growl out.

Chelsea is one of the smartest people I know, ever since meeting her, she’s never come across as caring about if something’s pretty or not. She’d never let Noah get away without using his casts or crutches because they’re ugly so why is it she expects any of us to let her get by with this?

Newsflash, it isn’t happening, not on my damn watch. I’ll figure something else out, maybe it’s not about looks but about the weight of the bracelet itself, that’s been some of the dislikes I’ve heard from my veteran buddies who’ve ended up with epilepsy after surviving a bomb blast.

How many times have we been out and about, mostly with Noah in our care?

Fuck.

This is not good because I’m unsure if Gia knows this critical information about her. I know she doesn’t drive, but honestly, I thought she was just afraid to get behind the wheel. My mind starts spinning as I remember several tattoo clients who’ve gotten medical alert tattoos inked onto their left inner forearm and I wonder if she’d like one of those instead.

The thought of putting ink on her has my cock rising again, something that’s never happened in all the years I’ve been doing tattoos.

The look she gives me guts me; she looks so fucking hurt and despondent right now. “I-I just want to be normal, Canyon.”

“You’re not, Chelsea. You’re uniquely you and you’ve got a medical condition that requires those who are around you to know what to do in case of emergencies. Is that why you don’t drive very often?”

“You have to be seizure free for six months or longer before a doctor will release you to reinstate your license and drive,” she whispers. “I have my license, it’s restricted so I just didn’t drive all that much, but then a new neurologist decided to change what medication I was taking, which set off a chain reaction of several bad weeks. Lost it then got it back again, but with as many folks as live at the clubhouse, there’s always someone to pick up what I need or give me a ride into town if they’re going. This issue has now put me back to square one… again.” She sounds frustrated and I can’t say as I blame her. I know for myself, if I had to rely on someone to haul my ass around, I’d feel like a caged animal.

“Good thing I’ve got a truck. Now, I haven’t eaten dinner yet and I know these facilities have shitty food that tastes like cardboard so what are you in the mood for? Pizza, Chinese, or Mexican?”

“Mexican, but you don’t have to feed me. The food here isn’t too bad.”

“Babe.”

“What? It’s not, Canyon.”

“Chelsea, if a stiff wind blew through your room right now, you’d be tossed around like a sack of potatoes. You’ve lost weight being here, weight I might add that looked fucking perfect on you. You need some additional calories, Chels. So even if the food here is awesome, I’m ordering in. Got it?”

“Fine, whatever.” Her pouting, and the way she’s defiantly crossed her arms across her chest is cute as fuck, but I don’t mention that fact, no need to trip a live wire.

I bite back a salacious grin at the snarky tone in her voice.

Whatever it takes, I want her to understand without any reservations that she matters. She’ll probably never be an in-your-face, confrontational type of woman, which is fine with me, but somewhere along the way, I suspect she’s retreated to the shadows because she thinks she’s not as important as everyone else, which is a load of utter bullshit.

“It’s not whatever, sweetheart. You need to eat well so you gain enough stamina and strength to do whatever it is they’ve got you doing here so you can be released sooner rather than later to come home and be with the rest of your family.”

“I haven’t had one of those in a very long time now,” she replies.

“A family or a home?” I ask her.

“Both,” she whispers, unshed emotions clogging her larynx.

“Well, you’ve got both now,” I rebut.

Pulling out my phone, I access the Dash and Dine app on the screen and tap it, find a Mexican restaurant with the highest ratings nearby then hand it to her.

“Get what you want, and add it to the cart, babe.”

While she agonizes over the various choices on the menu, I pull one of the cherry sodas off the plastic ring, put the rest in the mini fridge, then grab her giant tumbler from where it’s sitting upside down on top of a towel.

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