My left eye slowly flutters open, but quickly snaps shut as the bright, white light attacks all my senses. I feel like I might pass out or puke.
Fuck. Am I dead?
If I am, I doubt it’s a bright, white light I’d be seeing.
Okay, let’s try this again.
My entire body aches, and I’m already craving something to numb the pain.
I try the right eye this time, but it’s met with resistance. Ah shit, did I get into a fight? That hardly seems like me. That’s more Brandon’s style.
I mean, I’ve been in a few fights before, and I’ll definitely be in more, so it’s not entirely out of the question.
I open my left eye again and force the fucker to stay open as I look around one-eyed since the right is swollen shut.
Worse than I thought. I’m in a hospital bed with no one around. The alone part isn’t shocking, but the hospital part sucks.
I look down at the white gown I’m dressed in but don’t see any tubes or wires holding me in the bed. I try to sit up, but instantly feel dizzy as a nurse in purple scrubs rushes in.
“Mr. Richardson, please stay in the bed.”
I look the nurse over with my good eye. She’s pretty, not the drop-dead gorgeous, model type, but still pretty. Overworked. Tired. Her black hair is pulled into a low-maintenance ponytail, her scrubs are wrinkled, her white tennis shoes are worn and scuffed.
She checks my vitals, and I manage to smirk as I sit back against the white pillow. “Chicks are always trying to get me to stay in bed longer.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see the small smile tugging on her pretty pink lips. She doesn’t mess with her hair and doesn’t wear other makeup, but she does paint her lips. Interesting. “I’m sure on your good days that’s true.”
I laugh, but then suck in a rough breath as a sharp pain rips through my chest as well as a stabbing pain in my ribs. “Fuck.” I look her dead in the eye, managing a grin, though maybe it’s more of a grimace. “You think this is one of my bad days?”
Her eyebrows draw together as she looks at me before shaking her head in pity. “Well, I know waking up in a hospital isn’t all that strange to you, Mr. Richardson, but this can’t be considered a good day to you.”
My hand covers my ribs. “Cakewalk. And please stop calling me Mr. Richardson. Blake is fine.”
She nods curtly as she looks over the iPad in her hands which I know by now contains my medical chart. “Fine, Blake.” Her pretty, brown eyes meet mine, concern filling them. “You know this addiction is going to kill you, right?”
I fight another laugh, vividly aware of the pain that caused last time. “And what makes you think I’m addicted to something?” My eyes scan over her again. “I don’t think we’ve met before today.”
Though it’s entirely possible we have.
She takes a seat in the chair next to the bed, and I know what’s coming. It’s always the same no matter who’s giving the come-to-Jesus speech. “The history in your chart tells me you are. The amount of drugs and alcohol in your system when you came in twelve hours ago tells me you are.”
Be nice. She’s trying to help. And she’s actually pretty cute. Usually it’s a much older, bloated man telling me this same shit.
I look right into those pretty, brown pools of pity and irritation. “And your point?”
“It’s going to kill you.”
“Pretty sure it wasn’t drugs or alcohol that blacked my eye and broke my ribs. Feels more like a person did that.”
Her head slides from side to side, and I raise an eyebrow with curiosity as she stands and walks to the end of the bed, looking at me head-on. “No. You fell down a ravine.”
Well. Fuck.
That’s a new one.
“I did what?”
“You heard me.” She stands there, and I notice the ring on her left finger as both of her small hands hold onto the iPad. “You were out cold. There were no witnesses to tell us if you passed out and fell or were knocked out, but I’d say both are plausible, although there is no significant head trauma. There was an anonymous call that alerted the authorities.”
Not surprising. Whoever I was with was probably high as fuck.
“I’m fine. Can I go home? I fucking hate hospitals.”
She glances down at the chart again. “Doesn’t seem like it. You’ve been in here what, twice for overdose, once for an altercation.”
Fancy word for a bar fight.
“Don’t stay long, though.” I move to sit up again, and she walks to me, pressing gently against my chest, forcing me back.
“You need to be cleared by a doctor before you leave, and you need to rest. You took one hell of a fall.”
“I need a fucking cigarette.” I look around the room, not seeing my things anywhere. “Can you help me with that?”
“Of course not. No smoking.”
My head is spinning with pain, and I rub my left temple with my index finger. “Hospitals are supposed to be about helping.”
“We are.”
“Cool, then I’ll settle for some Oxy.”
Her pretty eyes roll again, and I risk the laugh, the agony ripping through my body yet again. Okay. Not worth it.
“Blake . . .” I look at her when she uses my first name as I asked, most doctors still use my last name. “What if you had died?”
“Then I’d have done the world a fucking favor.”
She sits on the side of my bed, my comment seemingly getting to her. “No. It wouldn’t. And what if you hurt someone else next time? I can’t tell you how many victims of intoxicated driving we see in here.”
She wants to reach me, be the one to change me. So many before her have tried this shit. So fucking many. “I don’t drive. So, no worries. The only one I’m going to hurt is me.”
“Someone would miss you.” Her hand covers my left one that’s covered in cuts and bruises.
“No one.”
Her look is soft, her sadness for me palpable. I have to wonder whether that look would still be there if I looked differently? If, instead of clear, blue eyes, a sharp jaw line that could cut glass, and high cheek bones, I had a haggard, wrinkled, and scarred face with saggy jaws. If, instead of sinewy muscles and ripped abs, I had a potbelly and scrawny arms, she would be looking at me with concern, like the world needs me in it. Why? For fucking what? I haven’t contributed a damn thing in my life other than having a killer smile and matching body.
“You wanna be my friend?”
She hears the insinuation in my words, and I guarantee she sees it in my eyes as she pulls her hand off mine. “I’m married.”
“You wish you weren’t though.”
She stands up and looks down at me as if I’m a fire that burned her by merely calling her out. We’re all fucking depraved, I just don’t hide it. If she gave the go-ahead, I’d fuck her right here, right now, without even closing the door to my room because I was blessed with the gift of having no fucking morals.
Her being married isn’t my problem. It’s hers. And maybe her husband’s.
But it definitely isn’t mine.
“I’m trying to help you.”
She should leave, but she hasn’t. She tucks a piece of her long bangs behind her ear, staring at me, intrigued, caught up in a fantasy of the stranger she wants to save propositioning her.