*** NEW AND IMPROVED ***
With her father missing, Shay will do anything to get him back, even if that means teaming up with a cruel gang leader and his band of psychotic men.
CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN.
***WARNING*** OFFENSIVE CON...
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SO COLD
MORNING CAME WITH A KNOCK on the door. The door swung open and there was an indistinguishable voice nattering about...something. Far too cheery. A groan slumped out of my parted lips and I stirred, feeling the body beside me shift. Cole cursed, eyes still closed, arm tightening around my waist. "Fuck off, Walsh."
"Good morning to you, too," the doctor remarked dryly, tearing apart the curtains and letting in the burning hot gaze of the sun. Light filled the room. "Up, up. It's eight o' clock. Rise and shine, lovebirds."
"Leave before I empty a revolver into your skull." Cole growled tempestuously, woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He was buzzing with rage, trembling limbs overcrowded with angry cockroaches, swarming wasps fluttering over the rising and falling of his chest.
"Do that and who will you hire to dig out bullet fragments from your dying girlfriend's chest, hmm? Sometimes it's better to keep quiet. Your threats mean nothing to me, I've heard worse from men I've stitched up." The doctor dropped his smile. "I've brought you breakfast, Shay. Don't expect me to do this every day. Your breakfast is on the table in the kitchen, Mr. King. Make your way down there."
I clamped my teeth over my bottom lip, stifling a moan of pain as the two conversed in barely polite tones. I pushed a hip upwards, resting on my side, trying to find comfort. My face was flushed and my spine was wet with sweat, my nightgown clinging to me like a second skin. "My chest hurts," I bemoaned, unable to conceal my discomfort any longer.
"Your medication is on the tray." The doctor picked up a remote, brought the bed to sitting position much to Cole's displeasure. He set the tray on my lap. "Eat after. You'll be bed bound for a couple of days, I'll bring you the morning newspaper once I'm done reading."
There was a plate of runny eggs, bacon and toast and a glass of water. I picked up a small, disposable plastic cup of white pills, threw it back with half the glass of water and then pushed the tray away. "I'm not hungry," I said, turned off by the idea of greasy breakfast food. "Not for this. It's making me queasy. I want soup."
"Just once I would love to have a patient that doesn't ask me to move the heavens and the earth for them," the doctor groused, rolling his eyes skyward and telling me he'd be back with the soup. He left with the tray.
Cole sat up, his back to me, quiet and shirtless. His silence spoke words he wouldn't say: something was wrong. Dead air hung in the space between our bodies, restlessness skittered up past collarbones, and it was oh-so tense. Uncomfortable. Tongues folded into knots, heavy and sickly-tasting. My hand reached out and touched his shoulder. He jerked himself away, standing. He refused to look at me and it felt as if he was speaking to the wall instead of me. "I need to go. I have things I need to do."
"Why don't you stay?" I hated the tone I took on, needy and clingy.
He picked up his folded sweatshirt from the arm of the armchair and pulled it over his head, pushing his arms through the sleeves and reached for his shoes. "I can't," he was about to offer up an explanation and then thought otherwise, mute once more.
