Read Online Small-Town Redemption by Beth Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beth Andrews
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didn’t frown—her usual expression around him—but there was no ignoring the concern in her eyes.
“You okay?” she asked.
She was doing her job, and that was all he wanted from her.
He exhaled carefully. Slowly. Inhaled the same way. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Just as he didn’t answer hers.
She noticed but didn’t call him on it.
“What question?” she asked, poking and prodding the back of his hand again with her finger, the sharp point of the needle closer to his skin than he would have liked.
He didn’t mind needles, could handle pain just fine. Though he’d rather avoid it if possible. Mostly he didn’t like the idea of her using him as a pincushion. Not when he was having a hard enough time keeping himself together. Acting calm and collected when all he wanted was to jump off the bed and get as far from this place, with its institutionalized smells and windowless walls, as possible. Before he completely lost it.
“Have you done this before?”
She raised her head, blinked at him as innocently as a newborn babe. “Once or twice. I’m getting really good at it, too.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, her blue eyes wide. “With my last patient, it took me only six or seven tries to get it right.”
She was messing with him. She had to be.
He hoped.
Before he could find out, someone knocked at the door, and Charlotte excused herself—like the polite little nurse she probably was with every other patient—to see who was there.
A reprieve. He was smart enough to be thankful.
Then again, the more she stabbed at him, the longer his mind was occupied and he didn’t have to think about anything else. Such as how much it hurt just to breathe. Hell, he’d gladly forgo the process altogether if it wasn’t an instinctual, and necessary, act to remain alive. How pain swamped him with every movement, no matter how slight or how slowly done, making his stomach turn. How the mother of all headaches pounded at the base of his skull, blurring his eyesight and making him want nothing more than to go home, down a few shots of whiskey and slip into a dreamless, painless sleep.
Too bad he’d given up drinking.
But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the memories.
The familiar sights and sounds of the hospital threatened to drag him back to the past. Reminding him of the accident that had almost cost him his life.
That had almost taken away the most precious thing in his world.
And it had been all his fault.
“Sorry about that,” Red said as she returned to his side. “Okay, here we go.” She bent over his hand and that’s when he realized her hair was different. Short, like a pixie, the red strands loose and waving slightly. “Slight pinch,” she murmured, inserting the needle into his vein.
He barely felt it.
And he’d let her rip off his good arm and beat him over the head with it before he admitted it.
She taped the port to his hand then gave it a gentle pat. “You were very brave,” she told him soberly. But her eyes gleamed. “Want a lollipop?”
She smiled. A real smile, one that reached her eyes and made a dimple in her left cheek form. A sudden, vicious craving swept through him, a hunger for something sweet.
Something like skinny, small-chested Charlotte Ellison.
He must have hit his head harder than he thought.
In answer to her smart-ass question, he scowled. But that only made his head hurt more, so he stopped.
As if sensing she’d won the point, she tossed the packaging from the IV into the trash. “I’m going to let you rest. If you need anything before I get back, just press your call button.”
She was leaving. He should be glad. Was glad. He could use some quiet. Some peace.
But the quiet gave him too much time to think. To remember. And peace had always been beyond his reach.
“You cut your hair.”
He winced at how accusing he sounded. As if he gave a shit about it. She could shave it all off and it wouldn’t matter to
“You okay?” she asked.
She was doing her job, and that was all he wanted from her.
He exhaled carefully. Slowly. Inhaled the same way. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Just as he didn’t answer hers.
She noticed but didn’t call him on it.
“What question?” she asked, poking and prodding the back of his hand again with her finger, the sharp point of the needle closer to his skin than he would have liked.
He didn’t mind needles, could handle pain just fine. Though he’d rather avoid it if possible. Mostly he didn’t like the idea of her using him as a pincushion. Not when he was having a hard enough time keeping himself together. Acting calm and collected when all he wanted was to jump off the bed and get as far from this place, with its institutionalized smells and windowless walls, as possible. Before he completely lost it.
“Have you done this before?”
She raised her head, blinked at him as innocently as a newborn babe. “Once or twice. I’m getting really good at it, too.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, her blue eyes wide. “With my last patient, it took me only six or seven tries to get it right.”
She was messing with him. She had to be.
He hoped.
Before he could find out, someone knocked at the door, and Charlotte excused herself—like the polite little nurse she probably was with every other patient—to see who was there.
A reprieve. He was smart enough to be thankful.
Then again, the more she stabbed at him, the longer his mind was occupied and he didn’t have to think about anything else. Such as how much it hurt just to breathe. Hell, he’d gladly forgo the process altogether if it wasn’t an instinctual, and necessary, act to remain alive. How pain swamped him with every movement, no matter how slight or how slowly done, making his stomach turn. How the mother of all headaches pounded at the base of his skull, blurring his eyesight and making him want nothing more than to go home, down a few shots of whiskey and slip into a dreamless, painless sleep.
Too bad he’d given up drinking.
But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the memories.
The familiar sights and sounds of the hospital threatened to drag him back to the past. Reminding him of the accident that had almost cost him his life.
That had almost taken away the most precious thing in his world.
And it had been all his fault.
“Sorry about that,” Red said as she returned to his side. “Okay, here we go.” She bent over his hand and that’s when he realized her hair was different. Short, like a pixie, the red strands loose and waving slightly. “Slight pinch,” she murmured, inserting the needle into his vein.
He barely felt it.
And he’d let her rip off his good arm and beat him over the head with it before he admitted it.
She taped the port to his hand then gave it a gentle pat. “You were very brave,” she told him soberly. But her eyes gleamed. “Want a lollipop?”
She smiled. A real smile, one that reached her eyes and made a dimple in her left cheek form. A sudden, vicious craving swept through him, a hunger for something sweet.
Something like skinny, small-chested Charlotte Ellison.
He must have hit his head harder than he thought.
In answer to her smart-ass question, he scowled. But that only made his head hurt more, so he stopped.
As if sensing she’d won the point, she tossed the packaging from the IV into the trash. “I’m going to let you rest. If you need anything before I get back, just press your call button.”
She was leaving. He should be glad. Was glad. He could use some quiet. Some peace.
But the quiet gave him too much time to think. To remember. And peace had always been beyond his reach.
“You cut your hair.”
He winced at how accusing he sounded. As if he gave a shit about it. She could shave it all off and it wouldn’t matter to
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