I run a thumb along Kay’s lower lip; it’s chapped, and I bet she will be asking for that lip stuff girls love so much.
Storm clouds rage in her gray eyes as they lock onto me in accusation, like I’m the bad guy here. “Can’t you let a girl sleep?” she grumbles.
I place a kiss to the tip of her upturned nose. “I thought you said you’re a better patient than E?”
She curses under her breath. “Sometimes you suck.” She shifts to sit up so the nurse can finish her examination.
This time my laughter isn’t as quiet. God I love this girl. I swear we’ll be old and gray and she’ll still be giving me shit.
“You could always be the one to dump his punk ass this time, sis,” E’s voice calls out, all the activity waking the others in the room.
“But he’s so cute.” There’s a mock whine behind Kay’s words.
“That’s half the reason I stay married to your brother,” Bette jokes, and even the nurse joins in on the laughter.
#Chapter18
It hasn’t even been a full thirty-six hours and I’m more than ready to be sprung from this joint—er, hospital.
I need a shower, or better yet, a nice long soak in the jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom at home in the worst way. Don’t get me started on the catastrophe I call my hair.
On my numerous trips to the bathroom—and there were many thanks to all the intravenous fluids I was given—I managed to avoid looking at my reflection. I’ve put the task off as long as I possibly could.
Stop being a chickenshit. *props hand on hip* How can you say your hair is a catastrophe without seeing what it looks like?
My inner cheerleader is lucky it still hurts me to roll my eyes. I don’t need to see it to know my assessment of the situation is correct. I can feel it, hear it any time it moves. Hair should not be something that is audible.
Hands braced on the counter, fingers curling over the rim and digging into the porcelain of the sink, I lift my gaze and gasp at my reflection.
Okay, you were right. You look like shit.
My usually country-music-star-worthy curls currently look like they are vying for the role of Merida if Disney were to do a live-action version of Brave, the blood staining one section only adding to the authenticity. There is no way I’m going to attempt to untangle this mess until it’s loaded down with at least a gallon of conditioner. I can’t even successfully pull it back into a ponytail.
That’s not the worst of it. No, that honor goes to my pale complexion. I think I prefer the Disney princess goals of my hair as opposed to the could-be-Casper’s-sister status my face is going for. Even my freaking freckles look bleached.
It’s no wonder I’ve heard Mase’s teeth grind any time he looks at me. The bruise on my left cheek is like a giant tie-dye beacon against my deathly pallor.
In an effort not to moon a room full of people, I moved like an octogenarian and slipped on the leggings Em brought me before I got out of bed. I don’t care how much Mase was enjoying seeing my ass waving in the wind thanks to my highly fashionable hospital gown—I was over it.
With a deep breath, I peel the gown from my body and set it on the counter. Thankful Em had the foresight to grab one of my sports bras that zips closed in the front, I get the girls secured and carefully finish dressing in a black Death Before Decaf tee. A smile tugs at my lips—I’m surprised Em didn’t try to steal this one for herself.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, the number of occupants in the room has grown by three. A brooding Carter King is holding up the wall with his leather-jacket-clad arms folded over his chest while he periodically casts a glare at G and Em talking with their heads bent close on the couch. Outside of giving him a chin tip in hello, I don’t pay him much mind, instead sending my focus to the other two new arrivals: Jordan Donovan and her business partner Skye Masters. I remember Jordan mentioning something about Skye flying in to help manage everything, but her being here has my gut clenching.
“How are you feeling?” Jordan’s bright grin should put my mind at ease, but it doesn’t.