Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,27

out on her face, even with it scrunched up slightly like it was right now.

“You gave us a little start there,” she said, voice husky, sultry. Somehow that tied it together, her pale face, odd features, dark hair. She still wasn’t beautiful, but interesting.

Probably an odd thing to notice about someone at this juncture of my life, but that was me—odd and obsessed with appearance.

“Us?”

The doctor nodded to the corner of the room.

My eyes followed her nod. Slower. Even moving my eyeballs seemed like an effort. How I hadn’t noticed him first was beyond me. But then again, as big of a presence he was, if he didn’t want you to see him, then you weren’t going to see him.

Or maybe I was on some weird drugs.

He didn’t speak, didn’t ask me how I was feeling, demand payment for my rescue, nothing. Just stared.

It would’ve unnerved a lot of people. Especially when they were waking up after almost dying. But I was not a lot of people. And even though my instincts were indeed rusty, I was not about to blanche at his stare. No matter how penetrating.

His eyes were vibrant green. Forest green. Apt, since this forest damn near killed me and this man looked much like he could do the same.

“Your ankle isn’t broken,” the doctor said, stepping into my field of vision. “But you’ve got a pretty nasty sprain. You have a case of mild hypothermia, but I don’t see any complications from a young, otherwise healthy woman.”

“Well, luckily, I’m only mentally unhealthy,” I said, my voice little more than a rasp. I tried to push myself up in the bed, uncomfortable with the power dynamics just lying here. It was too vulnerable.

The process itself was not easy. And with a sharp look to the doctor that moved to help me, it was something I did alone.

I wasn’t used to my body feeling weak. The entire reason I trained as hard as I did at the gym five times a week was to turn my body into something other than an object men could gaze at, take if they thought they were strong enough. Sure, my insane diet and obsession with my weight made it so there were limits to my strength, but I was no weakling either.

Until right now.

My stomach curled with that fact. Having an audience for it.

“I’m Carrie.”

The doctor spoke just as I was contemplating whether I was going to vomit or not.

Carrie. A cheerful, ridiculous name that was made famous by a show both Katy and I despised and did nothing for women of New York or women in general.

“I’m the town doctor,” she continued when I didn’t say anything.

“You’re the town doctor?” I clarified.

She smiled. “Born and raised here. Didn’t go far to get my medical degree and came back after I finished my residency.”

She sounded so happy about this that I distrusted her immediately. Something was wrong here.

Happy people freaked me out.

They were all liars.

I loved all unhappy, depressed people.

They were usually the most honest and intelligent.

Happy people were stupid, and they weren’t in touch with the world or themselves, because if they were, they’d be unhappy.

“How do you feel?” Carrie asked.

“I feel, so that means I’m not on enough drugs,” I said, glancing to the IV attached to my arm.

Another friendly, warm smile. “I’ve got you on fluids, some over-the-counter meds for the swelling in your ankle and the pain, but I’m not in the practice of prescribing strong opiates to my patients when they don’t need them. They do more harm than good in the long run.”

Ugh. Of course she was the only doctor in America that hadn’t been bought by big Pharm and wanted to actually help people and not make money.

She also seemed to have a jut to her chin that told me she would not budge on her admirable but irritating moral stance.

I also did not have the energy to try. “Do you have a phone I can use?”

I hadn’t taken mine with me on my ill-fated hike, with the idiotic intention of switching off from the pulsating mass that was social media. Never again would I try to have a healthy relationship with nature and myself without technology. No good came of it.

“Do you have family you want to call?” she asked, her hand moving to her pocket.

I snorted. “No, I don’t have family to call.”

Maybe a year ago, I’d have had a family to call. A father to call. But his illness moved fast.