where she lives. Where she works. The doctor and Pops have a few words, but I don’t listen. I’m just focused on the fact that she’s alright.
Right now she’s alone though. I don’t like that. I want to be there when she wakes up. I stand up, ready to go see her. “Where are you going?” Jack asks me as I grab the door handle.
Where the fuck does he think I’m going? I stare at him for a minute, just so he can squirm under my gaze. I didn’t forget what he said. And he sure as shit better not forget what I told him. After a moment I leave, shutting the door a little harder than I should.
I wish Jack’s fucking head was between the door and the frame. I shake off my anger and try to calm myself. If she’s awake, she’s not gonna like me storming in there with a temper.
I open the door slowly and walk into my childhood bedroom. Not that it looks like one. Statistics books and other textbooks line the back of my desk, lined up in a neat row. Other than the books, the desk is cleared off. Exactly how I like it. The desk is solid maple and stained dark espresso in color. It’s modern, and reflects the rest of the furniture in the room. My sheets and comforter are perfectly white, and the walls are a cool grey. The only personality is provided by a simple framed, enlarged photograph on the wall. It’s an abstract shot with bursts of colors. I don’t know why I like it. But I do. Other than the framed photograph, my room displays order and discipline. It’s how I grew up. It’s how I stayed out of the mafia.
Lying under the sheets is Becca. The white sheets bring color to her complexion. I’m grateful for it. She’s completely still with her arms placed at her sides, and her eyes are closed. Without the color, she would look dead. I pull the desk chair to the side of the bed and sit next to her, taking her hand in mine. She’s warm. I watch her chest rise and fall gently. My heart seems to slow to beat in time with hers.
Bruises still cover her face and arms and the rest of her body. Even worse, the rope burns on her wrists may actually scar. On the nightstand next to the bed are ointments and bandages. The doctor applied them before he left, but I’ll take care of her from here on out. I’ll make sure this doesn’t scar her. Not in any way. She inhales a deep breath and winces in pain. I know she’s on pain meds, but maybe not enough.
“Becca?” My voice is hopeful, just as I am. I need her to wake up. I need her to tell me everything. And I need to apologize.
Her eyelids slowly open in a daze, either from a concussion or the meds, or maybe just exhaustion. I take her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, keeping my eyes on her face. Watching her every movement.
“I’m here, doll. You’re alright.” Her eyes blink slowly and she turns her head, rubbing her cheek against the pillow. It takes a moment, but her eyes find mine. They seem to widen slightly, but she's still dazed.
“Jax?” She barely breathes his name.
I give her a reassuring smile. “He’s downstairs playing. He has no idea.” She closes her eyes and lets out a long exhale before slowly opening them again.
“Thank you.” Her hand weakly squeezes mine. Her head turns, and she winces in pain again before staring at nothing. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” My throat starts to close, so I grunt a cough and clear my throat. “It’s my fault, doll. I’m sorry.” I fucking hate that I’m apologizing. Not that I shouldn’t be, but that I’ve hurt her again.
She shakes her head slowly and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. She rubs her eyes and tries to get up, but I gently push her shoulders down.
She looks at me like I punched her. “I need to get Jax.”
“He’s downstairs.” She’s fucking crazy to think she’s going anywhere.
“I need to take him home.” Fuck that. That shit’s not happening.
“You’ll come home with me tonight.” I’m already dreading the drive, but we aren’t staying with my parents. I have a house and a room for her and Jax. I’ll take care of them.
She pushes me away, but then