Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
The officer yelled over his shoulder, “Call Brandt over at DEA!”
The whole time I sat in the back of the ambulance getting checked out, answering the questions fired at me, I was hoping and praying that my brother would come alone. I wasn’t up to seeing his old partner. The fact that they didn’t work together anymore improved my chances.
“You’re bleeding,” the EMT noted, pointing to my left bicep.
“Bullet grazed me.”
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Oh yes,” I said happily. “Let’s do that.”
She gave me a funny look. Apparently, most people weren’t excited to go to the hospital. But it was a quick trip, and by the time we were on our way and I thought about whom I could possibly see—as opposed to whom I was hoping to avoid—it was too late.
The day was going from bad to worse.
In the movies, being grazed is something the hero normally shrugs off. In real life, with real people, it hurts like crazy. It didn’t really start to throb until they removed my suit jacket, but between the blood and taking off my shirt, it was a lot of movement, and I really started to feel it. The good news was, it wasn’t that big, and I got a shot of numbing agent—which honestly hurt more than the graze, but at least it killed the pain. I did yell. It was not one of my finer moments, but again, I was not the guy from the big summer blockbuster, I was an accountant, and I got shot at, and I was done.
“It’s okay,” the very nice nurse told me. “Go ahead and yell. It’s better to get it out than to try and be stoic about it. The last guy who was in here passed out instead of making any noise.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to smile.
Of course, because this was the hospital, time seemed to stand still, and I was now sitting on an ER bed, waiting to be bandaged up, having had the lavage already—fancy word for rinse—when my phone rang. I answered without checking the caller ID because I was bored.
“Tracy, are you hurt?” Dimah asked, his accent thicker than usual, which happened when he was worried or stressed.
“I was grazed by a bullet, nothing serious.”
Silence.
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
“Yes, it is,” I assured him. “I’m just glad Marta is already out on maternity leave, and that Wednesdays are Sonja’s early days at school so she wasn’t there. You know I was thinking that until Marta gets back, we could use a temp to—”
“I will come there.”
“No, don’t. I’m fine, I promise.”
“I want to see for myself.”
“It’ll be a whole thing,” I warned him. “Agent Brandt is probably already on his way, right?”
“Your brother is no concern of mine.”
I sighed deeply. “I’ll come by as soon as I can, in two, three hours tops.”
“It is ten a.m. now. Do you expect me to wait so long to see you?”
“It’s hospital time,” I lamented. “You know. It’s like The Twilight Zone.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I want to see you.”
“And I appreciate that, but I don’t want to have the Alex-and-Dimah scene today. I’m not up for it.”
“Fine,” he said gruffly. “When you are done, wherever you are, I will be there.”
“You really—”
But he’d hung up, and calling him back would be useless. He never answered when he knew I was trying to tell him not to do something.
“Tracy?”
Looking up, I saw Katie Crenshaw, one of my ex’s best friends. They had come to the program at County together, interns who’d bonded right away. I had thought, after all the time we’d spent together, that she and I were better friends. But after my ex and I separated—almost six months ago now—she’d disappeared from my life.
“Hello,” I greeted her, trying to keep the coldness out of my tone.
She rushed to me, but when she reached for my face, I tipped away from her touch.
“I don’t deserve that,” she said flatly, a wounded look in her eyes.
“I already have a doctor.”
She took a quick breath and thrust a cordless phone at me—it looked like the one from the nurses’ station. I didn’t take it. There was no reason for me to do anything she asked.
“Please, Tracy, just talk to him.”
I took the phone and put it to my ear. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” Breckin Alcott, my ex, sounded scared. “What happened?”
I cleared my throat. “Bullet grazed me. It’s no big deal.”
His breath caught. “No big deal?”
“Really. Dr. Lin says I’ll be perfectly fine, with a nice scar to tell the tale.”
“You should see Amir Kattan in plastic—”
“I think a scar sounds romantic,” I said, talking over him.
“You—”
“I’m fine. Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you—”
“Wait.”
So I did. It was still a habit, listening to him. You didn’t stop doing something after two years together, even after a six-month moratorium.