“He’s awake. He’s…oh my god, he’s awake! What should I do?” Lacey panicking.
Something cool and firm touches my forehead, and then my eyelids are being prised open and a bright light is being shone directly into them. I fight to get them closed again. “Mother. Fucker,” I groan.
“And there he is. So eloquent,” Sloane says. There’s a hint of amusement in her voice.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” I growl.
“Not kill you. Merely encourage you to drag your lazy ass back into the land of the living.” I open my eyes of my own volition, and she’s there sitting on the edge of the bed, a small flashlight resting on her lap. “Headache?” she asks.
I could tell her that it feels like someone’s been stomping on my skull for the past god knows how long, but instead I just give a sharp nod. Even that sends a wave of nausea rolling through me.
“You’re dehydrated. I have you on a drip, but it’s probably not enough. Here.” She holds out a glass of water and my stomach fucking balks at the thought of drinking it. She’s right, though; I have to drink. I reach for it and my hand snags—there’s a cannula in the back of my fucking hand. No fucking thank you. I yank it out, and Sloane makes a half-hearted protest. I toss it onto the bed, saline leaking out onto the covers, and I take the glass of water from her.
It takes considerable effort to try and keep my hand from shaking as I drink. Fuck, it takes considerable effort not to drop the damn glass altogether. I may not have wanted it a moment ago, but as soon as the water touches my lips I can’t stop myself. The liquid tastes better than any beer or spirit I’ve ever drunk.
“Steady. Slow down. You drink too quickly, you’ll make yourself sick,” Sloane says.
I stop gulping down the water and place it on the small side table beside my bed. I have about thirty different questions slamming around inside my head and I’m determined to ask all of them, but as soon as I take a proper look at Sloane all of that changes. The sun’s shining down through the skylight above my bed, lighting up the haze of individual hairs that stick up around her head, escaped from the pencil that’s doing a half-assed job of holding her hair back. I just sit there and stare at her for a moment. I’ve nearly died a couple of times now, but I’ve never experienced this kind of fucked-up emotion before now. I’ve only been interested in getting up and moving so I can find the asshole that tried to end me so I could get revenge. This situation isn’t like that. Right now, I’m simply filled with relief. Relief that I get to see the woman sitting on the edge of my bed again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Lace is leaning against the wall, the cuffs of the sweater she’s wearing—mine—dangling way past her hands. She’s swamped in the thing. And she looks pale, too; way paler than she should be. This whole thing, me getting stabbed, it’s the stupidest fucking thing, and it looks like these women have been suffering for it. That makes me feel pretty fucking shitty.
“Your parents,” I say, glancing at Sloane.
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “They’re fine. I couldn’t handle leaving them at home, not with Charlie knowing where to get to them, so I paid for them to go on vacation. They’re soaking up the sun for two weeks in the Caribbean as we speak.”
Hmmm. Smart. That means I have two weeks to deal with Charlie before they’re in any sort of danger again. “How long? How long have I been out?” I ask.
“Four days.” Sloane bends and picks up a small plate with some dry biscuits on it. She offers it out to me, but I shake my head.
“I was in a coma for four days?”
She laughs at this, offering the plate to Lacey, who takes one of the biscuits and dutifully bites into the brittle thing. Maybe they’re trying to lead by example but there’s no way I’m putting that dusty looking shit in my mouth.
“Not in a coma,” Sloane says. “You were running a high fever. Makes you incoherent. Sleep for long stretches at a time.” She smirks. “But you were in and out for a while there.”
I don’t even wanna know why she’s finding that so entertaining. I was probably clucking like a chicken or some shit. Hopefully Michael’s been busy or he’ll have recorded the whole fucking thing on his cell phone. Asshole.
As if on cue, the door to my room opens and the man himself walks in. His suit jacket’s missing and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. “Finally,” is all he says.
“Yeah. Finally.”
“Sloane said you’d wake up properly today,” Lacey whispers, inching closer. She hovers for a second before obviously giving in and deciding the hell with it. She perches carefully on the edge of the bed on the opposite side to Sloane. “She hasn’t left your side,” she says, nodding to Sloane. “It’s all been very Florence Nightingale.”