“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I use the bedsheet to wipe my eyes. “No. He told me he’s willing to pay a portion for every event I attend with Spencer.”
Curran jerks up. “And what did you say to that?”
I ease into a sitting position, the stress and my exhaustion hitting me all at once. “I told him that I’d rather be in debt than ever do anything for him again.”
“What happened after that?” he asks when I pause.
He’s furious. And while I know his anger isn’t directed at me, it’s still hard to tell him what my father did. “He chased me into the stairwell, demanding that I reconsider. I know I shouldn’t have been in there, but I was trying to get away from him.”
Curran’s breaths release in short bursts. “Did he…did he push you?”
I nod, slowly.
“That son of a bitch.”
I snatch his arm when he tries to leave. “Baby, wait. I don’t know if he was trying to hurt me, or if he was upset and reacted—”
“I don’t care. He has no right putting his hands on you—or harassing you—or trying to pimp you out. Christ, do you realize what could have happened—what he could have cost us?”
“I do,” I say, my welling tears keeping him in place.
Something in my expression softens his. He returns to the bed, gathering me close. “Tell me what happened. All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”
His tone, while quiet, holds so much anger I can feel it. Just as I feel his warmth as he holds me. “Everything happened so fast,” I admit. “But he saw me fall, and he saw me hurt. And he didn’t help me. I was lying there, barely moving, and all he could think about was himself.” I sigh. “I don’t ever want to see him again.”
“Then you won’t.” His voice is absolute. I don’t have to convince him of anything.
I expect Curran to push for more information, and I expect him to tell me to press charges. But he doesn’t, and stays quiet. Maybe he realizes that more than anything now, I need him to lie beside me and comfort me with his presence.
I remember him cradling me against his broad chest. But I don’t remember sleeping. Yet I know I did, feeling that same security I’ve always felt in his arms.
—
The incoming nurse wakes me to check my vital signs sometime around eight. “Everything appears to be within normal limits,” she says. “I’ll phone the doctor and let her know. If she’s comfortable with her findings, she’ll probably send you home after your ultrasound.”
I rub my tired eyes, thankful there’s no evidence of any further bleeding. “Do you know how long it will be before she arrives?”
She makes a face. “I’m afraid it might be a few hours. She was paged to assist in an emergency surgery, and has several patients to round on.”
I rub Curran’s thigh when she leaves and motion to the tray of food in front of me. “Are you hungry?”
He frowns. “Yeah, but that’s for you.”
“I don’t feel like eating.”
“Tess,” he says.
“I’m serious—I’m feeling nauseous.” I try to smile. “But that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”
“That doesn’t mean I like it,” he tells me. “When was the last time you ate? It wasn’t dinner, ’cause I was here and you barely had more than two bites.” He slips his arm around me when I don’t answer. “I need you to be all right, you hear me? That’s not going to happen unless you eat.”
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t inspire my appetite, especially when Curran lifts the lid and shows me my not-so-spectacular feast. I cringe from it, fighting not to become ill. “It’s sausage and pancakes. It’ll be good for you,” he insists.
“It’s too heavy. Why don’t you eat it? You didn’t eat dinner either.”
He covers the food again. “What will you eat?”