Apparently Isabella had been extracting promises from everyone.
“How are you?” Sherri asked. Izzy, mesmerized by the television, gave her a thumbs-up. Sherri raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. She laughed. “I guess I’ll just go put these in the freezer.”
Painter’s phone went off, and he stepped out to answer it. I cuddled closer to my girl, resting my eyes for a second. I hadn’t slept for shit last night—I knew very well that a tonsillectomy was no big deal, but when it’s your own kid going under, you tend to worry.
“Mel? Can you come out into the living room?” Painter asked, popping his head back in. “We need to talk.”
Kissing Izzy again, I followed him out.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Duck,” he said? his voice grim. “Apparently he’s decided he wants to rake leaves. That was Deanna on the phone—Pic told her to call me if he tried to pull anything.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s way too soon after his heart attack—not only are his ribs fucked, but the artery in his groin can’t take that kind of pressure. If it blows, he’ll bleed out in minutes. There won’t be time to save him.”
“No shit,” he said, sighing. “I’m gonna run out there, check on him. Will you stick by the phone in case I need any medical advice?”
“Of course. You know, if he’s being that big of a jerk, you should have him talk to me. I’ve seen people bleed out—it’s not pretty. There’s a lot of blood in the human body, and once it starts spraying from an artery, you’re up a creek unless you get damned lucky. He can’t fuck around with this.”
“What’s going on?” Sherri asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Duck.”
“Duck?”
“One of the brothers in the club,” Painter said. “The one who had the heart attack—he’s decided he wants to do some lawn work.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked. “That was what, three days ago?”
“Yeah, I know,” Painter replied, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m heading out. Stay by the phone.”
“Call me after you see him. I want to know he’s all right.”
“Sure thing.”
He dropped a kiss on my forehead, then grabbed his keys and walked out the door. Seconds later I heard the roar of his bike.
“That’s insane,” Sherri growled. “Men are so stupid. The ribs alone should be enough to convince him to take it easy . . .”
“Tell me about it. I’m gonna go check on Izzy.”
Back in the bedroom, I found Isabella sound asleep in the middle of the bed. The blue Popsicle had fallen down next to her, melting over my sheet. It looked like a Smurf had died there. Grabbing some tissues, I scooped it up and carried it back into the kitchen.
“She’s out,” I told Sherri. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Always,” she replied. “And we should talk. I have hot new gossip—remember how we’re supposed to get a new cardiologist? Well I heard . . .”
? ? ?
An hour later I knew more about the new cardiologist than I ever wanted to know, up to and including his blood type. Literally. He was O negative—a universal donor—which apparently he liked to brag about.
What I didn’t know was how Duck was doing. It should’ve taken Painter fifteen minutes to get out there at most.
“I’m going to call him.”
“The cardiologist?” Sherri asked. “Okay, his number is—”
“No, Painter,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although maybe you should call Dr. Love Nuts and ask him out on a date. You’re obviously obsessed with him.”
She flipped me off as I grabbed my phone, and I returned the gesture out of habit. Hitting Painter’s number, I waited for him to pick up.
Nothing.
That was weird.