Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“My pleasure,” he tells me, and as he makes his way back down the hall, I hook my arms around the back of his neck, more than ready to spend the rest of my sleepless night losing myself to him.
32
HARPER-RAYN
As everybody slips out of the morgue for lunch on Tuesday, I glance up at today’s protection detail, Hunter Olsen. “How do you feel about taking a walk up to the patient wards?” I ask, already feeling guilty for even considering taking this poor, innocent soul anywhere near my mother, but I can’t help it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my baby sister. I need to know how she’s doing.
Hunter shrugs as though he couldn’t care less. “Lead the way,” he tells me in a gruff tone that makes me wonder if he’s Diesel’s clone. They look nothing alike, but damn, their attitudes are identical.
If I had to guess, I would say that Hunter is mid to late twenties, my age, maybe, and as far as I can tell, he seems to have his shit together. He’s that guy who just wants to go to work, get his shit done, and then go home to chill out. He doesn’t want to be involved in other people’s drama or get roped into bullshit that he doesn’t belong in. I haven’t seen him in action yet, but considering he’s one of Knight’s men, I can only assume he’s a force to be reckoned with.
“I have to warn you, it’s my mom I’m going to see, and I can assure you, it’s not going to be pretty.”
“Not my business,” he says.
I nod and indicate with a flick of my chin for him to follow along, and before I know it, we’re weaving our way through the long corridors of Blackstone Private Hospital, passing colleagues and friends that I would have been more than happy to avoid. I know a lot of these people were part of the team that nursed me back to health after Elias stabbed me, but before that, I was the crazy morgue girl who was committed to a seventy-two-hour psych hold, and despite being released and sent on my way with a pat on the back, the whispers are hard to ignore.
As we approach her door, an ugly nervousness begins creeping through me, filling my veins until I’m slowing my pace, not having the nerves to even reach for the handle.
“Chin up,” Hunter tells me. “Don’t let her see you weak.”
My gaze shifts up to his, and I arch a brow, a deep curiosity booming through me, and he simply shrugs again. “I come from a long line of lawyers, and I’m nothing but a measly SWAT officer who gets shot at every day. Trust me, I know a thing or two about dealing with shitty parents.”
I grin. “Remind me to dive deeper into that childhood trauma when we get back down in the morgue.”
Hunter scoffs and folds himself into one of the uncomfortable chairs lining the hallway. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”
I can’t help but laugh. Knight would be proud of him, keeping his focus on the task at hand and not allowing me to distract him with irrelevant bullshit to pass the time. He’s the perfect little soldier.
Putting his advice into practice, I hold my chin up high and remind myself that I’m here for one reason, and one reason only, and just like Hunter, I won’t allow myself to get lost in somebody else’s bullshit drama. With my new resolve, I suddenly feel a wave of bravery crashing through me, and I reach for the door before stepping straight into the room, not bothering to knock.
Mom sits up in bed, and despite the cuts and bruises covering her face, she wears a full face of makeup along with her most expensive jewelry, which raises the question: How the hell did she get them? Does she have some poor pool boy running errands for her? Or is this the doing of her friend’s husband? Her hair has been perfectly blown out, her nails manicured, and all I can do is gape. How the hell did she manage this bullshit? She has a private room with her own little bathroom. She could have easily spent the last few hours chilling in there while focusing on her vanity, but the nails? That’s a professional job. Surely she requested her nail technician to visit her here. But more than that, who the hell is she trying to impress? We’re in a hospital, for fuck’s sake.
“Mother,” I say, striding deeper into the room.
“Oh,” she says, feigning shock. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I assumed you were still busy having one of your little tantrums.”
I blow out a breath as I collect the chart off the end of her bed, scanning over the details and seeing nothing that particularly interests me. From a brief glance, it appears she’s doing just fine, and considering the effort it would have taken for her to give herself a blowout, I’d dare say she’s recovering well. Not that I care, of course.