Page 13 of Micah
I spend fifteen minutes opening up, giving curt nods to the other guys as they trickle in, keeping watch at the front door. Something is very wrong. She’s had a rough go of it, but that woman has a backbone of steel. No way would she just take off. I pull out my phone and text Becca.
Me:Holly’s not here. What’s her address?
I’m kicking myself. The day Holly’s piece of shit ex pulled a knife on us, I actually got to drive her home. But I was freaking the fuck out, because I just realized seeing Holly every day lights up my fucking life. The idea of her hurt just gutted me. So when I drove her home that night, it was with wild thoughts spinning in my head. Thoughts about what she dealt with during her marriage. How she might have been hurt. I followed her whispered directionsleft, right, right, left, and by the time I made it back home that night, I had no idea where I’d been.
I wait a minute, but when I don’t get a response from Becca, I pull up the group text with my brothers.
Me:911. I need Holly’s address.
The first set of dots appear right away. A moment of relief washes over me. I’m going to find her.
Declan:2 minutes.
That’s how 911 works. We may fuck around and annoy the shit out of each other, but 911 means drop everything. And we do. Doesn’t matter why. If a brother texts 911, it means it’s important to him. I might not have said anything, but we gossip worse than a group of teenage girls, so I’m sure they all know I’m obsessed with her. Plus, she’s one of ours. We take care of our own.
Ransom:What’s wrong?
Maverick:Is she ok?
Declan:Fuck no she’s not.
My heart fucking stops when I click the link he sends through. It’s a news article about an early morning apartment fire, the picture showing the blackened skeleton of a clearly shitty apartment building, firetrucks and ambulances in the foreground. Bile crawls up the back of my throat.
Me:Where is she? Tell me Dec.
Declan:Found her listed at Mercy. Head to Emerg.
I’m already running to my car, catching one last text before I pull out like a bat out of hell.
Ransom:I’ll meet you there
The waitingroom is packed with people, a lot of them still in their pyjamas. Some are softly crying, others look shell-shocked. The smell of smoke is heavy in the air.
My eyes pick through the bodies, locking on every blonde head before moving on in disappointment. If she’s not here, that means she’s back there, where the people more badly injured would be.
My hands are shaking as I approach the front desk and the annoyed looking woman behind it. Her eyes widen as I walk up to her, taking in my enormous frame in my plain white t-shirt and jeans. I open up my mouth and say two words to her. The two words I practiced the whole way over. Because the way I’m feeling right now, if I don’t, I might stutter or not be able to get them out at all. Not going to fucking happen. This is too important.
“Holly Clarke.” I have to force the words out, but not because my brain is scrambling them, but because of the lump in my throat. The woman drops her eyes.
“Are you family?” She asks curtly. I knew that question was coming. And I practiced that too.
I nod, “Fiancé.” I’m not even a tiny bit guilty for the lie. Holly has no one. No emergency contacts, no other friends but us. She needs me. So I’ll say whatever I have to in order to get to her.
Suddenly the energy in the room shifts, voices dropping to a hush, and I take my first full breath since I got to the garage this morning and found it still dark. The heavy hand landing on my shoulder sends a wave of relief down my back.
Ransom’s here.
My aphasia is a fucking pain in my ass most days, but when my emotions are high? When it’s a fucking emergency? It can be a huge barrier. If I can’t pull out my phone to type or find a paper and pen, I’m fucked.
It’s worse if I’m the patient. People barking questions at me and not getting answers. I’ve been talked to like I’m stupid by more than one doctor. The last time it happened, over a decade ago, Ransom lost his shit. My brain damage doesn’t affect my intelligence, just my ability to verbalize my thoughts. I can handle my shit as long as I’m given the opportunity. So Ransom insisted I wear the medic alert bracelet he had made for me. I run my fingers down the silver links; the action calms me. I haven’t taken it off since the day he gave it to me. It’s more familiar to me than anything else I’ve ever worn.
So having my brother here? Someone who would intimidate the most hardcore Navy General, is a welcome relief. “Ransom,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off the top of the nurse’s head. He squeezes my shoulder in response. Finally, she raises her head, eyes widening.
I know what she sees. Tall, hard, powerful men, loaded with muscle, dark hair, dark eyes. We look like blood brothers. But instead of the $100 outfit I’m wearing, he’s got on a ten-thousand dollar suit. The damn cufflinks on the suit are worth double that. He wears it like it’s his birthright, even though I know he’d rather be in sweats. But Ransom lives by a simple premise ‘money is power’, hence the power suits. They’ve opened more doors for us than I can even count, so none of us question them. I’m sure he just walked out of an important meeting, and did it without a second’s thought. That’s how we roll in our family.
“Holly Clarke,” I prompt the woman again, frustrated that she’s still staring at us. Ransom’s face is stern. He raises an eyebrow at her and her face flushes.
“B…Bed twenty-three”. I tap the desk in thanks and beeline for the security doors. “Only one visitor, sir—”. I look back, a small grin crossing my face at the look Ransom gives her. She stutters to a stop, glancing between us then nodding at the security guard, who opens the door and lets us both through.
