Page 21 of Storm's Deliverance

CHAPTER SEVEN

STORM

We driveto work in awkward silence. I didn’t want to talk to him, and he was nursing his hangover, knocking back painkillers and drinking a gallon of coffee. I caught his hand trembling out of the corner of my eye.

“You sure you’re okay to go into work today?” I ask. “It’s not like you can have a shaky-handed surgeon.”

“I’m fine. Just need to eat a big breakfast. Low sugar is all it is,” he snaps.

I don’t push it further as I pull into his parking spot, which is closer to the entrance, and kill the engine. “Are we okay?” I ask, concern in my gaze as I turn to him.

He sighs, rubbing his temple. “Yes, Jesus. I just feel a little rough, that’s all. Not everything needs to be a drama,” he huffs with annoyance.

My hand grips the steering wheel as I grind my teeth. “Well, then I will stop being a drama queen, even though my boyfriend clearly has a drink problem and likes to call me fucking horrendous names after he’s had a drink. But that’s all on me, right? And my fucking dramatics,” I rant, my patience snapping.

“Jesus fucking Christ, will you shut the fuck up?!” he roars. He flings his hand out, the back of his hand connecting with mycheek with force. My head whips to the side as pain ignites on my cheek. “Shit, Tori. I didn’t mean to, fuck,” he rushes out as he leans over me, cradling my face and sweeping my hair back. His eyes look over my cheek, and I assume the red mark that is now forming there. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was just moving my hands in frustration. I never meant to hit you. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he rasps.

I move slowly, removing his hands from my face. I don’t cry, and I don’t react. Instead, I reach into the back seat for my bag. My cheek is stinging as my hair lightly touches it.

“I have to get to work. I will pick you up after your meal,” I state flatly before getting out of the car. I hear him call after me, but I ignore him and head inside the hospital, going straight into the women’s bathroom to have a look at my face. If there is a mark, my family will be after blood. I wait until no one is in the bathroom and pull my hair back to inspect my cheek. It’s red and sore to touch. I dampen a paper towel with cold water and press it to my cheek, wincing as the coldness stings.

The door opens, and Val walks in; she’s my superior. Shit. Her sharp grey eyes land on me. “What happened?” she asks, marching over. Her warm face and curvy figure make her approachable to the kids; she’s like a fun, cuddly aunt. To the staff, she’s a firm take-no-shit boss.

“Nothing,” I mutter, knowing she won’t buy that answer.

She arches her brow at me. “I don’t have all day to listen to your lies. I need to know what happened if you are working on my floor. I can’t have the children scared of whatever mark is on your face. Now show me, and tell me exactly what happened,” she berates me.

I pause. “Zeke and I were having an argument in the car. He was getting angry and?—"

“He hit you?” she asks, cutting me off.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. He was getting aggravated, and when he was flailing his arms about, his hand connected with my face.”

“You don’t think so?” she counters.

“Well, it just kind of came out of nowhere,” I add. “He has never hit me.”

“But he has hurt you,” she presses. I open my mouth to say no, but then that night he shoved me, resulting in glass getting stuck in my back flashes in my mind. She reads my hesitancy. “Show me,” she presses.

“Look, Val, I’m a strong girl. I was raised by bikers. You’ve met my mother. If Zeke was really violent, then I wouldn’t be with him. I would be beating his ass,” I argue.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Just because you come from a family of badasses doesn’t mean you can’t be a victim of domestic abuse. Now show me,” she demands.

I sigh and turn my back to her, placing the wet paper towel on the sink before I grab the hem of my top and lift it. I hear her suck in a breath. “It’s not that bad. We had a fight. I pressed him, not backing up, and as he pushed me away, I lost my footing and fell backwards onto the glass coffee table,” I explain. I lower my top and turn back around to face her. “Please don’t overthink this. It’s nothing. I wouldn’t let him hurt me on purpose,” I clarify, because both times had been accidents. He hadn’t meant to push me onto the coffee table, and he hadn’t meant to hit me in the car. It was a small space. He was lost, ranting. The only thing that needed sorting in our relationship was his drinking, but after tonight I would tell him he needs to go to therapy. Not just for me, but for his patients, too.

“Your cheek shouldn’t bruise too much. What are you going to tell your family? If you can’t convince me that this isn’t domestic violence, then how exactly do you plan on convincingyour parents? Because something tells me that your mom would kill him,” she points out, folding her arms over her chest.

“I will just say it was a kid having a seizure, and I got caught.” I shrug. “And you are right. I can’t tell her, or any of them. For Zeke’s safety, if anything,” I say, pleading in my eyes.

“Fine, but I am watching you and him. If I think for one second that he will hurt you again, I’m reporting him to the board, police, and your family.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Don’t thank me. Now, your shift started five minutes ago,” she says, looking down at her watch.

I give her a small smile. “Right, sorry,” I rush out. Grabbing my bag, I rush past her and start my shift.

I parkup at the compound, grinning from ear to ear as I see Enzo standing outside having a smoke. Getting out of the car, I go to hug him, but he holds his hand up, frowning, flicking his cigarette away before he reaches his hand up, sliding my hair out of my face.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, his voice a low thunderous growl, sounding just like our dad.

“It’s nothing.” I take a step back, tucking my hair behind my ear. I look down at the gravelled ground, rolling a stone under my booted foot. “Some kid had a seizure. I wasn’t quick enough to move out of the way.” I shrug.