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A sniff and dismissive shrug. “You and I never saw eye to eye, but Luke loved me and I loved him.” She tossed the card in the wastepaper basket. “Luke wouldn’t have wanted me to give up his sister.” Allie’s gaze skewered back to Jo. “You’re in luck. I nearly threw the last of his paperwork out last week.” She tapped her watch face. “Ten minutes. And then I never want to see you again.”
2
Griff narrowed his eyes at the metal plate and bolts holding his shoulder in one piece like he was half android or some shit. His hands formed knots in his lap. As he swallowed, the pungent scent of antiseptic stung the back of his throat and left a weird taste in his mouth.
Mr. J.T. Rogan, orthopedic surgeon according to the curved embroidery across his chest pocket, tapped the screen detailing the metal scaffolding securing his shattered scapula. Mister. Since when did medics stop being doctors? Rogan shook his head. “The surgery was a success, but this was a complex fracture.” He aimed a severe expression at Griff over the top of his glasses. “Impatience is not your friend.”
Griff probed fingertips into his temple, attempting to soften the scowl the medic’s words triggered. Rogan's desk was a mess, covered with all kinds of crap. A drug company mug. A working model of the human knee. Overflowing pen pot. All the paraphernalia of a medic’s life that only reminded Griff of why he chose to spend every minute outdoors where the wind could sweep away the detritus of the world and leave his mind scrubbed clean. How could the man even think with all this shit going on?
“You need to give this time to fully heal. It can take twelve months for things to fully settle. Then we’ll have a better idea of the final prognosis.”
Griff’s hands stiffened. Twelve months? What the fuck? He straightened in his chair, leveled his gaze at Rogan. “You said the surgery was successful.”
“Yes, it was.” Rogan turned off the X-ray screen and sat back down at his desk. “We repaired the damage, and…” He steepled his fingers together. “I am delighted with your range of movement—”
“So when can I climb?”
Rogan sighed and nudged his glasses higher on his nose. A bemused smile appeared on his face. “Let’s not jump the gun here. Climbing is another situation entirely and whether the repair will withstand that kind of demand, I can’t say. Time will tell. For everyday demands, your shoulder will be fine. You’re retired from special forces, aren’t you, so…”
Rogan’s voice faded, consumed by the thunder of blood in Griff’s ears.
Fine for everyday living? What Rogan didn’t understand was that climbing was his everyday living. Without climbing he was as good as dead, it was the only thing keeping him sane, had done since he was a kid and had first discovered the local climbing gym as a sanctuary from the relentless toxicity between his parents.
“Look,” Griff interrupted.
Rogan stopped mid-word, his mouth gaping like a goldfish.
Griff’s world skewed as if shifting on its axis. Dizziness washed through him. “Can I climb or not?”
Rogan leaned back in his chair, making the leather creak. “I wouldn’t advise that kind of abuse right now. But work is good for you, physically and mentally.”
Abuse? It wasn’t abuse. It was his life. It kept him sane. It was his reason to get up every morning. Color bled from the room, leaving his world in shades of gray. Was there a way back from this?
The doctor handed him a slip of pink paper. “This prescription…”
More fucking drugs. I already rattle when I walk.
Griff pocketed the scrap of paper, not caring that he crushed it as he rammed it into his pocket. The urge to sweep all the crap from Rogan’s desk was intense. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Nyland. I can arrange—”
“I have to go.”
Griff stormed from the room, the muscles of his chest locked around his racing heart. It was impossible to breathe. He needed air. He broke into a jog, taking the stairs to the ground floor, where he crashed through the main entrance doors into the afternoon sunshine.
He gasped, sucking in fresh air, cleansing the sanitized crap from his lungs, willing his heart to slow as the edges of the world around him fuzzed. His hands opened and closed at his side of their own accord, but slowly the gray haze clouding his vision cleared a little.
Across the parking lot, a bulky figure resting against the hood of a ridiculously large truck with ramped up suspension raised a hand.
Abe.
Griff had accepted his offer of a lift to the hospital, fully expecting it to be the last time someone would give him a ride and that he could share his good news with his friend—that his shoulder had healed and his life could return to normal.
How could he have been so naïve? Griff took slow steps away from the hospital, hands stressed bolts in his pocket as he crossed the lot to where Abe was making eyes at two nurses getting out of a nearby battered saloon.
Abe said something to the nurses Griff couldn’t catch, and the women laughed, throwing appreciative glances over their shoulders as they headed to work.
A ladies’ man through and through. Griff didn’t know how Abe managed to get through so many women and still keep them all sweet. It certainly wasn’t a skill Griff possessed or envied. He had no need to. Climbing, the freedom to lose himself in the wilds of nature, had provided everything his soul needed and more.
