Page 8 of The Devil’s Lair

“No, you fucking won’t.”

She arches a brow and angles her head to one side.

“If you’re thinking of punching me, I won’t tell.”

Her lips thin, and she heaves a sigh loaded with irritation. “It’s either a bedpan or you hold it. I don’t advise the latter.”

“But the bathroom is right there. I can make it with your help.” I ply her with my most beseeching look. “Please.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly exasperated with me. Wait until she’s suffered a few more days.

As though she’s read my mind, she says, “I can see I’m going to have trouble with you, young man.” That arm of hers hooks through mine again, and she hoists me to my feet. “Lean on me, and take it slow.”

“And here was me planning on sprinting the sixteen feet to the door.”

She ignores me, but I can tell she’s one quip away from applying for a transfer to another ward.

The bathroom has rails on either side of the loo for me to grip onto. I grab one and then the other. Once I’m steady, she lets me go. I expect her to leave. Instead, she stands there, hands on her hips.

“I’m good from here.”

“And if you fall and crack your head, I’m responsible. Pee, Mr. De Vil.”

“It’s Tobias, and peeing is a solo activity.”

She pulls in her lips and closes her eyes for a second. “I’ve been a nurse for twenty-three years. I’ve seen it all.”

“Not mine, you haven’t.”

“Believe me, it’s nothing special.”

“Ouch. That’s hurtful.”

“But true. Now, pee. You’re not my only patient.”

“I can’t do it when you’re watching.” I can, but I’m enjoying the banter far too much. Got to entertain myself somehow while I’m stuck in here.

Her pursed lips blow out a steady stream of air. “Fine. I’ll stand outside the door. It remains open,” she adds sternly.

“You’re all heart, Florence.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Better than Nurse Ratched.”

Her eyes flash. Ooh, that one hit home. She’s planning my murder for sure.

After lobbing a fierce glower in my direction, she leaves me to it. I finish up and even manage to wash my hands by bracing my stomach on the sink and sort of leaning into it. By the time I flop back into bed, though, I feel as if I’ve flat out sprinted for a solid five minutes with how much I’m panting and sweating.

“If you want the bedpan next time, press the buzzer.”

“Not a fucking chance,” I mutter.

“You’re a stubborn one.” A small smile lifts her lips. “That’s good for me.”

“How so?”

“Because you’ll be out of my hair sooner.”