Page 45 of None Of Your Business

“No.”

I can’t risk going to the ER and having Beckett as my treating doctor. I’m not ready to open that can of worms.

He crouches in front of me again, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “You don’t want Beckett involved.”

It’s not a question.

I stare at him, concerned by how well he can read me. “You’re not going to ask why?”

He holds my gaze. “You don’t want to tell me.”

Everything inside me goes strangely quiet. I don’t know what to do with that.

“Another hospital,” he says quietly. “You get evaluated, and if you’re cleared, I’ll take you home.”

I narrow my eyes. “And you won’t call Beckett?”

“Not unless I have a medical reason to believe you can’t make decisions for yourself.”

I look down at the blood on my hands. “I’ve done this before. Passed out and hit my head.”

“Then stop telling me you’re fine when you’re bleeding on the fucking floor.”

He might be a little angry with me, but he’s also right, and I hate when that happens.

I turn to Alex. “If I agree to get checked out, can everybody stop acting like I’m about to die?”

Alex smiles. “Sure, but I can make no promises about him.” He nods toward Hudson.

Hudson doesn’t look remotely amused.

Thirteen

I spend three hours at the hospital, which includes five neurological checks, one CT scan, and my wound sealed with surgical glue. When the doctor asks if anyone can stay with me for a few hours, Hudson mistakenly says he can.

After twenty minutes of silent treatment in the car ride home—minutes he claims are the most peaceful he’s had all evening—he practically carries me to my sofa.

Once he bullies me into taking a handful of salty pretzels and two painkillers the hospital sent me home with, the world finally begins to blur.

Exhaustion hits in a slow, heavy wave that softens the edges of my vision. I keep drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, surfacing every few minutes to the dull throb at my temple and the reminder that there is a very large man in my living room.

Every time I open my eyes, Hudson is still there.

At some point, he picks up one of my art history books, leans back in the armchair, and slides a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses onto his face.

I’d like to rim him.

Oh my God. Where did that come from?

Maybe some light pegging?

What is wrong with me?

What kind of kinks do these prescription medications cause a person to develop?

“I like your rims,” I hear myself mumble.

Before I can see his reaction or pretend I was talking about his car, the medication pulls me back under.