Page 150 of Wicked Beats
“Sir, stay still!”
Fuck that.
I claw at the wires on my chest.
At the IV in my arm.
I need—my phone.
My Sunshine.
My voice comes out shredded.
“Hil—” I cough, spit. “Hilary?—”
A nurse shoves a straw toward my mouth.
“Sip slowly,” she orders, firm but not unkind.
I take a drag of water.
It burns going down.
My throat feels flayed.
I swallow again anyway.
Then I growl through it.
“Get me Hilary! Get my phone.”
The room goes still for half a beat.
A nurse glances at the chart.
“Hilary Sinclair?” she asks.
My heart slams.
I nod.
“Yes.”
My voice sounds so fucking raspy.
“She’s in chairs,” a nurse says to the man I’m assuming is the doctor.
In chairs?
She’s here.
She’s here.
Thank fuck.
Everything inside me surges at once.
She came.
