Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“The little hole here.” I raise my hand, though it takes a ton of effort, and point to my own ear.
“Oh. It’s called a preauricular pit. Some people say they might be a birth defect; other people say they’re some remnant of gills.”
“Gills? Did people ever have those?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Does anyone really know? I like the idea of it. It gives mermaid. Movies with mermaids were always my favorite when I was a kid.”
Her grin is so wide that a dimple appears on her left cheek.
Huh. I didn’t know she had dimples. I also didn’t realize my cock could go from being as sick as the rest of me to semi-hard. That’s the best it can do, and thank fuck, because I’m in boxers under a thin blanket. It would be like a high school gym class nightmare all over again. High school? I guess I didn’t really go to that after I was sixteen, but I think it still counts. While working hard to get our music heard, Matt and I both took classes online so we could graduate.
“If we’re doing the IV, I need to go wash up and get gloves on.”
Ugh, we’re circling back to this. “Are you good at it?” I know she’s good at it. She’s probably good at anything and everything she tries.
I was going to wonder what the fuck is up with my cock pulling a stunt like it’s trying to do, but talk of shoving that needle into my hand cures me quickly.
“I’m not bad at it,” she says.
“How many tries will it take?”
“One. I won’t do it unless I’m sure I can get it on the first go, okay?”
What choice do I have? Well, I did have one. I had the choice not to eat those fucking chicken tenders. Or more like chicken untenders. They were harder than blocks of wood and chewier than taking a bite out of the bus tire, and I still stood there gnawing at them like jerky until I could swallow them down.
I can’t cancel the show. It’s just not an option. It would be a terrible way to end a tour, and if this is it for our band, then I have this one last show. I want to make it as good as it can be. But right now, I can barely get myself uncurled or raise my head. It even hurts to blink. I need to get some rest, and I need to get hydrated.
“Alright,” I grumble. I don’t have to list my reasons. Carissa already knows.
She leaves, but only for a few minutes. I watch her tug those sterile blue gloves on, and then I wait. I do stick my hand out while she unpacks everything, but I keep my face turned away, tucked into the crook of my arm.
“Do you want me to walk you through it or just do it?”
“I… uh… this is so embarrassing.”
She clears her throat sharply. “Trauma isn’t embarrassing. A lot of people don’t like these, even if they have no reason to be afraid of them. I’m not a fan of them myself. Some people say they don’t hurt, but I find they do. They make my arm ache like I’ve got a chill in my bones.”
“The good old lesser evil. Don’t count me down. Just prep it and do it, and I’ll try not to fight you.”
“You’re going to fight me? Like take a swing or just try and jerk your hand away to take the path of least resistance?”
“Change my mind halfway through it and try to take the least resistance. If I look at it, I’m going to tear it out after. Can you wrap it in something?”
“That’s more common than you know. Other people say that too. I’ve had the urge myself. But please don’t do that. If you’re experiencing pain or you really hate it, tell me and let me take it out. Don’t yank it and cause a bloodbath in here.”
“They spray, don’t they?”
“They can. And I don’t want it to look like I murdered you. I already feel terrible about you being this sick and me having to hurt you.” Her voice changes, getting heavier, and it’s laced with pain. It sounds a lot like how my grandma used to sound when she’d tell me something serious, and all the love and care she had for me would shine on her face.
“It’s okay,” I mumble. “Not your fault.” That sounds half assed, like it is her fault, so I keep going. “It really isn’t. Thank you for helping me. I was against hiring you, but the higher-ups were fucking adamant.” Nice. So complimentary. Keep going. Deeper. Dig that hole. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve helped so many people out when they hurt themselves, and you were there for me when I needed you most. Even when you’re not bandaging people up, you’re part of this team. We need your smiles and your laughter and the way you help people talk through their problems. By being on these tours, you’ve changed a lot of lives and impacted a lot of people.”