One Weekend with the Billionaire novel Chapter 91

I am floating. I don’t feel as if I have a body anymore. I am only a spirit, hovering above the earth a little ways. I can’t feel a single thing--not my hands or feet or inner organs. Even my head feels lighter than air. My memory is hazy, and all I can recall is that something awful has happened. For a few moments, I try to remember if there’s a chance I am actually dead, and I feel like I am hovering above the ground because I am doing just that.

Slowly, the memories come back to me. Just as they sink into my mind, reminding me about the window, about the pain and the blood, about the horror of seeing Jeff lying there, not on top of the car but partially through the roof of the vehicle, the feeling of my body begins to sink in as well. I can feel my eyelashes fluttering on my cheeks as I attempt to open my eyes. I can feel my hand resting on something soft. A bed, I think. My legs are stiff. My other hand… I can’t feel it at all. It’s as if I only have one now.

Remembering what happened, how the glass cut into my flesh, I open my eyes in a panic. Is it possible they’ve taken my hand? I hear the beeping of the machines and know that I’m in the hospital. Did they remove my hand?

I see it, even though I still can’t feel it. It’s wrapped in a million layers of gauze, but it’s still attached. I let out a sigh, thankful it isn’t as bad as my mind let me think it could be. I look around the dark room and see that I am alone and wonder where Stringer is. Has he called Braxton? Do my parents know? Then, I wonder where Jeff is, and tears sting my eyes. I don’t know how much time has passed or whether or not it is easy to remove a body that has been embedded in the roof of a car, but I can’t imagine it is an easy task. Will there be a criminal investigation that calls for him to have to remain there for hours while they take pictures and document everything? I hope not. If anyone is going to be accused of a crime, it’s likely me, and I haven’t done anything wrong. He fell.

"You kicked him." I hear a voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I did kick Jeff while he was hanging on to me. I kicked him twice. I had no choice. He was trying to pull me down with him. What else was I supposed to do? Still… there were witnesses on the ground. Will they say that I forced him off of me? Stringer was there. He would clear it up, wouldn’t he?

Before I can answer my own questions, the door opens and a woman dressed in pink scrubs comes in. "Oh, good. You’re awake. How are you feeling, Julia?"

I am just glad she hasn’t called me, "Mrs. Thompson." I don’t ever want to be called that again. "I’m okay," I tell her. My voice is raspy. My throat is dry.

She recognizes this and lifts a cup of water with a straw to my lips. I lean up slightly and take a sip. The water is cool and refreshing. I’d like to drink all of it down, but I wonder about going to the bathroom. Deciding they’ve probably inserted a dreaded catheter, I drink some more. Once I’ve had my fill, I let the straw go, and she sits the cup down. "I’ll let Dr. Howard know you’re awake. You have a few visitors waiting for you as well."

"Did they do surgery on my hand?" I ask. "I can’t feel it."

"That’s the medicine, sweetie," she says. She might be old enough to be my mother, but I’m not sure. She isn’t particularly old, but she does have a few laugh lines around her mouth and a few crow’s feet framing her eyes. "Yes, you had surgery, but they expect everything to be fine. I’ll let Dr. Howard explain everything. She’ll be in shortly." She smiles reassuringly and pats my leg.

I thank her, and watch her go out, hoping Dr. Howard doesn’t stay long. One of those visitors has to be Braxton, doesn’t it? Surely, he’s not so angry at me for walking out that he wouldn’t come to see me in the hospital. For a moment, I think about what will happen if he doesn’t want me back. Tears sting my eyes. My emotions are all over the place.

The door opens again and a petite woman with short blonde hair wearing a lab coat walks in. "Mrs. Thompson," she says, picking up my chart. I cringe inwardly at that name. Her bedside manner isn’t particularly great as she asks me questions about my pain level and whether or not I can move my hand. She checks a few machines, takes some notes on the chart, and then says, "Looks good. I’ll be back later." She hangs my chart up and walks out, having told me next to nothing.

I take a deep breath and wait for the nurse to come back. Hopefully, she’ll let me know when I can see whomever is waiting for me. I wonder if anyone has called my parents….