32. Sutton

32

SUTTON

Everything hurt. It was like the time I’d gone body surfing in Maryland and ended up tumbling against the rocks. But this time, I had the migraine of a lifetime on top of it. I should’ve been grateful they’d at least turned the lights down in the ER bay. But that was only after Cope had barked so ferociously that the nurse had almost wet himself.

I had a feeling it was also Cope’s presence that had landed us in a closed room instead of one of those curtained-off areas like most people got. But I couldn’t be sorry for it. Not when it meant less noise and light.

Cope’s thumb stroked the back of my hand, the pattern resembling a figure eight. “The doctor should’ve been back by now. MRI results don’t take that long.” He released his hold on me and shoved to his feet. “I’m going to go find him and?—”

“Cope.” My voice was a touch raspy thanks to the strangling I’d received, but that had nothing on the new stitches I sported on my forehead .

He turned back to me, a mixture of agony and fury in his eyes. “They need to get you meds.”

“They’re moving as fast as they can. There may be people here who need their attention more than I do.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because a muscle in his cheek began to flutter wildly. “Then they should hire more staff,” he spat between gritted teeth.

As if he’d conjured the doctor with his annoyance alone, the door swung open, and a man in a white lab coat with an unnaturally orange tan stepped inside. “How’s my patient?”

The over-the-top smile Dr. Bentley sent my way had Cope full-on growling in his direction. The doctor’s grin faltered.

“Where are her pain meds?” Cope snarled.

Dr. Bentley patted his pocket, his blinding smile returning. “Right here. We got the results from the MRI and X-ray. There are no signs of fracture, bleeding in the brain, or traumatic brain injury.”

That muscle in Cope’s cheek began to flutter wildly again. “So, give her the damn drugs and help her pain.”

“Cope,” I chastised gently.

He cut his gaze to me. “You’ve been lying here in agony for hours while they walk around with their thumbs up their asses.”

I heard it in his voice then: the strain and how desperately he was trying to stay in control. I didn’t blame him. He might be acting like a grouchy bear currently, but it was because he was freaked. I couldn’t say I would’ve been much different if I’d found him unconscious and bleeding from the head.

Dr. Bentley bristled. “I am the head of this ER. I don’t have my thumb stuck anywhere. Patients beg for me to treat them. I am known far beyond this county?—”

“Doc,” Cope snarled. “Give her the meds.”

“He meant to add please onto that,” I cut in.

The doctor turned to me and let out a huff. “I know professional athletes have tempers, but this is ridiculous.”

I sent Cope a look to keep him in check. Whatever I’d managed despite the throbbing in my head seemed to work .

Dr. Bentley donned gloves and then removed a syringe from his pocket. He uncapped it and slid the needle into the IV tubing. “This will start you out with a stronger dose of pain medication. Are you nauseous at all?”

“A little,” I admitted.

He pulled out another syringe. “I’m going to give you some Zofran for that. I’ll write you a prescription for that and oxycodone that you can take home with you.”

A wave of something that felt a lot like fear swept through me. “I don’t need the oxy.”

Dr. Bentley’s brows rose. “Are there addiction issues I need to be aware of?”

“No. But I don’t like taking that stuff.” I wasn’t about to let that poison get a foothold.

“Sutton,” Cope said softly, crossing to the bed and taking my hand. “You need pain meds while you recover. You have a concussion and stitches. Both will take time to heal.”

“I can take Tylenol.” Whatever the doctor had put in my IV was already easing my pain and making me feel a bit floaty. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the feeling Roman was always chasing.

Dr. Bentley cleared his throat. “I’ll have the prescription filled. If you don’t need it, that’s great. But if you do, it’ll be there.”

“I don’t?—”

“Warrior,” Cope said, cutting me off. “We’re taking the prescription home.”

I snapped my mouth closed, the action making pain flicker in my head.

Cope turned to the doctor. “Can she go home tonight, or does she need to stay in the hospital?”

Dr. Bentley’s gaze swept over me, assessing. “I want to keep her for another hour to make sure there’s no vomiting after the meds. If not, she can go home. But someone needs to be with her.”

“I will be,” Cope ground out.

“All right. You have to wake her every three hours. Ask simple questions like her name or what year it is. ”

“That’s no problem,” Cope assured him.

“Good,” the doctor clipped. “I’ll ready the discharge paperwork.”

As Dr. Bentley slipped out of the room, Cope lowered himself to a chair next to my bed. I sent him a pointed look. “You weren’t very nice to him.”

“Guy’s a pompous prick.”

I shrugged. “Maybe you need a little of that to deal with holding people’s lives in your hands on a regular basis.”

Cope sighed and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry. I just hate seeing you in pain.”

“The medicine’s helping already.” I wanted to reassure him, but I couldn’t help feeling on edge about having an intense painkiller coursing through my system.

“Sutton—”

Cope’s words were cut off by the room’s door opening again. But it wasn’t a doctor or nurse this time; it was a familiar face. Trace’s gaze swept over me, assessing every mark and injury. His expression remained carefully neutral, but I didn’t miss the flicker of anger in his green eyes.

“How are you doing, Sutton?” he asked, crossing the room in three long strides.

“Feeling better now.”

“Did you find anything?” Cope demanded.

Trace gave his head a small shake. “Crime scene techs are still combing the scene.” He glanced back at me. “Your wallet was gone from your purse. Thea got us the card numbers from the emergency file you gave her, and we got those canceled. Your bank is issuing new cards as we speak.”

My stomach churned, acid swirling there. “Were there charges?”

“A few, but your bank already reversed them. You won’t be responsible for any of it,” Trace assured me.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I suddenly felt small. And more than that, dirty. All I wanted to do was scrub the places that man had touched and remove all evidence of his hold and the pain he’d inflicted .

Cope seemed to sense the shift and took my hand again, weaving his fingers through mine. Trace didn’t miss the move, but I couldn’t read his reaction to it.

“Everyone but Arden’s out in the waiting room. She said Luca’s still fast asleep. I know everyone will want an update. What did the doctor say?” Trace asked.

“They shouldn’t have come out in the middle of the night,” I muttered.

Trace’s mouth curved the barest amount. “If you haven’t realized it yet, you’re an honorary Colson. If anything happens, good or bad, we show up en masse.”

Something about that hurt worse than the head injury I was currently nursing. Because I wanted it to be true so badly. Needed to belong to a family as wonderful as the Colsons. But it somehow seemed out of reach.

Cope leaned in, his lips brushing my unmarred temple. “They care about you. Let them.”

My eyes burned, and my throat tightened. When was the last time someone had shown up for me like this? Probably when I got an awful case of the flu in college. My gran had driven five hours to come take care of me in my dorm room.

But I hadn’t had that unwavering support since then. Not really. Roman had thrown money at problems, but looking back on it, he’d never solved anything with only his presence and energy.

Pleasure and pain warred within me, but I did everything I could to hold on to the good. “Will you thank them for me? And tell them I’m okay. They’re going to let me go home in an hour.”

Trace nodded. “Of course. I need to get a statement from you. But you get to decide whether that’s tonight or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Cope growled. “She’s been through enough.”

I squeezed his hand. “No. I want to get it over with so I can leave it all behind.” Because I knew I needed to share everything with Trace, and it was time for Cope to hear it, too. Even if it was the last thing I wanted him to know .

“I get that,” Trace said, softening his voice. “Would you prefer a female officer to take your statement? I can have Beth do it?—”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’d rather it be you.” At least I knew Trace, trusted him. It would be better than a stranger.

Trace nodded, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping on the screen. “I’m going to record this so, hopefully, we don’t have to go back over anything. Are you okay with that?”

“It’s fine,” I lied. I didn’t want this on record. Didn’t want strangers listening to what an idiot I’d been. Didn’t want them hearing all the ways I’d been hurt. Because it all made me feel like a victim again.

Trace laid his phone on the gurney and lowered himself into a chair on my opposite side. “Let’s start from the beginning. Is it common for you to work this late?”

I took a long breath and let it out slowly as Cope kept a hold of my hand. I tried to focus on that source of warmth and strength. “Not common, exactly. Maybe once a week or so when a special project comes in.”

“And what was the project this time?”

“A graduation cake.” Just saying it reminded me that the family would be picking it up tomorrow at noon. “I need to call my client. She’s expecting?—”

“Thea said she’d finish the cake first thing in the morning. She’s got it all under control,” Trace assured me.

The air left my lungs with a whoosh. Good. That was good.

Trace looked down at his notepad. “What time did you arrive at the bakery tonight?”

“It was around 7:45, I think. A little before 8:00.”

“Was anyone else around?”

I shook my head, instantly regretting the action as my vision swam.

“Easy, Warrior,” Cope said, his thumb tracing delicate designs on the back of my hand.

I kept my eyes closed for a minute, then opened them. “I didn’t see any other people or cars. I let myself in and locked the door behind me. No one should’ve been able to get in. ”

Trace sent me a look of sympathy. “The intruder jimmied the lock. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I bit the corner of my lip but gave him a small nod, one that wouldn’t send my brain reeling.

“Walk me through what happened once you were inside.”

I swallowed, trying to clear the lump of fear in my throat. “I turned on the radio and started working on the cake. I always lose myself in the process. Hours pass in what feels like seconds. I didn’t hear him come in. Not until his shoe squeaked on the floor.”

I gripped Cope’s hand tighter, my fingers digging into his flesh and holding on as if he were my lifeline. And maybe he was. “It took me a second because what I was seeing didn’t make sense—a man in all black, wearing one of those ski mask things.”

“A balaclava?” Trace clarified.

“Yes. Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me and told me to empty the register.”

“Was there anything familiar about his voice?” Trace asked.

I shivered, and Cope pulled my blanket up with his free hand. My mouth felt dry as I remembered the creepy tone. “It was like his voice was computer generated or something. It sounded like that horror movie. You know, the Scream ones?”

Trace and Cope shared a look, but it was Trace who spoke. “Those sorts of distorters are pretty easy to come by. You can get them for twenty bucks on the internet. He probably had it inside the mask.”

So, it could’ve been anyone. Somehow, that was more terrifying. I swallowed the knowledge and forced myself to keep going. “I emptied what we had in the register, but he wasn’t happy because there wasn’t a lot. He said he’d find it himself and hit me with the butt of the gun. At least, I think that’s what it was.”

The ugly words he’d said about Cope and me flashed in my mind, but I couldn’t give voice to them, not when I knew Cope would blame himself for me becoming a target. And what did it matter anyway? Anyone could’ve seen those tabloid articles or heard gossip around town .

“You need to bring Rick Anderson in for questioning,” Cope ordered.

“I’ll pay him a visit right after I leave here,” Trace assured me.

I straightened on the gurney. “Do you honestly think my landlord would do this? He’s a jerk for sure, but this is extreme.”

Cope gripped my hand harder. “He’s mixed up in some shady dealings. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to scare you out of your lease.”

It didn’t surprise me that Rick was shady. I already had a feeling he was behind my visit from the health department, but violence was something else entirely.

Trace studied me, his gaze somehow managing to be both gentle and probing. “Is there someone else you think it could be?”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as if I’d just eaten a spoonful of peanut butter. I wasn’t ready. Not for any of the Colsons to see me differently, but especially not Cope. His hold on my hand stiffened as though his muscles had become full of lead. “Who do you think did this?”

My eyes burned, but I forced myself to keep staring down at my lap, not at Trace. And definitely not at Cope. I had to get it out. The quicker, the better. “Luca’s dad and my ex-husband. He was a professional football player. Roman Boyer.”

“Wide receiver out of Baltimore, right?” Trace asked.

I nodded, not looking away from the cheap hospital blanket and its fraying threads from being washed so many times. “He got injured several years ago. Torn ACL. The surgery had complications, and they prescribed him oxycodone.” Cope’s hand spasmed around mine. “He got hooked.”

It was a truth they already knew was coming, but I went on anyway, needing to get it out of me, purge it like the violent poison it was. “I didn’t realize until it was too late. He got booted from the team, which only made him get into the harder stuff. He emptied our bank accounts, would disappear for weeks on end. And when he did manage to come home, he was erratic at best. I didn’t have any choice.”

“You divorced him,” Trace supplied .

“Yes,” I croaked. “I filed the day our house was foreclosed on. I moved Luca and me into the best apartment I could afford on my waitress’s salary. But it wasn’t in the best neighborhood.”

I felt the shudder go through Cope, but I still couldn’t look at him. Heat bloomed in my cheeks, and I struggled to beat it back. “Roman came back around about six months later. Said he’d cleaned up his act and was going to meetings. He seemed…better. But I wasn’t about to trust him with Luca. So, I let him come to my apartment, but only when I was there. To help Luca with his homework or for dinner. I didn’t want Luca to lose his dad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Sutton. You were doing your best,” Trace said quietly.

It felt like acid burned the backs of my eyes, but I forced myself to keep going and get it all out, once and for all. “Roman came over one afternoon and didn’t stay long. He seemed distracted. I stepped out to take a call from my boss and was gone for five minutes tops. When I came back, everything seemed fine, but Roman made an excuse about having to leave. He stole Luca’s tablet, the necklace my grandmother gave me, and some other jewelry—anything he thought he could hock quickly.”

“Bastard,” Cope ground out.

“Everything else was just stuff. But that necklace was all I had left of my gran. It was one my grandfather had given to her. It had a bumblebee on it because she always used to say, ‘I love you more than bees love?—’”

“Honey.” Cope finished the phrase for me, having heard me say it to Luca countless times, but the single word was pained. “I’m so damn sorry, Warrior.”

But I wasn’t done. And if I didn’t get it all out now, I worried I never would. “There was a knock on the door that night. I thought it was my friend from down the hall, but it wasn’t. It was two enforcers from a Russian organized crime family. They said Roman owed them and that I had to be a warning. They beat me. Broke my ribs and collarbone, split my lip. Doctors had to remove my spleen. And all of that while my little boy slept just feet away. ”

That was the thing that finally broke me: the memory of just how easily they could’ve gotten to Luca. It was a miracle that Marilee found me and called the ambulance and that my boy had slept through it all with no harm coming to him.

Tears streamed down my face, dripping from my chin and sliding down my neck. Cope didn’t wait. He moved in one swift motion, slipping into the bed beside me and gently holding me to him. “You’re safe, Warrior. You’re both safe.”

But I could feel the fury pulsing through him in blasts of brutal rage and knew Trace felt the same when he spoke. “Tell me the Baltimore PD got them.”

“They got the enforcers. They’re doing fifteen years and had to pay a small settlement. But their boss, Petrov? He didn’t get a thing because they didn’t turn on him.”

“Fucking hell,” Cope swore as he dropped his face to my head, nuzzling me as if he needed to make sure I was still there.

“I knew I had to get away from there.” I hated the tremor in my voice, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. “Out of Petrov’s and Roman’s reach. I already had sole physical and legal custody of Luca. Roman didn’t even show up for the hearing.”

“I remember reading about this somewhere.”

Trace’s words finally had me looking up, only to find fury written all over his face.

I swallowed hard, reminding myself that the fury wasn’t directed at me. “Roman wasn’t a player who got a lot of press. He was good but not a superstar. Though when everything happened, it hit the media.”

Cope stiffened, pulling back. “That’s why you didn’t want to go to the funeral. Because you didn’t want to be recognized. Didn’t want him or the garbage he got mixed up with to know where you were.”

I forced myself to look at Cope. Just twisting in the bed had fresh pain surging to the surface, but I did my best to ignore it. “I’m sorry. It was stupid. I should’ve been there for you from the beginning. I?—”

“Bullshit. You should’ve stayed right here. I’m the selfish bastard who forced you into something you weren’t comfortable with. Put you at risk. How can you even stand to look at me?”