31. Headache

thirty-one

Cam

Whenever possible, I like to save the best for last. Especially on days like this, when my brain just won't stop spinning. I always eat my dessert after dinner, my books are read in order from least intriguing to most, and I always like to choose the easiest dog to groom to end my day. After you've groomed six or seven dogs, you don't want to wrestle an aggressive Maltese or a 150-pound Pyrenees who hasn't had a bath in three years.

My schedule stated that Banksy was a dalmatian. Everything else had long hair or needed something trimmed. Reuben has a tendency to nip, and Jonah pees from excitement every time you touch him. Banksy, however, has no behavioral notes. He was written down as a simple bath with a nail trim. For a groomer, that's as easy as it gets. What I didn't know is that Martha failed to note that the five-year-old pup had not been groomed—ever. He had never experienced the rush of water over his body, nor the quick pressure of the nail clippers. I'm not even sure his feet have ever been touched before, given his snarling and flailing reaction.

I was shivering when I left the apartment this morning, snow piled high on the ground and cold gusts of wind hitting my face. Now, sweat drips down the sides of my forehead, my one hand gripping the nail clippers, the other, a spotted, kicking foot.

Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal. I could handle the tugging and the snapping, the spinning and alligator rolling. But my mind is racing, even more than usual, and I feel like I can't even talk to Dr. Burton about it.

I don't know how this happened, how I suddenly found myself so close to Violet. How that day I had an attack and asked for Adrian and Hayden, really all I wanted was her. No eighties song sounds quite as good when it isn't in her voice, and nobody else could make me open to the thought that crystals possess special powers.

It's kind of like when I met Adrian in first grade and begged my dad for a Belle dress with the emblem on the front because I thought they looked so cool in theirs. Or how Hayden showed me the best order to watch Star Wars in, and now, I won't do it any other way.

I'm scared, though, because this is how it all started with Cody. This is how I became so dependent on him, how I thought, for years, I couldn't exist without him. I know now it wasn't the truth. But this thing with Violet could end just as badly.

Not in a romantic way, of course. There's nothing romantic about a sex contract, that's the entire point. But even though I'd never say it to her face, Violet is one of my best friends. And friendships can be just as problematic.

I coax Banksy into the kennel. Two black hoses lead from a large machine on top to the barred doors where they blow a small steady stream of air to help the dog's coat dry. It's my favorite invention ever because it helps dry dogs who haven't been desensitized to the loud forceful air from the velocity dryer.

Banksy, however, isn't pleased at all. His head tilts back, and from the back of his throat, he lets out a loud, gravely bark.

"I know, buddy. I'm not stoked about it either," I say, starting to clean the room around me. My shears and clippers are piled and sanitized, then placed back into the toolbox. The sound of the vacuum cleaner drowns out the air from the kennel dryer, and I walk about the room sucking up balls of loose hair draped across the ceiling and floor, curled into the corners like dust bunnies.

After rinsing all the excess fur and soap out of the tub, I open the door to the kennel. Banksy, who had fallen asleep during my deep cleaning, shoots his head up and sprints out of the cage. A blur of black and white runs circles around the room, his long pink tongue flying out the side of his mouth. I laugh, pouncing down and slapping my palms against my thighs.

"Banksy! You got the zoomies, buddy?"

Banksy's eyes fixate on me, and mid-sprint, he changes direction. His spotted legs move quickly across the slick floor as he barrels toward me, tongue flying and tail wagging violently.

"Banksy! Banksy, buddy, slow do-"

Banksy pounces his front feet onto my thighs, his skull colliding with mine. My knees buckle underneath me, and I collapse onto the floor, clutching the right side of my head.

"Fuck!"

A throbbing pain radiates from my face, my right eye clamped shut. Banksy stops only for a moment to shove his nose into my ear, then continues running circles the room, which is now spinning. My stomach shakes, and if I weren't fighting it with everything I've got, I'd be hurling onto the wet floor right now.

I grasp the bars on the kennel behind me, and I pull myself to my feet, still gripping my head with my other hand.

"Shit! Are you okay?"

I shuffle my feet to turn, watching each step to prevent myself from falling again. My fingers are turning white from the intensity with which they hold onto the kennel. When I finally see Avery standing in the doorway, I open my mouth to say that I'm fine-thank-you-very-much, but instead, a piercing pain shoots through my eye socket.

"Agh!"

My other eye shuts, making the world go dark, and when I open it again, Avery is gripping my shoulders, examining my head carefully. I try to open my other eye, but it burns, water filling it the second the air brushes against it. I immediately place my hand back over it to apply pressure, which seems to be the only thing that helps the sharp, pulsing pain. A large hand grips my wrist, pulling my hand off my eye.

"Ow!" I yell, trying to jerk away. But Avery's grip is strong, and he tightens his fingers around my wrist.

"I need to look at it!" he responds firmly, tilting the angle of his head as he analyzes me. I huff, but don't protest.

This shit hurts.

Avery gently brushes his finger underneath my brow, but to me, he may as well have just punched me.

"Fuck, Avery!" I wince, sucking air between my teeth. Avery finally releases my wrist when his fingertips part from my eye. He doesn't apologize for inflicting more pain.

"I'm going to have to take you to Urgent Care," he says instead. I step back, my cheek lifted to my lashes. I try to shake my head, but the throbbing intensifies.

"N-no," I stutter. My stomach churns, but I fight it back down. "I don't want to go to Urgent Care. I'm fine."

"Your eye is purple, and you can barely stand up," he replies shortly. "Is the room spinning?"

"Yes."

"You feel like you're gonna p—" Gulp. "—puke?"

"…yes."

"You probably have a concussion. I got them in college all the time when I played lacrosse. You need to go to Urgent Care."

"I—"

"—Violet isn't here. So as the manager on shift, I contractually have to take you to Urgent Care. It's not really an option," he cuts me off, then slides a slip leash from his head. He leans down and slides it onto Banksy, who is happily wagging his tail as if he has full coverage for the head-on collision that just occurred. Avery says something into his headset that I can't quite understand over the ringing in my ears, and only moments later, Brooke pops into the room.

"Hey Ayve! What's u-OH MY GOD!" Brooke screams when her eyes land on me, and I huff at her reaction.

"It's not that bad," I say, trying and failing again to open my bruised eye. "…right?"

Avery snickers, and Brooke's high-pitched voice only goes higher when she responds.

"Um… it's…" Brooke trails off. "It's... like... have you ever seen an MMA fight?"

Avery's snicker turns to full-on laughter, his face turning red. I try to furrow my brows, but even that stings. Instead of a painful scowl, I puff my cheeks out so the pair standing in front of me are aware of my dissatisfaction.

"You definitely need to get seen by someone," Brooke says, waving her hand in the air.

"She is," Avery starts. "That's why you—" He hands the leash to Brooke, Banksy tugging at the other end. "Are going to have Martha call his parents to tell them he's ready. And put him in a holding suite with some water."

Brooke nods, a large Barbie-like grin across her soft porcelain face. Her cheeks are pink, and her white teeth are perfectly straight. She genuinely looks like a Barbie.

"I'll get right on that boss!" she exclaims.

Look, I really like Brooke. She's sweet and ridiculously smart. But right now, she's getting on my nerves. Thankfully, Brooke is quickly dragged out of the room by the overeager dalmatian.

"Alright," Avery says, crouching down so my arm can easily drape over his shoulders. He looks ridiculous, a six-foot-something man squatting down to a mere five feet, but I'm not about to let him pick me up, even if my head rattles painfully with each step we take.

On the way to urgent care, Avery talks to someone over the phone. I can only make out the words "eye," "concussion," and "Banksy," but I tune the rest out. Listening to his voice is painful enough, but actually processing the words coming out is damn near impossible. Plus, I can only think of two things right now:

Ouch

Violet

I don't know what it means. Any of it at this point. The contract, the bet. The night she showed up, covered in blood, and that day last week when she held me in the storage closet.

My eyes drift closed. I just need it to be dark.

"Hey," Avery says, pulling in next to a bright red sign. I can't read it, but I assume it's the entrance to the Urgent Care. "We're here. Don't fall asleep."

He tells me to wait in the car, then leaves. He quickly appears with a tall woman, who is gripping the handles on the back of the wheelchair. I'm embarrassed and slightly irritated at Avery for doubting my capabilities. I look over at the nurse.

"Oh! Thank you, um," I look down at the woman's name tag, "Natalie, but I'm okay. I can walk."

I force a smile that hurts more than I let show.

"Just get in the chair," Avery commands, his voice low as if I'm embarrassing him. Natalie looks at him, then back at me.

"It's Natalia, and it's policy," she says in a thick Russian accent. "All head injuries must be brought in veelchair."

I swallow, squinting harder at her name tag. She's right. It says Natalia.

She helps me into the wheelchair, and I feel ridiculous right now, being pushed around like a simple head bump makes it impossible to walk. I'm taking resources away from people who actually need it, and it's embarrassing. It's embarrassing in the parking lot, embarrassing in the lobby, and even embarrassing when I'm taken back to a curtained room, with just Avery. I've asked him to leave twice, but apparently, it's "routine procedure" for the manager on shift to stay with the employee until family can come. The only "family" I have is Adrian and Hayden, and Adrian is at home sick with COVID.

Avery pulls out his phone and taps on the screen, before holding it to his ear. I can only hear his side of the conversation.

"Hey. Yeah, sorry. Cam got her face smashed in by a dog. No. Yes. We're here right now. Yup. Okay. Cool, I'll tell her." He puts his phone back into his pocket. "Hayden's on his way."

Nurse Natalia enters the room and asks me a string of questions, like "are you experiencing dizziness?" and "do you have nausea?" "Any chance of pregnancy?" and "what happened?"

I answer all of the woman's questions as she takes my vitals. I have no problem taking deep breaths as instructed, but I struggle when it's time to follow a long black pen with my eyes. Well, eye.

After Natalia listens to my heart, and reads my blood pressure, she types furiously on the computer, then turns to me.

"Your vitals are good," she says, her brows furrowing. "Your eyes, is… not so good. We will have to take tests."

"At least you're still cute," Hayden whispers when Natalia pushes me back into my room. I'm not at all upset about Avery being replaced by him. Major stands next to him, as he helps me back into my bed.

"Results should come back within an hour," Natalia says, turning to leave.

"Excuse me," Hayden says quietly with a shiny grin. "Would it be okay if I turned off these lights for her?"

With his charisma and charm, he hardly ever gets told no. I simultaneously hate and love it. Natalia flashes him a smile, which proves to be fake as she quickly drops it.

"No. We must wait for results first."

He tips an invisible cowboy hat at her and gives her a real smile.

"Thank you anyway."

I try to roll my eyes, but it hurts.

"You're ridiculous," I mumble. Hayden shoots me a grin.

"You love me."

His voice remains intentionally soft, so the agonizing throbbing doesn't intensify. Sometimes, I think he may be the most self-aware person on Earth.

"I do."

My eyes close as a gentle hand presses to my forehead. I feel myself slowly sinking, my brain fighting me to fall asleep.

"Keep talking, so I don't pass out," I say. All I want is to get some rest, but Natalia might rip Hayden's throat out if she came back to me unconscious.

"About what?" he asks, still speaking softly.

"Anything."

There's a long pause, and I almost open my eyes to shoot him a bossy look before he finally speaks.

26"So, you and Violet, huh?"

My eyes jolt open, and I immediately sit up, which is a total mistake. My head pounds, the room spins, and—

Bleugch.

Thank god Natalia put a trash can right next to my bed. I groan, wiping my mouth on the shoulder of my hospital gown.

"Ew. That bad huh?" Hayden jokes, handing me a bottle of water. "That's all yours, sport. Please do not return it."

The water rinses the back of my throat, providing cool, sweet relief from the acidity. When I finally feel my stomach settle, I lean back into the bed.

"What do you mean, me and Violet?" I ask defensively.

Hayden chuckles, scooting back as he shakes his head.

"Nothing really. I just—I have a feeling... that there might be more to you two than the contract?" he says, still maintaining his distance.

"I'm not going to throw up," I say, closing my eyes.

Hayden forces a smile. "Sure, love. Just being safe."

I don't have to look at Hayden to know he's staring into my soul. I can feel it, the intense stare of those sweet blue eyes. I sigh.

"There isn't anything more." I pause, waiting for him to speak but he doesn't. "I mean sure, we might, like, be friends, sort of. But that's it. It's platonic."

Hayden's hand runs up my arm. "It's platonic," he says. "But you have sex?"

I nod, then wince. "Yes."

Hayden stays quiet for a moment. Then he squeezes my hand.

"Do you want it to be?"

"What?"

"Well, you said it's platonic, but do you want it to be?"

An ache radiates in my brows as I furrow them, my lips pursing uncomfortably. I don't answer right away because I don't want Hayden to hear the haste in my voice when I say it. I want him to think it's something I never thought to consider. Finally, after a long stretch of silence, I answer him.

"I don't know."*