“Get me a doctor. Now,” he growls and, without waiting for her response, he barges right past her counter and onto the active floor of the ER.
In seconds, he’s surround by ER staff and, with the help of a pair of nurses, lowers his mother onto a gurney. The second she’s down, Blaze collapses; his shoulder wound has broken open, blood flows freely, and in seconds he is on another gurney, surrounded by nurses and doctors who wheel him off to somewhere where I can’t get to him.
A hand on my shoulder makes me turn.
“Take a seat, Tiffany.”
Stone is there, watching me.
“I should get back there,” I say. “I should be with him.”
“You need to stay here. Let them do their job.”
The sliding doors to the ER open again and an older man wearing a Lone Mesa PD uniform enters. He’s not Torreon police, but the sight of him is enough to make me fidget. Stone follows my eyes with a look over his shoulder.
“Relax. That’s Hanratty — he’s one of ours. I called him in to help with cleanup,” he says. Again, his hand gently steers me toward one of the waiting room’s chairs. “It’s going to be just the three of us waiting here. Everyone else is on their way back to Lone Mesa and away from any prying cops. Now, take a seat. This will be a while. We need to be patient.”
Reluctantly, I sit. So much of me wants to run back there, to be by his side, even if it means fighting my way through nurses and orderlies, just so I can hold Blaze’s hand and hear him tell me that everything will be OK. I need him. I need to hear his voice. I need him to give me something to cling to so that my over-active brain will just shut up and stop playing over every single scenario that ends with me, huddled and crying, because the man I love is suffering.
Minutes pass into hours, other patients come and go, the staff mills about the ER, and not a single one spares a glance for Stone or Hanratty or me; they go about their business, not realizing that the most important man in the world is in their care.
And the more time passes, the closer to the edge I get.
Then a doctor emerges from the bustling crowd, her gaze locks right on Stone; her face a concerned mask that makes my stomach turn. She heads right toward him; he stands to meet her, and they shake hands. They’re not five feet from me, two heads huddled in hushed conversation; I catch snippets of that muffled conversation — words like ‘organ damage’ and ‘emergency transplant’ and ‘blood loss’ — and then Stone gives me a look that makes my heart break.
By the time their conversation ends, I’m on my feet and heading for the door.
I need someone to talk to, and I don’t know Stone. As much as everyone in the club might look up to him, he and I haven’t shared more than a few sentences in terrible circumstances.
I want my dad.
“Tiffany, where are you going?” Stone says, following me out into the parking lot. I’ve got the keys to the Volvo in my hand and my eyes are again brimming with tears.
“I’ll be back. Just let me go, OK?” I say.
I don’t wait for an answer; he won’t stop me. And he doesn’t even try. Instead, he gives me his number and pats me on the back.
“You call me if you need anything. I’ll be here, watching over Blaze. Stay safe, all right?”
I start the car and I drive a route that I haven’t driven in years — to home.
My eyes flood, my heart agonizes through all the pain that I know Blaze must be suffering at this moment — the pain of his wounds, the pain of having his mother on the brink — and I rush toward the front door of the home I grew up in. I frantically bang my fists against it; it’s been so long, I don’t even have a key anymore.
“Dad,” I cry out. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Tiffany. Please let me in.”
Over and over, I slam my fists against the wood, praying for him to open up. I’ve never thought of him as someone I’d go to for comfort — he’s always been the career type, the kind who encouraged me to pursue my studies, to excel, but when it came to hugs and affection, he was always distant — but this is one of those moments where, no matter how crazy it sounds, I just want my dad.
I just want my dad.
He opens the door, confusion and worry dominating his face.
“Tiffany? What is it? What’s wrong? I’ve been worried about you.”
At first, I can’t speak — I just charge forward and throw my arms around him, pulling him close and letting his shirt soak up my tears. There’s a giant wet stain on his chest when I finally pull back to take a breath.
“Dad, I need to talk to you. About a lot of things,” I say. The words come out slow and shaky; I’m just as unfamiliar talking to him about what’s in my heart as he is hearing about it. Until this moment, our conversations were about grades, achievements, career milestones, our respective days at work — his as the tax assessor for Torreon, mine as a griping, entry-level Loan Specialist for a small regional bank. But it doesn’t matter how inexperienced I am at this, all the pain inside me needs some outlet.
“This isn’t a good time, Tiffany,” he says, still holding me tight.
“I’m sorry, dad,” I say, taking another breath and enjoying the
