Fuck It (Yama Yama)

It turns out there’s a pharmacy on the first floor of the hospital. I drop his prescriptions off and kill some time browsing in the gift shop. I’m tempted to get him something. I feel so bad, but it’s not like any of this stuff is really going to help him.

Standing in front of the get well cards, I run my fingers across the printed messages.

Congratulations on the new baby.

Prayers for a quick recovery.

Get well soon.

Nope, not one of them says anything about a crooked cock. I should be looking in the apology cards, but I doubt I’d find one that says sorry I bent your dick like a balloon animal. Finally, I settle on a card with Get Well Soon on the cover and a blank space inside. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to write though.

His prescriptions are ready when I return to the pharmacy, and I make my way back upstairs to his room.

He’s awake and seems alert for the first time when I sit in the chair beside his bed. “They’re getting ready to discharge me,” he says. “You’re going to have to drive us back.”

Opening his little plastic cup of apple juice, I hand it to him. “I’ll drive us back to Monica’s. You need to rest the next couple of days.”

His lips press together, and he shoots me a frustrated look. “You expect me to go back to the Harper place like this? Hobbling around with everyone watching?”

“You only have to get to your room. Then we’ll veg out there and watch movies or whatever until it’s time to leave. The drive back home would be way worse on you right now.”

The nurse enters with his paperwork and has him sign before heading off to grab a wheelchair while I help him get dressed.

“I don’t need a wheelchair,” he grumbles.

Yeah, the next few days are going to be a ton of fun.

“No?” I ask, trying to lighten things up with a little humor. “Not even a tiny pecker sized wheelchair?”

I’m met with a silent glare.

“Maybe a tiny walker? Or a stool? I’m sure we could find a tiny stool for you to rest your junk on when you’re standing. A testicle resting stool. A resticle.”

Despite his pain and upcoming days of humiliation, a tiny smile flashes across his face. “Just get me out of here.”

It takes some time to get him into the pair of scrub pants the nurse gave him. His other shorts were no option since they’d be too tight. He let me help him get them up his legs, but insisted on pulling them the rest of the way up by himself.

It’s like he doesn’t trust me.

The nurse returns with the wheelchair, and he doesn’t seem like he’s in too much pain when he sits down. “Pull your car around, hun. I’ve got him,” she tells me.

Thank goodness Monica thought to leave us a car. Having to call one of them for a ride—or worse—taking a taxi, would’ve just added to his embarrassment. Everyone was worried about him at first, but now that they know he’ll be okay, they’re sure to give him hell at every opportunity.

Poor guy. If anything, this should put an end to any ideas he had about wanting more from me than sex. Not the way I wanted it to happen, but we’re probably both still better off.

The nurse helps him into the passenger side of Monica’s car, and we’re off. I texted Kasha to let her know we were on our way. It’s only about a twenty-minute drive back to the estate, but by the time we get there, everyone is standing out front.

And I mean everyone.

There must be over twenty people who cheer when we park as close to the door as I can get. Henley holds up a large Get Well banner with a sketch of a dick wearing a band-aid on the front. And for fuck’s sake, where did they find dick balloons in one day?

I have to swallow back a laugh, but Simon isn’t seeing the humor. “No fucking way. I’m not getting out.”

“You can’t stay in here.”

“I’m not walking through those people while they try to picture how mangled my cock is.”

When he doesn’t get out of the car, Bobbie Jo rushes up to the window, proudly holding up a penis shaped cake with what looks like bloody gauze attached to it. “What the fuck?” he breathes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just food coloring, not actual blood.”

Aghast, he turns to stare at me, mouth agape. “That’s all you have to say? Like this is just completely normal.”

“For Bobby Jo it is.” I shrug. “She means well.”

I hope he keeps that in mind when she hops into the back seat with the cake. “I hope you like vanilla. I wanted to make chocolate—everyone loves chocolate—but, you know, I assume your dick is as white as you.”