My gaze narrows. “You look familiar.” I point down to his shirt. “Daisy High School. Small world.”
He takes a big step backward, eyes wary. “Look, just tell Devon—”
“No, you look, buddy,” I say, my southern accent thickening as I inch closer to him. I put my hands on my hips, feeling brave, maybe because this has to do with Devon, and I’d slay a dragon for him. “I’m assuming you followed me from the penthouse, which is just horrible. Don’t you have better things to do? Not to mention it’s downright rude to approach a young woman with your demeanor and an ominous attitude—”
He blinks. “I can’t help the tattoos or the scar!”
“Regardless, I never forget a face, and yours is tugging at me. I may not know your name—yet—but my mama is Cynthia Riley, and she knows everyone.” His eyes bulge. “That’s right. You must know her, and when I tell her you put your hands on me—”
“Please don’t tell your mama! I just had to get your attention!” He’s already walking away, darting looks over his shoulder as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Get the hell away from her.
My lips compress as I call out, “Creepy message received. Now scurry on back and hide. Cynthia is coming for you.”
I watch until he gets in an old black truck near the back and squeals away, relief swamping me as he disappears down the road. Worry inches up my spine as I walk inside the store. What’s going on with Devon’s dad? Frowning, I text Devon what happened and hit send. My phone dies right after, and I groan and add phone charger to my list.
“She needs another day or so for us to monitor the arrhythmia in her heart.” The doctor looks at me. “Besides the atrial fibrillation, her glucose and iron levels are low. Her knee is sore and swollen, and the cortisone shots we administered will alleviate some of that in the next few days. However”—he gives the woman in the bed a firm look—“a knee replacement is recommended. I have a list of orthopedic doctors who are excellent.”
Myrtle pushes up in bed. “Like I already told that nosy nurse, all I need is my cannabis. Some studies show it helps arrhythmia.”
The doctor arches a brow. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know about your cannabis. I’m not aware of this study.”
“Well, get busy earning my money, and read it and write me a prescription,” she huffs. “As it stands, I have to sneak around and buy my special cigarettes on the sly.” She looks wary and a little scared. My protective instincts flare; they’ve been doing that a lot today.
The doctor is a tall man with white hair and wire glasses and seems acceptable to treat my bestie, but he’s in a hurry, already eyeing the door to get to his next patient in line. That bugs me. “Where did you go to medical school?”
“Vanderbilt.”
Well, of course, it’s top notch, but I stand firm. “Nice. Now, perhaps we should revisit the issue of cannabis. It’s the elderly who benefit the most from medicinal marijuana,” I tell him, not even caring that I don’t have a medical degree. This is Myrtle, and she’s been enjoying her Mary Jane since the eighties. “She smokes because of migraines and her knee pain.” Mostly. “What are the guidelines for getting a recommendation for a prescription?”
“It calms me and improves my appetite,” she adds, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.
“Unfortunately, medical marijuana in Tennessee is all but nonexistent.” His words are flat. No budging there. I can tell by the hard look in his eyes. I exhale.
She huffs. “I should move to Colorado.”
“I’d miss you terribly,” I say sadly.
After he’s gone, I reach over and pat her hand, wishing I could convince him to help us, but my gut tells me it might be impossible. “You’re back to being feisty. Guess I should have known you’d bounce back, but I’m mad you didn’t tell me about having A-fib.”
“Give me a mirror. My hair is everywhere.” She fingers her scalp, trying to arrange the wayward brown curls.
I pluck one from her bag and give it over.
She cries, “I look like death! Lipstick, stat. Mr. Wilcox said he might drop by with lunch. Can you believe they released him last night? Apparently he’s very healthy.”
I tug out her usual pink, and she swipes it on.
“Patricia? Did you call her?” I ask.
She grimaces, that worried look back on her face. “I did. My daughter has five-year-old twins and is too busy to fly from New York to see me.”
I grit my teeth but dip my face so she can’t see. If my mama was in the hospital for a few days, I’d be on the next plane to see her.
“How long have you dealt with A-fib?” I keep my voice light. Apparently after they brought her in, her heart went into arrhythmia, and they sent an electric shock to restore the regular beat.