How Sinners Fight (Sinners of Hawthorne University 2)

“Just a couple days.” Her gaze scans my face. “I got the low-down from Gray on what the doctor said. It sounds like you’re on the mend physically. I’m so fucking relieved. I was really worried. Do you realize how shitty of a friend I’ve been? I should have been looking out for you better.”

“Max,” I say firmly, “it’s not your fault.”

She glances away from me, looking out the window. “Still. I could have helped. I didn’t think anything of it when you stepped away from the dance floor.” Her eyes dart back to me. “I remember seeing you go up the stairs to the second floor, but I don’t know how you ended up at the bottom of the stairs in the basement. It’s so fucking awful. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I guess so. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t remember any of it.” I try to say it lightly, as a joke, but it falls flat.

Max gives me a reassuring smile. “You'll remember soon, Sophie. I’m sure of it.”

Fuck, I hope so.

3

The rest of the day is pretty low-key, and the next two days pass in the same way. Doctors and nurses come to check on my vitals every couple of hours, despite me assuring them that I feel just fine, and the guys or Max come to visit whenever they get a chance. I’m not really sure what’s going on over at the campus now that school is out for the winter break, but everyone seems to be keeping themselves busy.

Fuck. I’m ready to go home.

Whatever that means.

The dorms? The McAlisters?

I don’t really know where home is anymore.

Glancing at the breakfast a nurse just brought me, I pick up my fork and poke at it. The food here is actually amazing, and it’s served on nice dishware instead of the plastic hospital trays I’ve seen before.

At this point, regardless of the fact that I’m not having to pay for any of this, I’m ready to get out of here. Nothing against the team of people who are trying to make my recovery as quick and perfect as possible, but I feel good enough, and I’m not really sure why I’m still here at this point, other than to help Doctor Cohen afford a new car.

I try not to think too much about what this breakfast costs, because I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that the guys are paying for all of this.

I know that the costs are racking up. This hospital is obviously used to catering to the wealthy, and I can only imagine the astronomical number on the bill that’s going to be delivered to the guys and not me.

I trust them, I do. But handing them my trust goes against everything I’ve known for the past eighteen years of my life—or the seven that I can remember anyway.

So I guess even though I trust the guys are going to keep their word about helping me pay for all of this, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it’s just the life I’ve lived that makes me think that, maybe it’s my inner realist, I’m not sure. I just still feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Nothing good can last.

Unless… maybe just this once, it can?

Around noon, Doctor Cohen strolls in, laptop in hand. He usually checks on me twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, but he’s a little late today. Not that I’m complaining, since I know the exact questions he’s going to ask me and I have the exact same answers.

He sinks down onto the little stool by the desk and then uses his feet to roll himself over toward the bed, holding the laptop in one hand.

“Hello, Sophie,” he says, glancing down at his screen and typing a few keystrokes. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” I say, because I’ve learned that if I just answer his damn questions, he’ll leave me alone quicker. “My ankle is still a little sore.”

“It’ll be sore for a while.” He types something else. “Do you want me to send someone over from physical therapy to help you go over some exercises?”

“Thank you. But no, I’m good.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him. He’s just trying to help, but he already told me it’s just a sprain and should heal up fine in a few days. Physical therapy seems like overkill.

“Just let me know,” he says, then looks up from his screen. “Has anything changed since we spoke last night? Any new symptoms or pain?”

“No.”

“Okay. That’s good. Well, your vitals are looking good,” he says, lifting the laptop a little to indicate whatever he just read on my chart. “So we’ll probably have you out of here by tomorrow morning. As long as nothing changes overnight.”

“Tomorrow morning?” I repeat, my heart leaping a little. That’s in less than twenty-four hours.