Cam
Once they put my little finger braces on me and write up my recovery instructions, someone comes into the room and asks to speak to Aspen privately.
It’s only then that I realize how bad this looks—me with my broken fingers and Aspen with her wounded face.
It makes me sick to my stomach that these people assume I’m anything like my father. I would never hurt any woman, but especially not Aspen.
I give her a weak, encouraging smile as she follows the nurse into another room, then wait on the edge of my seat until they return about fifteen minutes later.
“Come on,” says Aspen, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “Let’s get out of here.”
I guess I’m not being arrested. I follow her to the lobby, where I pay the receptionist my co-pay for the appointment (yeah, yeah, with my dad’s credi
