Uncovering Her Secrets. Amalie Berlin
“It was... I don’t know. I’m not entirely sure what happened.” Dasha waved a hand in the air, trying to get past the subject she suffered a lack of words on. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving up yet, and he might not go nuclear on me.”
“You need to figure it out, honey. Even if you don’t want to dwell on it,” Marjorie advised, and then in her soothing way followed on by addressing the needs of the other soul in her care. “Bill’s said no to outside nursing, but I want you to talk him into getting someone to come in here at night. He’s not sleeping like he should.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure it’s someone good.” Dasha leaned in and kissed Marjorie on the cheek, her throat suddenly thick enough to make her voice raspy. “Just until you’re well enough to look after him yourself.”
She had to hold on to the idea of a miraculous recovery.
CHAPTER THREE
FLOOR-TO-CEILING windows ran the entire length of Preston’s loft, which had been converted from a nineteenth-century third-floor warehouse in the heart of historic downtown Nashville—where much of Nashville’s night-life now was located.
The glow from neon signs and streetlights illuminated his apartment in soothing blues and greens, and unless he had to read something or stab himself in the eye with a needle Preston left the lights off. Even while working out on his climbing machine.
It also made him feel a little better, a salve to his ego, that the low lighting at least downplayed the pink flowers on the stupid gel mask he’d resorted to wearing. The woman at the pharmacy had claimed it soothed tired eyes, but so far he didn’t feel soothed. And neither did his eyes. He might as well have bought pantyhose, feminine hygiene products and something with wings—whatever those were.
So much for the injections fixing the problem. One day. One freaking day without any symptoms, was that too much to ask? Today it had kicked up again, not even at the hospital this time. That was something. He’d noticed the feeling as soon as he’d opened his eyes, so it had started when he’d been asleep. Either that, or he so strongly remembered the sensation he’d worked himself up a phantom leg type of situation.
Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good. He couldn’t do another round of injections already and his attempts to manage it with medication worked about as well. Time for more aggressive tactics—before he lost everything. That possibility seemed more real with the eye situation than it ever had because of his mouth. Felt more personal too. Like a real failing rather than being unable to suffer idiots.
He climbed faster. Running built great endurance, but did nothing for the upper body. And did equally little to help him work out the aggression he’d been feeling of late.
Saturday, on call and nearing evening, it looked like he might have a reprieve. Strange that there’d been no calls. Maybe Dasha just hadn’t called him in.
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