oment of clear traffic, execute a huge perfect Uturn and roar off in the
direction of OSHU.
“Whoa!” Christian exclaims, alarmed.
“What?”
“I don’t want you in the ICU beside your father. Slow down,” he growls, not to
be argued with. I ease off the accelerator and grin at him.
“Better?”
“Much,” he mutters, trying hard to look stern—and failing miserably.
Ray’s condition is the same. Seeing him grounds me after the heady road
trip here. I really should drive more carefully. You can’t legislate for every
drunk driver in this world. I must ask Christian what’s become of the asshole
who hit Ray—I’m sure he knows. In spite of the tubes, my father looks
comfortable, and I think he has a little more color in his cheeks. While I sit
beside my dad and tell him about my morning, Christian wanders off to the
waiting room to make phone calls.
Nurse Kellie hovers over him, checking his lines and making notes on his
chart. “All his signs are good, Mrs. Grey.” She smiles kindly at me.
“That’s very encouraging.”
A little later Dr. Crowe appears with two nursing assistants.
“Mrs. Grey,” he greets me warmly. “Time to take your father up to radiology.
We’re giving him a CT scan. To see how his brain is doing.”
“Will you be long?”
350 | P a g e
E L JAMES
“Up to an hour.”
“I’ll wait. I’d like to know.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Grey.”
I wander into the thankfully empty waiting room where Christian is talking on
the phone, pacing. As he speaks, he gazes out of the window at the
panoramic view of Portland. He turns to me when I shut the door, and he
looks angry.
“How far above the limit? . . . I see . . . All charges, everything. Ana’s father is
in the ICU—I want you to throw the fucking book at him, Dad . . . Good. Keep
me informed.” He hangs up.
“The other driver?”
He nods. “Some drunken trailer trash from Southeast Portland.” He sneers,
and I’m shocked by his terminology and his derisory tone. He walks over to
me, and his tone softens.
“Finished with Ray? Do you want to go?”
“Um . . . no.” I pee
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