Page 37 of The Billionaire Bodyguard Next Door
Beck’s jaw clenched. “Let me get a doctor or nurse.”
Without another word, he left the room, leaving me there to assess my body. I sat up, careful not to disturb the IV. Mentally, I was foggy. Physically, my body ached, and yet I still considered that a victory in and of itself. Being able to assess my body without my stomach clenching, bile rising, and my head splitting felt like a tremendous success.
I tucked the sheet around my body tighter just as Beck returned, a crew of hospital staff in tow.
I raised a brow at him, mentally communicating that this was overkill. In return, he shot me a glance that said, you haven’t even begun to see overkill yet.
If I was like Faith, I’d roll my eyes at him. Instead I flipped him off as the medical staff checked my vitals, my pupils, and rattled off a series of questions. I felt victorious seeing him suppress a smirk.
“On a scale from one to ten, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever been in, what’s your pain at right now?”A five.
“To the best of your recollection, when did the migraine start?”Around 2 a.m.
“When was the first date of your last menstrual cycle?” I smiled broadly, staring directly at Beck.Five days ago.
This continued for a while. The doctor nodded attentively as I answered question after question.
The doctor typed away on the computer in the room, likely adding notes to my chart, then sat back. “I want to get some water and food into your body and see how you handle it. You’ve taken in two bags of fluids; you were severely dehydrated. I imagine your body is going to take a few days to recover.”
“Is it going to happen again?” I ask, knowing that it undoubtedly would.
The doctor clicked on a few things and then turned the screen to face me. On it listed my previous hospitalizations. She did her best impression of a Vanna White wave. “If this is any indication to go on, then yes, you will continue to have migraines.”
Beck swept around the other side of my bed, sidling up next to me, his hand white-knuckling my bed rail.
The doctor sent him a look of appreciation before turning her focus back to me. “It looks like you're out of refills on your migraine meds, so I'm going to place an order with your pharmacy. But your type of migraine is brought on, primarily, by stress.” She pushed the screen out of the way, her body fully facing mine. “I recommend working out.”
“I do that,” I jumped in.
“Managing your stress.”
My top teeth sunk into my bottom lip and Beck chortled at my side.
I glared at him, and the doctor’s brow lifted. “I’m guessing you’renotdoing that.”
I didn’t bother answering.
“Maintaining a regular schedule helps too.”
This timeIchortled. “Well, we can toss that suggestion out the window.”
This old song and dance again. Was there anything more annoying than being told that you need to lower your stress levels? It’s like when someone tells you to calm down in the middle of a heated convo or to just relax. That things will figure themselves out.
No, actually, they won’t. There’s no magical fairy godmother waving around a glittery wand coming in to fix things.
Things got done because Igot them done. Just as I always have my entire life.
The doctor pursed her lips. “How about alcohol? Can you cut that?”
Finally, one thing Iwasdoing right. “I haven't had alcohol in eight years.”
Beck jolted, as if shocked by this revelation.
Little did he know the last time I took a sip of the stuff was just a few nights afterournight together.
I ignored his pointed look, focusing instead on the surprised look on the face of the physician. Yes, yes, a sober club owner who made her living off of selling a substance she didn’t partake in might seem strange to some. In my mind, it made perfect sense. The late nights already took a hard toll on my body. Alcohol wouldn’t help.
Besides, I liked being in control. And drinking made me the opposite of that.
