The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. I sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, still wearing Tony's blood-soaked jacket over my torn pajamas, and watched the ER doors where they'd taken him thirty minutes ago.
"Miss Blaire?" A nurse approached, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Marvin is asking for you. The doctor said you can go in now."
I followed her through sterile hallways to a curtained area where Tony sat shirtless on an examination table, his shoulder freshly bandaged. The white gauze stood out stark against the tattoos covering his chest and arms - the compass rose for his grandmother, the Roman numerals marking his first kill, the family crest spanning his muscular back.
"Hey." His green eyes found mine, and something in my chest unclenched. "You okay?"
"I'm not the one who got shot." I moved to his side, my fingers hovering over the bandage. "How bad is it?"
