Say You're Mine (The Gallaghers Book 1) Layla Hagen (the unexpected everything .txt) 📖

“I’ve got it. Keep it up until everyone is inside,” someone yelled. I registered that the archway seemed suspended for now, but it was at a precarious angle. It was only a matter of minutes until another wooden post gave in.

“Let’s go! Let’s move!” I said loudly.

Snap. Snap. Snap. We were so close to the entrance that I couldn’t see what was happening behind us. Several people shouted. I shoved Isabelle as hard as I could, pushing her inside the hotel. Then I barreled inside too.

“Fuck. Everyone okay?” I asked. My eyes were on Isabelle. She was on the floor. She seemed unharmed, mostly—she was clutching her right shoulder and her ankle. Seeing her made me aware of the pain in my own shoulder. I helped her to her feet, and she winced as she set her foot down.

I looked around. Outside the hotel, the security team had lowered the archway completely to the ground. I checked them out too; fortunately no one looked injured. Looking back down at Isabelle, I noticed for the first time that there was a red gash on her shoulder blade. It was trickling blood.

“Shit, you’re wounded, babe,” I said.

She nodded, leaning out to check my own shoulder.

“You have a scratch. I don’t think it’s deep.” Her voice wobbled. She kept touching my arm and back, as if to double-check that I was in one piece. I wanted to hug her so fucking tight, but I wanted a doctor to check her out first. Her ponytail was undone, hanging at the back of her neck.

An employee from reception approached us, apologizing for the security problem and leading us to the elevator.

“We need a doctor,” I said.

“One is already on the way.”

I kept checking the gash on Isabelle’s shoulder in the elevator. It was raw, and blood was still oozing from it.

The doors opened on the last floor, and the hotel employee, Fred, led us to a suite, apologizing a few more times. We sat down on the leather couch in the center of the living room.

“How are the rest of the guys doing? And Sasha?” Isabelle asked.

“They’re waiting for the crowd to clear.”

“So everyone’s okay?”

I couldn’t believe she was worrying about everyone else when she was hurt.

“Yes, they’re okay. How’s your ankle?”

“Hurting. I can’t really step on it.”

Fred looked more nervous by the second. When the doorbell rang, a look of relief passed on his face.

He let in an elderly man before leaving.

“I’m Dr. Stanhill. Who wants to go first?”

“Isabelle?” I said.

She nodded.

“Is there a bedroom here? It’ll be more comfortable,” the doctor said. It was the first time I saw one without a white coat on, and it threw me for a loop for some reason. He was carrying a huge black leather bag. I appreciated his no-nonsense attitude.

Isabelle was quiet. I kept her right hand in my lap, stroking it. She nodded, wincing when she got up. Her hair had brushed the wound on her shoulder. She was walking with a limp. I felt guilty as fuck for bringing her on the tour. I’d been an egotistical bastard, wanting her with me so badly that I didn’t stop to consider everything I was exposing her to.

“Wait a second,” I murmured, pushing her fallen ponytail to one side so it wouldn’t happen again. I wanted to touch every inch of her to make sure she wasn’t harmed in any places that weren’t visible.

Bringing a hand to the small of her back, I led her into the bedroom. She sat at the edge of the king-sized bed. I stood next to her, feet planted wide apart, watching her.

“Let’s take a look at your shoulder blade,” the doctor said brusquely when he returned. “Okay. Needs disinfecting and a few stitches. Does anywhere else hurt?”

“Yes, my ankle.”

He inspected it carefully, flexing it several times. “It’s a sprain, nothing more serious.”

“Okay,” Isabelle said.

“There are scratches on your arms, but they don’t look fresh.”

“Oh, I think they’re from a few nights,” she said vaguely, avoiding my gaze.

What the hell?

“From where?” I asked.

“When I got out of the venue after the concert last night, the fans were reaching out. It’s not a big deal. I can’t even see them,” she said.

This was a big deal. A fucking big deal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It happened a couple times, even in Miami.”

“They’re very thin, but it’s my job to notice everything,” Dr. Stanhill said. “I’m going to apply a numbing gel on the wound on your shoulder blade. Then I’ll clean it with sterile water before stitching it up. You’ll feel a slight discomfort when I apply the gel, but after that, you won’t feel pain.”

Isabelle fisted the dark green covers as soon as Dr. Stanhill smeared on the gel. I sat next to her, covering her hand with mine. I’d never seen her look small and vulnerable like this. My strong, feisty woman. She didn’t even flinch while the doctor stitched her up, so the gel was working.

“Okay, that was all,” Dr. Stanhill told Isabelle. Focusing on me, he added, “Let’s check your injuries.”

“Sure,” I answered. “Babe, you can go out if you want.”

“I’d like to stay here.”

“Okay.”

I took off my shirt, and Dr. Stanhill inspected my shoulder blades, pressing on certain areas. Some were sore, but some weren’t.

“No open wounds, so that’s good. No stitches necessary.”

“I have a concert tonight. I’m playing the piano. Can you give me something for the soreness?”

“Advil will do the trick, though my professional opinion is that you shouldn’t perform today.”

“I’ll rest tomorrow,” I assured him.

He pressed his lips together but didn’t insist, just handed me Advil from his bag.

There was the sound of a door opening in the living room, and then Lars said, “Anyone in here?”

“Yes,” I said loudly. Isabelle and I went back to the living room, showing the doctor out.

“How are you feeling?” Lars asked.

“We’re both okay,” Isabelle said.

He looked at her shoulder, then at me. “Okay, then we all need to rest a bit. I think they mixed up