February Sucks for Walter Mitty - Sex Stories

February Sucks for Walter Mitty

... away."

She blushed. "Yes, sir," she said. "Also, the police asked about you." I gave her a questioning look. "It's standard policy to call them in when someone comes in looking... um, looking like you did."

"Can't talk to them now." I closed my eyes against the pain. "Later?"

"Okay," she said softly. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"A phone charger." I swallowed. "USB-C. Please."

"I'll see what we can dig up. If you need anything, hit the button." She smiled at me as she left. I wondered if I was going to be the latest piece of juicy gossip on the ward.

I texted my parents and told them the bare bones of the story, then sent them Mrs. Porter's phone number and asked them to check on the kids. They told me they'd be by to visit, but they lived in LeRoy, and I figured it would be a couple of hours. They texted a few minutes later to tell me that Linda had picked up Emma and Tommy earlier that afternoon. Apparently, Mrs. Porter was pissed that we'd left the kids there until three.

Interesting.

My next message was to my friend Bailey. Well, he's sort of a friend, mostly my lawyer. We'd known each other since college, and now he represented my business. It's weird to have a guy you used to do beer bongs with handling your contracts, but he'd never left me hanging out to dry.

I was realizing how important--and rare--that is.

"Bailey, I need your help," I texted. "In the hospital. Buffalo General. Need to see you as soon as possible."

It ...

... only took a moment. "I'm with the kids, but I'll be there tonight."

"No need to leave the family hanging. Tomorrow works."

"I'm at the in-laws, dude. The kids are watching Frozen. You're doing me a favor!"

Maybe I need to think about upgrading Bailey to "Mostly a friend, also my lawyer."

*

Doctor Patel came by a little later and told me that I was a very lucky man. Seriously, is that a requirement for doctors? Do they ever tell a patient that they're unlucky as shit?

I'd sprained my wrist on LaValliere's jaw, but other than that and a wrenched shoulder, my limbs were all intact. I'd gotten some hard hits to the face and a minor concussion. It took ten stitches to sew up my cheek, but nothing was broken. Patel said that the scar would give me a little character.

He was a disturbingly cheery guy.

Below the neck, I had three broken ribs, one of which had punctured my lung. They'd inserted a chest tube, and the lung had reinflated. My ribcage was wrapped up like a mummy, and Dr. Patel predicted that I'd have to stay in the hospital for a couple more days. That, at least, was good news--the last thing in the world that I wanted to do was go home to my blushing bride.

After the doc left, I was still wide awake, so I checked all the social networks. Jane's Facebook page had a clip of Linda and LaValliere dancing. She hadn't named names, but Mrs. Weatherspoon, a widow who lived in our neighborhood, had tagged Linda and me.Fuck. I didn't bother to read the rest ...