Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
I walked away from them, from the gym, from the scent of sweat and failure. Each step was a fresh, hot spike of pain, a reminder of the brawl, the loss, and the total, catastrophic failure of the day. My ribs felt like they were grinding together, a wet, grating sensation with every breath. The world was a blurry, lopsided picture through my rapidly swelling eye.
I was reeling from the loss, the physical pain, and the emotional hurt, all of it coalescing inside me into a heavy, suffocating weight. The loss to Damien was a bitter pill, but it was the confrontation with Alex that had truly gutted me. Someone had kissed her. Kissed my Alex. And in my pain and rage, I had hurt her back. I had walked away.
That hollowness was still there, a gaping wound that the physical beating had only served to punctuate.
I stumbled through the school's parking lot, my kit bag slung over one shoulder, aggravating the ache in my ribs. I fumbled with the handle of the black SUV, yanking the door open and collapsing into the back seat. The cool, dark leather interior felt like a reprieve, a sensory deprivation tank from a world that had become too much.
"Alright, Bradley, let's head—" Harris started from the driver's seat, his voice cutting off abruptly as he turned and saw me.
His professional, impassive mask evaporated. His eyes widened, first in shock, then in a deep, immediate concern that was almost worse than anger.
"Brad? Are you alright? What happened?" he asked, his voice sharp and focused as he took in the blood on my lip, the angry, purpling skin around my eye.
His concern was the one thing I couldn't handle. My control, already shattered by Alex and Damien, completely disintegrated. I felt a hot, shameful sting behind my eyes, and the tears I had been fighting since I left Alex's side finally broke free. I ducked my head, turning toward the window, humiliated to be seen like this, crying harder from the sheer frustration of it all. I was a leader. I was a Naird. I was not supposed to be this weak.
"Kid, talk to me. Who did this to you?" Harris's voice had changed. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, clipped fury that I had never heard from him before. He wasn't my bodyguard; he was an agent.
I sobbed once, a harsh, pathetic sound, and scrubbed at my face with the back of my hand, wincing as I touched the tender skin around my eye. I took a ragged, hiccupping breath, trying to reassemble some shred of dignity. "I'm fine," I managed to choke out. "Just… got into a fight." I tried for a shadow of my usual confidence, a weak, watery laugh. "You should... you should see the other guy."
The joke fell flat, and even the small laugh sent a fresh bolt of pain through my ribs, making me wince.
Harris's eyes narrowed. He wasn't amused. He looked, quite frankly, furious at whoever had injured me. "This is not 'fine,' Bradley," he said, his voice a low, controlled growl. "We are going to the hospital. Now."
"No, I just want to go home," I protested weakly.
"That wasn't a request," he said, turning forward and starting the car with a sharp, angry motion. He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling your mother."
"No, don't, Harris. She'll worry, its just some mild pain in the ribs and a little bleeding, I'll be fine" I pleaded. The thought of my mom seeing me like this, of her panicked voice, was more than I could take.
"That is the point," Harris said, not looking back. He dialed. "She needs to know."
I slumped against the window, defeated, and listened to his side of the conversation.
"Ma'am. It's Harris... Yes, ma'am, I have Bradley. He's... he's been injured. A fight at the school... No, I don't know who, but he's bleeding and complaining of rib pain... Yes, ma'am... Yes... We are en route to St. Jude's now... Yes, ma'am. We will meet you there."
I heard the high, tinny sound of my mother's panicked voice through the receiver, and a fresh wave of shame washed over me. I was a mess, a burden, a walking disaster. This morning I had been a high school student. Now I was a beaten-up kid making his mom cry over the phone.
Throughout the ride, Harris constantly worried about me, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by my own quiet, hitching breaths. I just wanted this day to be over.
We finally reached the hospital. The emergency room was a bright, fluorescent hell, smelling of antiseptic and despair. Harris helped me out of the car, his hand firmly on my arm, and guided me into the waiting room. It was packed. A symphony of bureaucracy and human suffering.
Harris, in his full professional mode, walked me to the triage desk. "I have a minor here with blunt force trauma to the face and torso. He needs to be seen."
The nurse at the desk, a woman with a weary, practiced indifference, looked up from her computer, glanced at me, and then slid a clipboard attached to a pen toward us. "Fill these out. Take a seat. We'll call you when a room is ready."
"Excuse me?" Harris said, his voice dangerously quiet. "He's bleeding. He's a child."
"And he's conscious, breathing, and walking," the nurse replied, her voice flat. "His injuries are non-critical. Fill out the forms. Have a seat."
I was too tired to argue. I just wanted to sit. Harris, however, looked like he was about to climb over the desk. "Harris," I mumbled, tugging on his sleeve. "It's fine. I can wait."
He looked from me to the nurse, his jaw tight. He snatched the clipboard. "Fine."
We sat there for an hour. An entire, agonizing hour. My ribs had settled into a deep, throbbing ache, and my eye was swelling shut. I watched the clock. 4:17 PM. 4:35 PM. 5:02 PM. People came and went. A guy with a cough. A woman who had cut her finger. And we just sat. Nobody tended to us.
Finally, Harris's patience, already worn thin by the day's events, snapped. He stood up and walked back to the desk, placing his hands flat on the counter.
"We have been waiting for over one hour," he said, his voice a low, controlled growl. "My ward has a visible contusion on his eye and is complaining of severe rib pain. He needs to be seen by a doctor. Now."
The nurse sighed, not even looking up. "Sir, as I told you, we are at capacity. All critical cases are being seen first. You will have to wait your turn."
"This is atrocious," Harris snapped, his voice rising, drawing stares from the other people in the waiting room. "This is the American healthcare system? You see a child, injured and in pain, and you tell him to fill out a form and wait for an hour? This is how a child is treated?"
"Sir, I don't know what to tell you," the nurse said, her voice turning sharp. "Yell at me if you want, but it won't get you a room any faster. If you don't sit down, I will call security."
"Call them!" Harris roared. "This is unacceptable! This is a complete failure of your duty of care!"
"Harris, please," I said, my voice hoarse. I stood up, wincing. "It's fine. Just... sit down. You're making a scene."
He looked at me, then back at the nurse, his chest heaving with a fury I had never seen before. He was a man of action, a man of control, and this bureaucratic indifference was a system he couldn't fight. He looked... helpless. And that, more than anything, made me realize how truly awful this day had been.
"Bradley!"
That voice. It cut through the tension, sharp and full of a panic I knew all too well. The main lift doors slid open, and Mom ran in, her eyes wide, her purse still hanging off her shoulder. She must have broken every speed limit to get here.
She saw me, and she was appalled and scared. She stopped dead for a second, her gaze sweeping over my swollen, rapidly purpling eye, my cut lip, the dried blood on my chin, and the bruises on my face and knuckles. The blood drained from her own face.
"Oh, my baby," she whispered, rushing over. She immediately came to me, kneeling down on the dirty linoleum floor, her hands hovering, afraid to touch me, her eyes cataloging every injury. "What happened to you? Look at your face... Your eye..."
"Ma'am," Harris stepped forward, his voice a low, controlled growl. "He's been left untreated for over an hour. This nurse refuses to attend to him."
Mom's head snapped toward the triage desk. The fear in her eyes was instantly replaced by a cold, focused rage that was far more terrifying than Harris's. She stood up, her entire demeanor shifting from panicked mother to something far more formidable.
"You," she said, her voice dangerously quiet as she dressed down the nurse. "My son has been sitting here, injured, for an hour?"
"Ma'am, as I told your... colleague," the nurse said, gesturing to Harris, her patience clearly gone. "This is standard procedure. His injuries are non-critical. You need to calm down."
"Calm down?" Mom's voice was like ice. "I am perfectly calm. But I refuse to accept this. You see a child with a clear head injury and potential rib damage, and your 'procedure' is to let him wait for an hour? What is your name?"
"Ma'am, I'm just doing her job."
"What is your name?" Mom repeated, her voice unyielding.
"It's... Brenda," the nurse said, her confidence finally wavering.
"Brenda. Okay." Mom pulled out her own phone, her fingers flying across the screen. "She then made some phone calls."
"Mom, don't," I mumbled. "It's fine... I can wait." The last thing I wanted was this. More conflict. More drama.
"No, Bradley. It's not fine," she said, not taking her eyes off her phone. She put it to her ear. "Carl Peterson, please. This is Maggie Naird... Yes, I'll hold."
Oh, no. I closed my one good eye. She was calling someone high up.
"Yes, sir... I'm fine, but I'm at St. Jude's with my son... He was assaulted at school... Yes, a significant head injury, possible broken ribs... We've been in the ER for over an hour, and the staff is refusing to treat him... Yes, sir... St. Jude's... Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."
She hung up. The waiting room was dead silent. Harris looked impressed. The nurse, Brenda, looked confused. Mom sat back down, took my hand, and just waited.
It didn't take a minute. Her phone rang again. She was contacted by someone on the phone. She answered it.
"Hello?... Yes... Yes, he's right here. Hold on."
An attending doctor rushed out from the back, a clipboard in his hand, looking stressed and annoyed. "Mrs. Naird? I'm Dr. Hayes, I'm the attending on shift. I understand there's been some... confusion? We're very busy—"
"This call is for you," Mom said, holding out the phone.
He looked annoyed, but he took it. "This is Dr. Hayes."
I watched him. The color drained from his face. He went from annoyed to confused to pale and fearful. "Yes... Yes, Senator... Yes, I understand... No, of course... I... I was completely unaware of the situation... My personal assurance... Yes, sir. Immediately."
He hung up and handed the phone back to Mom like it was radioactive, not meeting her eyes. He was visibly trembling.
"Brenda!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Get a gurney! I want the Naird boy moved into Clinic Room 3 immediately! Get him vitals and page imaging, I want a CT scan of his head and ribs, now!"
The nurse scrambled, her earlier indifference gone, replaced by frantic, fumbling efficiency.
The world was starting to blur at the edges. The adrenaline from the fight, the emotional drain from Alex, the long, painful wait... I was completely exhausted, to the point of almost losing consciousness. The physical and emotional toll of the entire day was too much.
I felt myself being lifted, the sharp pain in my ribs making me gasp. The fluorescent lights of the ceiling streaked overhead as they wheeled me through the double doors.
But then I felt Mom's hand on my arm, a cool, steady presence in the chaos. Her face swam into my blurry vision. The anger was gone, replaced by that fierce, loving protection that was hers alone.
"It's okay, honey," I heard her assure me, her voice was the only thing that made sense. "Everything will be okay. Mom is here."
The exhaustion won. The darkness at the edges of my vision closed in, and I fell asleep.
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A Friend of mine had to go through the same shit after a cycling incident in Michigan except he didn't have the luxury of having a senator on call, truly a travesty. This is dedicated to Rags get well soon.