Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

Keep Luke close.”
    “Yes, I will.”
    “I’ll see you later.”
    “Bye.” After hanging up, I hug my knees once more. I know nothing about Christian’s business. What the hell is he doing with the Taiwanese? I gaze out the window as we pass Boeing Field-King County Airport. He must fly safely. My stomach knots anew and nausea threatens. Ray and Christian. I don’t think my heart could take that. Leaning back, I start my mantra again: Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay .
    “Mrs. Grey.” Sawyer’s voice rouses me. “We’re on the hospital grounds. I just have to find the ER.”
    “I know where it is.” My mind flits back to my last visit to OHSU when, on my second day, I fell off a stepladder at Clayton’s, twisting my ankle. I recall Paul Clayton hovering over me and shudder at the memory.
    Sawyer pulls up to the drop-off point and leaps out to open my door.
    “I’ll go park, ma’am, and come find you. Leave your briefcase, I’ll bring it.”
    “Thank you, Luke.”
    He nods, and I walk briskly into the buzzing ER reception area. The receptionist at the desk gives me a polite smile, and within a few moments, she’s located Ray and is sending me to the OR on the third floor.
    OR? Fuck! “Thank you,” I mutter, trying to focus on her directions to the elevators. My stomach lurches as I almost run toward them.
    Let him be okay. Please let him be okay.
    The elevator is agonizingly slow, stopping on each floor. Come on . . . Come on! I will it to move faster, scowling at the people strolling in and out and preventing me from getting to my dad.
    Finally, the doors open on the third floor, and I rush to another reception desk, this one staffed by nurses in navy uniforms.
    “Can I help you?” asks one officious nurse with a myopic stare.
    “My father, Raymond Steele. He’s just been admitted. He’s in OR-4, I think.” Even as I say the words, I am willing them not to be true.
    “Let me check, Miss Steele.”
    I nod, not bothering to correct her as she gazes intently at her computer screen.
    “Yes. He’s been in for a couple of hours. If you’d like to wait, I’ll let them know that you’re here. The waiting room’s there.” She points toward a large white door helpfully labeled waiting room in bold blue lettering.
    “Is he okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
    “You’ll have to wait for one of the attending doctor to brief you, ma’am.”
    “Thank you,” I mutter—but inside I am screaming, I want to know now!
    I open the door to reveal a functional, austere waiting room where Mr. Rodriguez and José are seated.
    “Ana!” Mr. Rodriguez gasps. His arm is in a cast, and his cheek is bruised on one side. He’s in a wheelchair with one of his legs in a cast too. I gingerly wrap my arms around him.
    “Oh, Mr. Rodriguez,” I sob.
    “Ana, honey.” He pats my back with his uninjured arm. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, his hoarse voice cracking.
    Oh no.
    “No, Papa,” José says softly in admonishment as he hovers behind me. When I turn, he pulls me into his arms and holds me.
    “José,” I mutter. And I’m lost—tears falling as all the tension, fear, and heartache of the last three hours surface.
    “Hey, Ana, don’t cry.” José gently strokes my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck and softly weep. We stand like this for ages, and I’m so grateful that my friend is here. We pull apart when Sawyer joins us in the waiting room. Mr. Rodriguez hands me a tissue from a conveniently placed box, and I dry my tears.
    “This is Mr. Sawyer. Security,” I murmur. Sawyer nods politely to José and Mr. Rodriguez then moves to take a seat in the corner.
    “Sit down, Ana.” José ushers me to one of the vinyl-covered armchairs.
    “What happened? Do we know how he is? What are they doing?”
    José holds up his hands to halt my barrage of questions and sits down beside me. “We don’t have any news. Ray, Dad, and I were on a fishing trip to Astoria. We were hit by some stupid fucking drunk—”
    Mr. Rodriguez tries to interrupt, stammering an apology.
    “ Cálmate , Papa!” José snaps. “I don’t have a mark on me, just a couple of bruised ribs and a knock on the head. Dad   .   .   . well, Dad broke his wrist and ankle. But the car hit the passenger side and Ray.”
    Oh no, no . . . Panic swamps my limbic system again. No, no, no. My body shudders and chills as I imagine what’s happening to Ray in the OR.
    “He’s in surgery. We were