When she turned those gray eyes my way, pleading, how the hell was I supposed to say no? Easy—I couldn’t. Now I happily serve as her body pillow. Plus, selfishly, having her in my arms, feeling her body pressed to mine is the first real thing to reassure me she is okay.
“Has she been sleeping long?” Bette smooths a hand down Kay’s head.
“About ten minutes,” I answer, and her mouth twists into a frown.
“Has she been in a lot of pain?” E steps to his wife’s side, repeating the same caring gesture. “I would have hoped she would get more rest without us here.”
Understandable, and if Kay hadn’t spent the bulk of the time finally filling me in, letting me in, I’d be more upset about her lack of sleep as well.
Keeping my voice low as not to disturb our patient, I tell them, “She told me about your mom.”
Bette gasps, and E’s nostrils flare as he falls back a step. A shield slams down behind his eyes, and an expression fiercer than the one when we told him about what happened with Liam takes over his face. A vein visibly pulses at his temple.
“If only that bitch understood the concept of staying away then life might have turned out different…” E audibly inhales, his shoulders rising, chest expanding with the action. “For all of us.”
Sensing the same anger I am, Bette guides her hand down E’s arm to link her fingers with his, the move bringing discernible change to the big man.
“E.” Bette shakes her head. “Now’s not the time.”
“Listen to the missus, bro.” B stretches out in the recliner JT spent the night in.
E takes his friend’s advice and snuggles with his wife on the couch, each of us closing our eyes and giving in to our exhaustion.
I’m not sure how much time passes before I’m roused from sleep, this time by a nurse coming to check on Kay.
“It’s against the rules to be in the bed, sir.” She eyes me disapprovingly.
Kay lets out a whimper and starts to stir, anticipating the loss of my presence. I stroke a hand down her arm, silently reassuring her I’m not going anywhere. We haven’t listened to the rules since we got here; why start now? A small puff of air dances across the skin of my throat as Kay resettles.
Giving the nurse my most charming smile—you don’t get the nickname Casanova without having buckets of charm—I do my best to ease any of her concerns.
“I know it is, but you see…” I smile harder, bringing into play the dimples Kay loves to tell me make girls stupid. “My girl begged me.”
I raise my brows and attempt to convey a How was I supposed to say no? plea.
The nurse’s frown only deepens.
Oh no. *grips chin and shakes head in mock concern* Guess you’re not as Casanova-y as you thought. I’m sure I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating—my inner coach is a dick.
Afraid the nurse will follow through on kicking me out of the bed, I make one last-ditch effort. “She said the only way she would be able to sleep is if I held her, and I figured sleep is what she needs most right now, correct?”
“Fine.” She finally relents. “Make sure you’re mindful of her cheekbone. There can’t be any pressure on it if it’s going to heal correctly.”
My chest deflates as I blow out a breath of relief. “You have my word.”
I watch, doing my best to stay out of the way as monitors are checked, fluid levels are assessed, and notes are made in Kay’s chart.
“I need to wake her to finish my evaluation.” She tips her head at Kay’s sleeping form.
I nod my understanding. I may not know how long we’ve been out, but I’m well aware concussion protocol mandates these types of checks every few hours.
With a ghost of a touch, I run a finger down the side of Kay’s face. “Skittles, baby.” I trace along her jaw. “Wake up, sweetheart.”
Kay stirs again, pushing deeper into me, her eyes scrunched tightly closed. “Too early,” she mumbles.
A chuckle rumbles inside my chest. It may be evening, but with all the chaos, it seems my little anti-morning person is about to make an appearance.
“I promise you can go back to sleep as soon as this nice nurse”—I send a wink over my shoulder—“is done with you.” I’m not above a little flattery and flirtation if it keeps me in the hospital staff’s good graces.
I run a thumb along Kay’s lower lip; it’s chapped, and I bet she will be asking for that lip stuff girls love so much.
Storm clouds rage in her gray eyes as they lock onto me in accusation, like I’m the bad guy here. “Can’t you let a girl sleep?” she grumbles.
I place a kiss to the tip of her upturned nose. “I thought you said you’re a better patient than E?”
She curses under her breath. “Sometimes you suck.” She shifts to sit up so the nurse can finish her examination.
This time my laughter isn’t as quiet. God I love this girl. I swear we’ll be old and gray and she’ll still be giving me shit.
“You could always be the one to dump his punk ass this time, sis,” E’s voice calls out, all the activity waking the others in the room.
“But he’s so cute.” There’s a mock whine behind Kay’s words.
“That’s half the reason I stay married to your brother,” Bette jokes, and even the nurse joins in on the laughter.
#Chapter18
It hasn’t even been a full thirty-six hours and I’m more than ready to be sprung from this joint—er, hospital.
I need a shower, or better yet, a nice long soak in the jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom at home in the worst way. Don’t get me started on the catastrophe I call my hair.
On my numerous trips to the bathroom—and there were many thanks to all the intravenous fluids I was given—I managed to avoid looking at my reflection. I’ve put the task off as long as I possibly could.
Stop being a chickenshit. *props hand on hip* How can you say your hair is a catastrophe without seeing what it looks like?
My inner cheerleader is lucky it still hurts me to roll my eyes. I don’t need to see it to know my assessment of the situation is correct. I can feel it, hear it any time it moves. Hair should not be something that is audible.
Hands braced on the counter, fingers curling over the rim and digging into the porcelain of the sink, I lift my gaze and gasp at my reflection.
Okay, you were right. You look like shit.
My usually country-music-star-worthy curls currently look like they are vying for the role of Merida if Disney were to do a live-action version of Brave, the blood staining one section only adding to the authenticity. There is no way I’m going to attempt to untangle this mess until it’s loaded down with at least a gallon of conditioner. I can’t even successfully pull it back into a ponytail.
That’s not the worst of it. No, that honor goes to my pale complexion. I think I prefer the Disney princess goals of my hair as opposed to the could-be-Casper’s-sister status my face is going for. Even my freaking freckles look bleached.
It’s no wonder I’ve heard Mase’s teeth grind any time he looks at me. The bruise on my left cheek is like a giant tie-dye beacon against my deathly pallor.