Finally, at last, I’m allowed to enter my husband’s room.
The changes are both subtle and enormous, the biggest one being Stormy is breathing on his own now, steady breaths as indicated by the natural rise and fall of his chest. His face holds more colour, and his eyes twitch as though he’s dreaming. His expression suggests his dreams are not pleasant.
I can’t but hope that they’re not. Stormy’s disappearance could have lost the club its charter, his reappearance still might. If he’s suffering, he deserves it.
As I watch, he twitches again, and his eyelids flutter. I move closer to him, pulling up the chair I’ve sat on so many times before.
“Stormy? Can you hear me?”
Pip clears his throat and nods toward the monitor. Stormy’s heartbeat is increasing.
“Stormy,” I hiss. “Wake the fuck up. You goddamn hear me, you motherfucker?”
Pip snorts.
It looks like he’s fighting. His eyeballs are moving left to right behind his closed lids. His mouth opens, then shuts. His Adam’s apple moves as though he’s tentatively trying to swallow.
“Come on, man.” Pip goes around the other side. “You’ve been sleeping too long. Wake up.”
Stormy’s chest starts to rise and fall more rapidly, his hand closest to me and not encased in a cast clenches. He appears to be fighting like crazy, and it seems natural to put my fingers around his.
“Come on, arsehole, wake up.”
Pip catches my eye and his mouth quirks. I shrug. There was never any love lost between us. Stormy left an arse and I have no reason to suspect he’s returned any different.
So fast it catches me out, his eyes open. He blinks rapidly as though trying to focus. He looks down at our linked hands, before squinting up at my face.
“Find Cat.”
“Fuck the man. Trust him to wake up thinking of pussy.”
I give a violent shake of my head toward Pip. That’s not the impression I got. “Is Cat a person?”
“Cat…” Stormy’s trying hard to get the words out.
“I’ll call a nurse,” Pip states, pressing the button. “His mouth is dry.”
It obviously is, his lips are cracked, but Stormy doesn’t stop focusing on me. “Cat,” he tries again, blinking rapidly, “Catherine. Gun’s got her.”
26
Stormy…
I can’t move. Did Gun catch me again? Am I tied down?
I can’t fucking get my limbs to work. I start to panic, in my head I’m thrashing, but everything stays still. My ears are full of a beep beeping, so monotonous I wish it would stop.
I’ve never felt so helpless in all my life. Maybe I’m dead. I feel dead.
No. Stop. Think. Open your eyes.
It’s almost as much effort as running a marathon or emerging to the surface after a long dive with no air in my lungs. I concentrate, putting all I have into it, until suddenly, my eyes are open. My brain seems to function okay. I’m in a hospital.
My escape was a success. Swift and Pip are sitting by the bed. But that’s no fucking use unless I can talk. Unable to work up saliva, I can’t get words out of my too dry mouth.
I’ve got to save Cat. Now. Before she’s been sold, before she disappears out of my life forever. Cat. Hang on. I’m here. I’m coming for you…
But first I’ve got to get out of this bed, and I’m too weak to do even that.
Machines go crazy as I struggle to speak. “Find Cat.” I don’t hear their response other than to realise they don’t understand me. “Cat,” I repeat. It’s such a struggle just to do that.
A nurse rushes in. I allow him to check me over, only because he sponges my mouth, and gives me ice to suck, allowing me to work up some saliva. Enough, hopefully, that I’ll be able to convince Pip to get me out of here.
At last the nurse seems satisfied with my vitals, and goes off, mumbling about fetching a doctor. Knowing I probably don’t have much time before someone else comes to prod and poke me, I struggle to sit up.
I can’t even do that.
Pip rolls his eyes. “You’re half dead, Stormy. Take your time.”
Time’s not something I’ve got. My escape had worked, but how many hours ago was that? Cat needs help now. I rage inside, feeling so fucking weak and helpless. I swallow, swallow again, then with more determination form words and force them out of my mouth. “Cat. We’ve got to get to her. Get me my clothes and get me out of here.” I try to raise my legs off the bed. This time one jerks, the other doesn’t twitch.
“Whoa, you’re not going anywhere.” Swift places her hand on my left shoulder.
Now I’ve started, speech becomes easier. “You don’t understand. Look, do what you want with me later. But Gun’s got Cat, and he’s going to sell her. We’ve got to find where he’s taking her and stop him.”
Pip and Swift exchange looks, and their expressions are neither what I’d like.
“Cat’s an innocent. She’s got caught up in something she shouldn’t be part of. I don’t fucking know what it’s about. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to save her. Kill me after, if that’s what you want. I just need to find her. Gun took her earlier today…”
“Stormy!” Swift barks, her fingers biting into my shoulder. “Whoever this Cat is and wherever she is now, she wasn’t taken today.”
“She was!” I should fucking know. I was there.
Pip’s face looms over me, bringing his features into view. His mouth twists when he tells me, “You’ve been in a coma for three fuckin’ weeks.”
“No,” I refute. That can’t be. No way. I’d know it. No way. Cat’s only just been taken, there’s time to stop them. There must be. “No.”
I focus on sending the right instructions from my brain to my limbs. I have some success as Swift pins me to the bed. Making a concerted effort, I push myself up with my left arm, and immediately sway, feeling dizzy.
“Three weeks, Brother.” It’s the sympathy in Swift’s eyes, the honesty in her voice, that lets me know I’m being told the truth.
My eyes leak, probably from weakness, but the roll of my gut is pure terror. “Three weeks?” I repeat.
“Who’s Cat?” Pip asks.
But I have no time to answer. The doctor appears. He’s a jovial man, or is now. Presumably he feels some success that his patient has woken up. After three fucking weeks, I suppose he’s entitled.
“Welcome back, Mr Briggs. You caused us some worry. But you’re on the mend now. I just need to go over some things with you—”
I cut him off. Any injuries I’ll deal with myself when they make themselves known to me. I don’t need him to catalogue them. “I want to discharge myself.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Briggs. Or can I call you Jeremiah?” Without waiting for an answer to the question that makes my head spin, he continues, “As I’ve been telling your wife, even now you’re back with us, you’ll have a lot of recuperating to do before we can release you, and subsequently you’ll more than likely be going to rehab.”
My wife? Suddenly my heart leaps. Cat’s here?