Cage sighs, his right hand leaving the steering wheel and settling on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine.”
Just like always, I believe what Cage tells me—because in all my twenty-two years, he’s never steered me wrong. For my entire existence, he’s always been there to back me up and right my wrongs. When our other brothers would give me shit as a kid, Cage would come to my defense.
Maybe it’s our difference in age? Him being seven years older than me might’ve put enough years between us that I didn’t annoy the shit out of him like I did Viggo, Vali, and Ozzi. Or maybe it’s our similarities? When I say I’ve always looked up to Cage, I mean it. It’s been from day one.
My first memory of him is in a ring. I was probably four and we were watching one of his early fights. It was in a dingy, rundown gym and the kid he was fighting was taller and bigger, but my big brother didn’t let that scare him. He fought that giant with everything in him, leaving it all on the mat.
I remember the roar of the small crowd when everyone cheered for him. It was the first time I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was awesome and I wanted to be just like him.
When we pull up at the hospital, Cage parks the truck in front of the emergency room. Walking inside, I see the lady at the window and watch as her eyes go wide at our approach. I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with my injury and everything to do with the beast at my side. Plus, I’m no small cookie.
Together, we probably look very menacing. If you didn’t know Cage, you’d probably think he’s some kind of assassin. He’s a scary looking mother fucker. I’m not as big as he is, but we’re built the same and look a lot alike—same ice blue eyes, same blond hair.
“He’s got a nasty cut,” Cage offers. “We’re going to need to see a doctor right away.” His tone is direct, leaving no room for discussion.
Her eyes snap from Cage to me and then back to Cage. “Yes, sir . . .”
There’s a buzzing sound and the doors to our left open and she meets us there. “Follow me. You can fill out the paperwork while you wait for the doctor.”
Once we’re in one of the curtained-off areas, I have a seat on the edge of the bed while Cage paces the small space, making it feel even smaller and making my anxiety spike.
“Sit the fuck down,” I tell him once the lady leaves. “I told you, it’s a flesh wound . . . I’m fine.”
He stops, turning and running a hand down his face. “Sorry . . . I’m just thinking of what Mom’s gonna say when she sees your face.”
I roll my eyes. “Like she hasn’t seen worse.”
Our mother is married to a fighter and has raised five boys who all spend time in the ring, if not professionally, then recreationally. She’s no stranger to injuries. Over the years, she’s seen us all beaten to a bloody pulp. That can’t be easy, which is why she’s probably so strong—hardened, even. She can’t help it. It’s the only way to survive living with people who throw themselves in front of a punch for the love of a sport. Definitely not for the faint of heart.
Cage occupies himself with filling out the paperwork the lady brings back, which is helpful because the blood still hasn’t stopped flowing from my face. I’ve had my fair share of split lips and cheeks over the years, but nothing that’s bled quite this bad, which leads me to believe it’s deeper than I thought.
After a few more minutes the lady from the front desk comes back and takes the paperwork and my insurance card and driver’s license. “Someone will be in shortly to take a look at that.” She winces when I pull the towel back. “Might want to keep that there until the nurse gets here.”
As the minutes tick by, I feel Cage getting antsier and antsier.
“What the fuck is taking so long?” he growls, running a hand through his hair, which is way longer than it’s ever been. So is the beard he’s sporting nowadays. I’ve always been the only one who kept my hair longer. I like the way it looks and it’s something that sets me apart from every other Erickson. In a family as large as mine, you’ve gotta work to find your niche.
The hair is mine.
The ladies love it.
“You really look like a fucking Viking now,” I muse, lifting my legs up onto the bed and reclining back. If I’m going to be here a while, I might as well make myself comfortable.
Cage gives me a smirk. “You’re just jealous of my manliness.”
I laugh at that and then wince. “Shut the fuck up.”
A few seconds later, the curtain pulls back and my heart stutters. Not from fear or anxiety, but from . . . attraction—pure, unadulterated attraction.
The woman standing at the foot of the bed staring at me has the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re dark and intense, standing out against her pale skin.
She’s completely feminine without being overtly so. Her short hair gives her an edge I find alluring . . . I literally can’t take my eyes off her.
“Mr. . . . uh, Erickson,” she questions, eyes flitting from my brother to the chart and then up to me.
That’s when the creamy skin of her cheeks turns a light shade of pink.
Clearing her throat, she immediately looks back down at the paper. “I . . . I’m . . .” She stumbles over her words for a brief second before she straightens her spine and clears her throat, obviously gaining full composure before looking back up at me. “I’m Frankie.”
Her voice is a bit raspy and low for someone as small as she is. The majority of the population seems small in comparison to Cage, or even to me, but she’s maybe a smidge over five feet and couldn’t weigh more than a buck-twenty-five soaking wet.
“I’m Cage,” my brother says, rising from his seat to shake her hand. “This is my brother Gunnar.”
Apparently, I’ve forgotten my good manners and have been reduced to a heap of blood and bones, just staring at her, because Cage walks over and gives my leg a nudge.
“Uh, let me get you a gown. I’ll be right back.”
When she turns on her heel and pushes through the curtain, it flutters behind her in her haste. I look up at Cage, obviously appearing just as confused as I feel because he huffs out an incredulous laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But it’s obviously not nothing because he continues to smirk, shaking his head.
“Did I say something?”
Barking out another laugh, he turns to me. “No, dipshit. You didn’t say anything. Actually, I was wondering if perhaps the injury is worse than I thought and we should have your head examined.” He leans over the bed, putting himself right in my line of sight. “What’s my name? What day is it? How many fingers am I holding up?”
He flips me off and I swat it down.
“Here.” Frankie is back with a hospital gown that she tosses into my lap. “Put that on and let’s get a good look at what we’re dealing with.”
Glancing down to the gown I realize, for the first time, I’m not wearing a shirt.
So, that’s why she blushed. Mentally I give myself a fist bump. I’ve worked damn hard on this eight pack I tote around and I’m not ashamed of it or any other part of my body, for that matter. And this chick has elicited more of a visceral reaction out of me than any girl has in a long time, if ever, so I’m glad to know I have an effect on her as well.