“It’s been three weeks and six days.”
“Yes, and look at you,” she breathes, exasperated, waving her hands up and down my broken body. “You need at least another four weeks. I’ll go get Doc.” She pivots, and I just catch her wrist, stopping her. I won’t lie, it’s fucking agony straining even that much. I grit my teeth and tug her back.
“Just lie with me for a while.” I need her close. To have her near and know there is literally nothing in this world that can tear us apart.
Only each other.
She settles, though hesitantly, and I feel her slight body soften beautifully against me. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly.
She’s quiet for a few moments, her hands stroking gently over the dressing on the side of my stomach. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
I smile. Okay. It’s ironic. Twenty years’ worth of therapy shouldn’t cure the kind of shit we’ve experienced, both together and alone. It probably couldn’t. But I have Beau, and Beau has me.
So we’re going to be okay . . . once this pain has fucked off and I’ve healed. I nod to myself, letting my broken body meld into the mattress, let my eyes close and know nothing will take her from me while I’m asleep.
“I love you, Beau.”
“I won’t ever question that.”
I dose off, knowing it to be true. Peace. I’ve thought I’ve had it. When I met Beau, it teased the peripheral of my existence, tormented me, because it would never truly be mine until I’d fixed her.
I accept now, she will never be fixed. But she is most definitely mine. All mine. Her hate, her love, every broken piece of her, and that makes her as fixed as she’ll ever be.
My dreams are light. My heart is so fucking heavy with love.
Peace.
Even amid the excruciating pain.
A stab of pain gets me, and I grunt, curling my body in protectively to stem it. “Fuck.”
“Sorry!”
I open my eyes, groaning, not knowing whether to clench my stomach or my shoulder.
“God dammit, Brad!” Beau yells, slipping off the bed with as little disruption to me as possible.
“Do you two ever stop?” he asks, appearing at the end of the bed, looking me up and down with a scowl. “Even crippled you’re insatiable.”
I fucking wish. I return his scowl and try to sit up some more. And fail.
“Be still,” Beau warns, her stern words making me go limp again. She takes some water from the nightstand and holds the straw at my lips. I’m in no position to contest her help. This is hideous. I latch on and slurp, noticing Brad’s sling has gone.
“Fighting fit,” he declares, obviously noticing I’ve noticed, gingerly lowering to the end of the bed. “Jerking off’s still off the menu though.”
I cough, and water shoots out of my nose, spraying my chest. “Fuck!” I yelp, as a tidal wave of pain rolls through me. Beau glares at Brad, who raises his hands in surrender.
“No jerking off? No jokes?” He pouts. “What kind of life is this?”
I hold on to my laughter—the pain just isn’t worth the lightness. “She’ll kill you,” I say seriously, making him smirk at Beau as she holds him in place with a look of pure filth.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Or is that a stupid question?”
“It’s a stupid question,” Beau says, collecting the bowl of water and wash cloth off the nightstand and heading to the bathroom. “But you’re stupid so it figures.”
I smile at her back as Brad rolls his eyes, keeping his attention pointing my way. “What—”
“If you’re here to talk about work you can leave,” she calls.
Brad drops his chin to his chest, exasperated. “I’m—”
“Or I’ll happily walk you out.”
He hitches a brow. “I should probably just leave, right?”
I nod. “Probably.”
He doesn’t move, the daredevil. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot.” I grimace as I shift a fraction. “Twice.” I huff, my neck hurting. “Can you just . . .” I lift my head, trying to find a firmer part of the pillow.
“What?”
“I can’t . . .” I nestle into it, huffing, my neck stiff. “It’s . . .”
Brad gets up and comes to me, easing the pillow out and punching it a few times. “So when are you back on your feet? Lift your head.” My chin hits my chest and Brad stuffs the pillow beneath. “Better?”
“Yeah.” I settle. “Tomorrow.” I’ll be up and about by tomorrow.
He laughs. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Doc said I should be on my feet.” I’ve just got to walk off the stiffness. “Beau’s being difficult.” I expect she’s also got an ulterior motive.
“She’s known exactly where you are for four weeks, pal. That’s a luxury she’s never had. I can’t blame her.”
I laugh under my breath, fidgeting again, uncomfortable. “It’s been a fucked-up luxury for me too, knowing where she is twenty-four/seven.” But now I have every confidence that she’s never disappearing on me again. “Fuck this,” I snap, lifting my shoulders, making Brad rush to me.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” He looks between me and the bathroom, obviously terrified of Beau’s reaction. “Stay still. She’ll blame me.”
“Be a man,” I grunt, holding my breath and gritting my teeth, working my way up to sitting.
“Be a fucking man?” he mutters, holding my shoulders, therefore stopping me from falling back to the mattress. “What should I do?”
“Brad!” Beau yells, emerging from the bathroom.
He releases me, holding his hands up like Beau’s got a gun aimed at him. “It wasn’t me, for fuck’s sake. Why’d you blame everything on me?”
I land on my back on a yelp. “Fuck!” The pain. It fucking angers me, and in the midst of it, because it couldn’t get any fucking worse, I sit back up, hissing as I do. “Give me some of those painkillers, for fuck’s sake.”
Brad scrambles for the pot and tips a couple into my palm. I keep my hand out. “More?” he asks, unsure.
“More,” I demand. Another two land, and I toss them into my mouth and motion for the water. Brad holds the straw at my mouth, and I slurp it down before shuffling back until I find the headboard, slumping against it. Fuck me, I’m sweating.
The door knocks, and Pearl wanders in with a tray, bringing my daily delivery of tea and toast. She’s all smiles.
Until she sees Brad.
He quickly puts himself on the other side of the bed, grunting his hello, and Pearl quickly gathers herself. “Esther sent tea and toast.”
My eyes jump from Pearl to Brad, happy for the distraction from my ailments. “Thanks,” I murmur as Brad kicks the carpet, his hands sunken into his pockets, his eyes low.
“Welcome.” She smiles and slips it onto the nightstand. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot. Twice.”
She smiles awkwardly. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s Brad. Pearl and Anya have been in and out of my room for four weeks bringing tea, toast, water, whatever Esther’s sending. Both have settled in well. Both are all smiles.