Digging Deep

by Jay Hogan

  Dana studied me with dark solemn eyes. “You know I understand that better than most, right, Drake?”

  “I do. How long did it take you?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Months, years. It depends what part you’re talking about. I still feel like crying when I think about either one of them. But getting back to work helped, it really did. You remember that those cases are the very few. The rest are solid gold.”

  “I admire you so much, you know that?”

  She smiled. “Likewise. Not sure I could deal with what you do.”

  “Yes you could.” I let that sink in for a moment. “Anyway, Cass said that not returning to work is the same as running away from the problem and won’t make anything easier. That woman is crazy skilled at manipulating everything you say. It’s like talking to fucking Yoda. ‘Do or do not. There is no try.’”

  Dana’s eyes danced as she hummed her approval.

  “So, I understand the ‘don’t do’ isn’t an option. It would screw me up big time to throw this job away without a fight. I will come back. It’s just I don’t know how that will look or when or if it will last.”

  Dana nodded thoughtfully. “But you’ll keep talking to her.” Statement not question.

  That deserved a bigger sigh. “I will. It was… helpful. We talked about my Crohn’s and Caleb too. Nothing too deep, we didn’t have the time, but even that little bit was helpful. So….” I sat back in my chair. “You can say I told you so now.”

  Dana’s smirk was award-worthy. “Hell yeah, I told you so, fucker. I’ll even make you one of those disgusting fake coffee things you laughingly call a drink. Wait here.”

  She got up to leave just as the clinic reception buzzer sounded.

  I reached for the rosters. “I’ll start on these while you sort out whoever it is.”

  “Ah, great. Good idea.”

  I would’ve sworn she flushed pink except Dana didn’t do blushing… ever. “Dana?”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” And she was gone.

  Huh.

  A minute later the door opened again.

  “That was quick.” I glanced up from the rosters to find Dana standing stock-still in the doorway.

  I frowned. “Ah, you gonna come in there, girl?”

  “Um, no, actually. You have a visitor. Please don’t kill me.”

  She slowly stepped to the side and every scrap of blood left my head in a rush as my heart lurched into my throat and tears pricked my eyes.

  “Prim?” I choked out her name, my mouth running to dust. My gaze flicked wildly to Dana.

  She answered my unspoken question. “Um, Prim rang yesterday and we talked. She wanted to talk to you. I didn’t say anything last night because I didn’t want you stressing for a whole day before you met up.”

  I simply stared.

  “I’ll leave you two alone, then.” Dana scarpered, my gaze drilling fiery holes into her back before returning to Prim. Prim. Holy fuck.

  “Can I come in?” she said, her eyes flickering nervously over my face.

  Shit. I leapt to my feet. “Sorry. Of course you can. Please, take a seat.” I indicated the bright floral armchair alongside mine. To say I was stunned was the understatement of the decade. Flabbergasted, overwhelmed, and fucking astonished were far closer to the truth. And terrified as hell. Yes. Especially that one. The last time I’d seen Prim, she couldn’t even look at me. To all intents and purposes she blamed and hated me. Now?

  I tried to gauge her mood as she perched in the chair. She looked… exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Dark clouds filled her eyes and black circles ringed them. She’d lost weight and not just from losing the pregnancy. She was rail thin, her cheeks drawn, her mouth a spider’s web of tight lines at the corners, her hair limp and dull on her shoulders. She looked… wrung out and ragged.

  “Did you drive?” Please God, she hadn’t.

  “No.” Her eyes wandered to the window and a touch of warmth broke through the heavy grief. “Kevin’s in the car. He’s been… brilliant… through everything.” She drew a hesitant breath and dropped her gaze to her hands. “I mean, it’s not like you ever think this kind of thing’s gonna happen, right? You can’t predict how you’ll cope and some marriages don’t survive this, but….” She looked up and held my eyes. “I think we’ll be okay. He really loves me and you have to have faith, right?”

  My heart did that slow flippy thing in my chest as images of Caleb lying out cold on that hospital bed sprang into mind. Prim was so right. You can’t ever be sure. You can’t practice that shit or plan ahead. It hit me like a sledgehammer. I’d been so focused on my health, we both were, that we’d lost sight of the bigger picture. Shit. We’d been fucking idiots, both of us, but mostly me.

  I tried to say something, but my tongue filled my mouth like a ball gag, and another wave of guilt swam through me. “Prim, I….”

  “Stop.” She placed a warm hand over mine and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “Please, Drake. I just need to say this, and then I’ll be gone. Okay?”

  I nodded and prepared myself… for anything. The fact she’d come to see me when she hadn’t even wanted to talk to me had to mean something, but the misery in her eyes tore at my heart. She was still in the midst of her grief, and I told myself this moment was for her. I just needed to hear her out so she could heal. I’d deal with whatever aftermath those words had for me… later… when she’d gone.

  “I don’t blame you, Drake.”

  And holy shit. Everything in the room blurred with those five words. Everything except Prim’s tear-streaked face. Air fled my lungs, my eyes closed, and my chin hit my chest with a sense of release, huge fucking release. I took a minute to breathe it in, conscious of the light touch of her hand still atop mine. She continued to talk, and I struggled to focus, but I needed to hear every word.

  “I’m so sorry if you thought I did,” she said. “I was just so… angry… and sad. I couldn’t see you without thinking of that night… and… Hannah. I’m really sorry… that’s all.”

  My head shot up. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Prim. You were in shock and… well, I kind of blamed me too.”

  She held up a hand. “It is what it is… right? A tragedy. Not your fault… or mine.”

  We sat there a minute, the weight of a thousand unsaid things heavy between us but maybe no longer impossible to carry.

  Prim straightened her skirt and stood “I should really go. This place… well, it’s still so raw.”

  “Of course.” I got to my feet as well. “I’m, ah, well, I’m so sorry about the surgery.”

  She nodded softly. “Thanks.”

  I reached for her hand and she let me take it. “You’re amazing.” She really was.

  She studied me for a moment. “Give me a little more time, Drake. A few months, maybe. Then don’t be a stranger. Promise me. We have things to talk about.”

  I nodded. “I promise. Take care.” I opened my arms. “Can I?”

  She stepped into them and we clung to each other for a minute. Then I watched her leave, and with her a piece of my heart, one that would always belong to her after what we’d been through.

  I collapsed into the chair, emotions barrel-rolling through my brain. Relief, sadness, regret, thankfulness, and yes, even a little guilt and panic, still. But I could see the edges fraying on those and time would do the rest.

  But through it all rose one stark piece of clarity. Caleb’s timeout was done. We were gonna stop fucking around and talk till we had a decision. My stomach twinged at the unwelcome thought he might have already made his. Well, I’d soon find out.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Caleb

  I WAS off work for the foreseeable future until I was cleared medically both regarding the surgery and the postconcussion syndrome. I figured a few weeks, if not longer. No one wanted a spaced-out detective on the streets, and I was even less help sitting at a desk. There’d been a mountain of bullshit paperwork to get through regarding th
e arrest, the attack, insurances, my witness statement, not to mention Health and Safety. Leanne had needed to fill most of it in while I simply dictated and signed at the end.

  The pain was now more of a general ache, providing I didn’t move too quickly, and in truth it was my head causing me the most problems. Blistering headaches continued to hit without warning, disappearing the same way. Some stayed minutes, others for hours. My attention span was for shit, and I’d be lucky to give a two-year-old a run for their money, let alone have enough focus to read a book. Even watching movies was an exercise in frustration.

  There were also these odd-shaped gaps in my memory about the day it all happened. I could remember everything up until I left Drake in the hospital, but after that it was like a flickering black-and-white movie that someone had randomly spliced. It would’ve been more impressive if I’d hit a wall or a fist to earn it, but to admit I was knocked unconscious by an unruly piece of patio furniture was―well, you get the picture. So did my fellow detectives who wasted no time ribbing me mercilessly about it.

  Before leaving hospital, I’d tried to get my research on Crohn’s up and running. I’d meant what I said to Drake. I owed it to both of us to get a better idea of what I/we were in for. I’d met with a gastrointestinal specialist for the medical side. It was the smart thing to do, right? No. Bad, bad idea.

  I’d left that meeting with the stuffing poking out of me. Between all the possible complications he’d rattled off—surgeries, drugs, risk of stomas, arthritis, vision problems, and every other potential effect on Drake’s body systems—the guy made it sound like Drake may as well pack his shit and book a bed in a long-stay nursing home next week for all the “normal” he’d get in his life. And when I’d explained why I wanted to know, he said all the right things about how sensible I was being, how he admired me, how supportive I was, and how every case is different and blah, blah, blah, but his expression wavered between pity and “Are you fucking crazy?” It was hard not to read between the lines, the message was hardly ambiguous.

  I rolled my eyes, imagining what Drake’s response would’ve been to the man’s sweeping generalisations. If there was anything I’d learned about Crohn’s, it was that you couldn’t pigeonhole it. It looked different in every person. Which only got me wondering again what the fuck I was hoping to achieve. I wasn’t gonna lie. The doctor had freaked me out and left me wondering if I really did have it in me to deal with Drake’s health. I was more fucking confused than ever.

  On the plus side, my own doctor had been in raptures over my pee output when I was discharged, go me. All points south were apparently present, working, and accounted for, and that also brought some relief. The same doctor warned me to avoid overly energetic sex, and to just keep things light and playful, as and when I could manage. It was time to be lazy and let someone else take charge, he’d suggested. I told him he had nothing to worry about… unfortunately.

  My one remaining kidney was apparently rosy-cheeked and bursting with health, but I needed to keep it that way, he’d warned. Queue the alcohol and diet warning. Not that I needed it. Only having one kidney with no backup was featuring increasingly in my thoughts about the future, but at least the doctor was happy. He clapped me on the back, his hand lingering a little longer than usual for a straight guy, and the wink he sent me as I left his office sealed the deal.

  But as attractive as he was, the guy didn’t even raise my heartbeat, let alone a centimetre of interest in my dick. There was only one man on my mind. The one I’d asked to give me time. Yeah, give the man a fucking cigar.

  “EAT. IT’S good for you.” Carmen loomed over me, hand on hip, wearing an extrapissy look on her face.

  She was taking this whole nursemaid thing way too seriously. Refusing to take no for an answer, she’d taken it upon herself to look after me the first few days back home once my mother left. The trouble was, Carmen’s idea of care and concern translated roughly into sarcastic, bossy, and just shy of psychotic. It was like living in some strange drag version of Colditz with Nurse Ratchet in frills as my warder.

  I pushed the bowl of dishwater-like soup farther away. “If that phrase ‘it’s good for you’ comes out of your mouth one more fucking time,” I snapped, “I’m gonna tip the next bowl down the front of that ridiculous apron you’re wearing.” Don’t even ask. “I’m eight days postop, they even took my damn stitches out, I can handle more than whatever that disgusting broth is you keep trying to pour down my throat. Besides, who eats soup at nine in the morning?”

  Her lip set in a thin, menacing line, and she whirled and muttered her way back to the kitchen. “You should be grateful. That’s my mother’s foolproof recipe. You’re damn lucky you’re sick. No one talks to me like that.”

  “I do.”

  “Yes, well it’s clearly time things changed.”

  “Never gonna happen.”

  Pete had laughed his socks off when I’d called and begged him to call his husband off. Bastard. He said I was welcome to her, that he was having a very chilled time thank you very much, and not to be in too much of a rush to send her home. He was officially off the Christmas list. That was twenty-four hours ago, and I was ready to ring the hospital, feign a relapse, and demand my damn bed back.

  “You could at least have given me Daniel,” I complained loudly. Daniel was a much quieter animal altogether, and although I loved Carmen’s spirit, having all that energy directed wholly my way… well, overwhelming. Pete deserved a medal.

  She stomped her high heels back into the lounge and glared at me. “Are you saying I can’t do caring?”

  Yes. “No, of course not.”

  She cocked a brow.

  I grimaced. “Maybe.”

  She spun and promptly went over on her heels, stumbling into the armchair. “Fuck,” she cried. “Now look what you made me do.”

  I tried to help her sit up, but she shoved at me and got there herself, whipping off her shoe and rubbing her ankle. “I’ve got two performances this weekend,” she grumbled, dropping her head so I couldn’t see her eyes. “How am I supposed to work with a fucked-up ankle? Not to mention I put off two other clubs just to be here. And look….” She held up her shoe, now minus the heel. “Son of a bitch. That’s three hundred dollars down the toilet. I just… I can’t….”

  Her voice wavered and all my attitude flew straight out the window. I angled my head so I could see her face better, because I had to be wrong—Carmen didn’t do tears, that wasn’t possible. She caught me looking and ducked her head, but it was too late. I’d seen the evidence.

  “Hey, sweetheart?” I spoke softly. “Carmen?”

  She threw back her head and lifted her chin in that challenging way she had. “I just… I just wanted to help,” she faltered. “What was so wrong about that?”

  Shit. I patted the couch next to me, and she debated for a minute, chewing on her lip before finally scooting over and curling up against me. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and for a few moments, Carmen disappeared, leaving a soft, vulnerable man—also my best friend. Daniel didn’t make random appearances when Carmen was in charge, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Then I remembered all those teenage years when it had been me needing his strength, and I pulled him closer. I had to stop separating the two. They were the same person, something Pete had seen from the start.

  I nuzzled against her hair. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help, and I am so grateful… truly, I am. You’re the best friend anyone could have, and I love you dearly.”

  She glanced up. “Really?”

  I nodded. “No question.”

  She sniffed and burrowed deeper against me. “You scared the fucking shit out of me, Cal,” she mumbled. “When I got that call, I was terrified you were gonna die before I saw you again, and I… I honestly don’t know how I would’ve survived. I just want you back again, how you were. I need you to be okay. I’m sorry if I was a little… pushy about it.”

  My chest burst with affection and
I kissed her head. “I am okay. Everything is going to be fine. And you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t a bit pushy, right?”

  She sat back and eyed me coolly. “I’d say you were mocking me, but that couldn’t be right, seeing as how I just poured my fucking heart out to you.”

  And she was back. I grinned and ruffled her wig.

  “Don’t touch the hair,” she warned, but there was a welcome sparkle in her eyes. Then she looked down and frowned, brushing at her frilly apron. “You really think this is ridiculous?”

  I barked out a laugh. “Totally, but it’s also very you. Besides I’m sure you can work it into a routine… a naughty gay maid fantasy perhaps?”

  Her eyes lit up at the suggestion, then drifted off as if she was already seeing the performance in her head. Her attention snapped back when my phone buzzed. I checked the text, fired back a reply, and when I looked up, Carmen was studying me intently.

  “Drake?”

  “No.” I answered flatly. “Evan.”

  Her gaze narrowed menacingly. “Evan who?”

  “The guy whose wife has Crohn’s, remember? The social worker put me in touch with him.”

  Carmen studied me intently. “Fine. But when are you planning to give that sweet man of yours a call and tell him to get his butt over here? The guy sat beside you for three fucking days in hospital and all you do is blow him off.”

  “And we were just getting along so nicely,” I snarked.

  “Don’t you sass me, Caleb Ashton. I hope I didn’t drag that poor man’s sorry arse to your hospital bed for no good reason. If you think I was upset and worried, he was worse.”