by V. K. Sykes
The woman shook her head. “We can’t allow that. You can meet him at the hospital.” Snapping the gurney up, they started rolling Kel to the ambulance.
Kat didn’t remember her own trip to the hospital, but she remembered waking up beneath the glare of lights, people she didn’t know yelling at her, asking her name, what day it was…
And the pain.
Oh Christ, the pain. And the fear because she’d been surrounded by strange faces and she hadn’t known what had happened to her.
She wouldn’t let Kellen go through that alone.
Reaching out, she grabbed Kellen’s hand, squeezing it to let him know she was there. She glared at the woman. “I’m riding with him.”
Chapter Three
Kat sat in an uncomfortable chair, her left leg bent up and her arms wrapped around her knee. Some sitcom with a laugh track from hell played on the TV mounted high in the corner. She tried to block out the four other people in the hospital emergency waiting room, one dripping blood from a head wound.
The beige walls and fake plants all leered at her, waiting for her to lose her shit.
Kat kept her gaze on her foot and worked on the cake design in her head.
There would be a cake for Kellen and Diego’s housewarming. She would make that damned cake. And everyone would live happily-ever-fucking-after.
Unless she lost her shit. Right here in the waiting room.
Releasing her leg, she dropped her foot to the floor and stood. Couldn’t sit. Couldn’t wait. Had to do something. They wouldn’t let her in the treatment room. Diego could get in by playing the doctor card, but he wasn’t there yet. He’d been visiting his folks, and it’d be another forty minutes or so before he arrived. Kat had to know what was happening now.
Had to know that Kellen was still alive.
She went to the reception desk. “Checking again on Kellen Reynolds. He has the stab wound to his chest/upper abdomen area.”
The woman reached for the mug sitting on her desk. “Ma’am, as I said ten minutes ago, I don’t have any information. Someone will be with you as soon as they have something to tell you.”
This was bullshit. Kat was closer to Kellen than to her own brother.
“Kat.”
The voice, deep and vibrating, came from behind her.
Whipping around, she widened her eyes. “Sloane.” Trying to process it, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I brought your purse. Your car’s part of a crime scene, but I got this…” he lifted her purse, “…out of it for you.”
She’d forgotten about it. Hadn’t even occurred to her that she didn’t have it.
“Your cellphone, wallet and everything is in it, except for the car key.”
“Oh. Thank you. I was using Kellen’s phone to make calls.” She slung her purse over her head and shoulder.
“Have you seen the doctor yet?”
“Me?” She’d seen too many doctors over the years. “I don’t need one for myself. But I can’t get any information on Kellen.” She strode away from the desk. From him. Trying to walk off her anxiety.
But she didn’t want to go back in that box of a waiting room, so she leaned against a wall in the hallway outside of it and across from the bathrooms.
“Show me your hands.”
Shocked at his demand, she looked up.
And up.
Damn, how tall was he? She was five eight, and he towered over her, probably by ten inches or so. His coat was gone. She had no idea what had happened to it after the paramedics had gotten to the scene and taken over. He had his tie off, the top buttons of his black shirt undone, revealing the strong column of his throat. Her gaze dipped, sliding to his Adam’s apple.
Too intimate.
She wrenched her stare up, past his strong jaw, and hit his eyes. “What?”
“Your hands. Your palms were cut and bleeding. Let me see.”
Surprised, she lifted her hands and flipped them palm up. Huh, he was right, they were scraped and dirty. No doubt from getting thrown to the ground and crawling. “That’s nothing.” She’d wash them. She had burns worse than that in her daily life.
“You’re limping.”
She dropped her hands. It was time to end this, whatever this was. “Sloane, thank you for tonight. For the rescue, for bringing my purse. But I can take care of myself now. It’s late, you should go home.”
“Should,” he muttered, dragging one hand through his dark wavy hair. The strands fell to flirt with his shirt collar.
She pulled her thoughts from the way his just-too-long hair contrasted with his exquisitely tailored suit. Wariness slid along her spine. Sloane had touched her tonight. Even after he’d released her, he seemed to create a force field around her that somehow kept her anchored when she’d been spinning in panic.
He’d already seen more of her than she liked.
She pushed off the wall, needing to get some distance between them.
He moved, a subtle shift that edged his body in front of hers. Then he lifted one hand, laying it on the wall over her head. “You seem to have a habit of running, Kat Thayne. In the ballroom and now.”
Her skin tightened. Nerves skittered. What was he doing? He dominated the entire space, his and hers. Holding her purse in front of her body like a shield, she answered, “You seem to have a habit of getting your way.” He put her on edge in a manner she couldn’t begin to grasp.
“I rarely lose a battle of wills.” He lowered his head slightly. “But in this case, I propose a compromise.”
He was so close, she caught that scent again—soap and male. He didn’t just look at her, instead he penetrated, invaded, pushing deep enough to learn all her secrets. The intensity was too much. Kat shifted her line of sight to over his shoulder. Clutched the purse tighter. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” He wasn’t like other men, treating her as if she might break.
Or already had.
He didn’t move, didn’t back down an inch. “If you agree to see a doctor, I’ll get you an update on Kellen immediately.”
Now he had her attention. She forgot about keeping her distance. “You can do that?”
He pulled his phone out, scrolled and hit send, all while leaning over her with his hand on the wall. His eyes shifted colors beneath the hospital lights, taking on a coppery bronze.
Putting the phone to his ear, he said, “There is a Kellen…”
He lifted an eyebrow in silent question.
Kat leapt at the chance to get information. “Reynolds. Twenty-six years old.”
He repeated that. “Stab wound in chest. Probable collapsed lung. Need an update. I’ll hold while you get it.”
Kat flinched at collapsed lung though she’d heard that in the ambulance. Please God, she prayed. Kellen had suffered enough, just let him be okay.
Time spun out as she stood there beneath his potent regard, his arm stretched over her head. Seconds. A minute. Two. Three.
“I see.”
What was being said? Kat made herself stand still and wait, but her impatience twisted her neck and shoulder muscles.
“Got it.” He nodded once to Kat and continued his conversation. “I’ll need a doctor to check out a friend of mine, as well. Appears to be minor injuries, but I want her examined right away.” He ended the call.
Her heart pounded. “Kellen?”
He slid his phone into his pocket. “Agree to see the doctor first.”
She’d agree to anything. “Yeah, fine. Tell me, damn it.”
The hard expression softened as his light brown irises took on amber specks. “Small puncture in his lung. It appears to be sealing. Strong vitals, he’s young and in good shape. They’re hopeful he won’t need surgery and think he’ll pull through this. The next few hours are the most critical.”
Her throat thickened with utter relief. She sagged against the wall. He would live. Recover. She could tell him how damned sorry she was for freezing.
For letting him get stabbed.
Later. Right now, she said, “Thank you.”
“Doctor will be here in a minute.”
Time to establish her boundaries. “Sloane?”
He looked down at her. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. I’ll see the doctor.” She was grateful. Truly.
He nodded.
Then she added, “Now move your arm and get out of my space.”
***
Hours later, Kat was stiff and sore as she sat at Kellen’s bedside. A little after midnight the doctor had declared Kellen out of danger and moved him to a private room. She glanced at Diego on her right, Dr. Diego Sanchez, a pediatrician who resembled a teddy bear. Shaggy brown hair, soft eyes, powerful body and a gentle spirit. Normally he had an easy grin, but tonight his face was stamped with tight worry.
A soft snore from the bed drew her attention back to Kellen. She was grateful that he slept. His color was good, his breathing getting progressively easier. Rest was exactly what he needed.
But every tick of the clock on the wall amped up her need to move, to do something more to help. She finally spit out, “Do you want some coffee? A soda? Something to eat?”
Diego just shook his head.
Her guilt spilled out. “I froze. I couldn’t even scream.” The image played over in her head. “I saw the knife. If I had just warned him, he could have jumped back.”
Diego settled his somber gaze on her. “You’ve been through enough tonight without adding useless guilt.”
Right. And expecting him to absolve her was selfish when he was wrecked over Kellen’s injury. Jesus, when had she become so pathetic? So weak? She pulled herself together and thought of another way to be useful. “I’ll run home and gather up some things for Kellen. I can go by your place too, pick up whatever you need.”
Diego took her hand. “We’re good for the night. But you need to go home and sleep. Take a pain pill.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. That doctor Sloane bullied into checking me out said so.” She really didn’t want to go home. Alone. Afraid. Living in her own head.
His eyes went from teddy-bear kind to grizzly protective. “I know you went down on your bad leg when that asshole pulled you out of the car. You’re hurting. Go home and take the damned pain pill. Sleep. Bring Kel’s things tomorrow.”
She made a face at him and stalled. “Pediatricians shouldn’t swear.”
“Fuck that, Kit Kat. Go home.”
Feeling a moment of respite at their normal routine, she gave him a soft smile. Diego swore like a sailor, but she had to assume he didn’t do it at work with the kids. Getting up, she leaned down and hugged him.
Then she went to the bed and kissed Kellen’s cheek. He barely stirred. She resisted the impulse to fuss with his covers or brush his hair back. Rest was what Kellen needed so his body could do the hard work of healing. Blinking against the sting of tears, she went back to her chair and scooped up her purse hanging off the back. Glancing at Diego, she said, “I can swing by your place in the morning if you need anything. Just text me.” She reached inside her bag for her car keys when she remembered a tiny detail.
“Crap, I don’t have my car.” The police had it. Sloane had told her that. Her mind wandered back to him, to the man who had shown up, rescued her and continued to help. Once Kat saw the doctor and Kellen’s condition kept improving, Sloane had finally left.
“Take mine.”
“What?” She tried to drag her mind back to the conversation with Diego.
“I said you can drive my car home.” Diego studied her. “Are you that tired, or distracted?”
She’d been caught daydreaming. About a man. She must be tired. “Not distracted enough to forget that I can’t drive a stick shift. Which your car is,” she pointed out.
“That’s a problem.” He let go of her hand and rubbed the space between his eyes. “I don’t want Kel to wake up alone or I’d drive you home. Let me think.”
She didn’t want him waking up alone either. She could call her dad to come get her, but her parents would freak out if they knew what had happened tonight. They’d convince themselves that the carjacking was more proof she wasn’t smart or competent enough to take care of herself. She couldn’t deal with their doubts about her right now.
But she could deal with this.
“I’ll call a twenty-four-hour cab service.” They were safe. People used them all the time. She could do it. It was time she started doing these things.
Diego dropped his hand. “I don’t know, Kat.”
She glanced at Kellen, thought about how she’d frozen when she had needed to do something, anything, to try and keep him from being stabbed. She didn’t want to be that woman anymore. Didn’t want to be that broken. Shifting to Diego, she said, “It’ll be fine. I’ll text you once I’m home.”
She could do it.
***
Sloane stared out the window into the darkness. In the hospital bed behind him, Drake Vaugh’s breathing was ragged, that of a much older man than his fifty-some years. Sloane had flown in specialists from around the country, and they all said the same thing.
Three to six months.
His mentor was losing the biggest fight of his life.
All Sloane’s wealth and power were worthless. Bringing his hand up, he rubbed the old ache where his nose had been broken a few times.
“It’s nearly two a.m. You’ve been standing there for an hour.”
He turned, dropped his hand and looked at the shrunken man in the bed. Drake had kicked off the sheets, leaving him clad in only a hospital gown, revealing thighs that had once rivaled tree trunks had withered to twigs. “Better question is why you’re awake.” He’d kept vigil in this room a half dozen times and Drake hadn’t woken.
“Working up the energy to get out of this bed and put you on your ass as many times as it takes to get you to spill what’s troubling you.”
Sloane walked over and dropped into a chair. Stretching out his legs, he laced his fingers behind his head. “Ready when you are, old man.” Nostalgia crept up on him, slipping into his chest and making it fucking hurt.
Not the kind of pain Sloane could deal with, the kind where he worked his body until his muscles screamed. Yeah, that pain he could handle.
This pain? Not happening. He would not go morose over this. He’d just find more doctors, had to be one out there somewhere who had an answer. People beat cancer all the time.
“Totally would,” Drake said. “But they got me hooked up to all these wires.”
Sloane snorted. “Excuses.”
Drake moved his hand around until he found the remote, clicked a button and the light behind his bed snapped on. He raised his bed. “Spill it, Michaels.”
He knew Drake was a sick man by the gauntness ravaging his face, the shadows chasing the vitality of his eyes. Yet sometimes with the right turn of his head, Sloane caught a glimpse of the man who fourteen years ago had lifted a six-and-a-half foot Sloane off the ground and heaved him into a wall. Then he’d dragged him onto a workout mat and forced Sloane to vent the violent rage boiling inside him.
When Drake had pinned Sloane in a pool of his own sweat and blood, the man had gotten right in his face and said, “Either you control violence or it controls you. Choose.”
Sloane had lived by those words ever since.
But right now he needed to appease the man waiting for him to spill his guts. Unwilling to talk about Kat just yet, Sloane chose a topic that was close to Drake’s heart. “It’s Isaac from our Fighters to Mentors program. One of the other kids in the program came by the gym and told me Isaac’s skipping school, searching for ways to make money.” Drake had been mentoring Isaac, but since he’d gotten too sick, Sloane had filled in, bringing the boy along with the two kids Sloane currently mentored. Isaac wasn’t dealing with the change well.
Drake’s face darkened. “What happened? Is he hurt?”
“No,” Sloane assured him, even as he felt himself dragged back through time. H
e’d been younger than Isaac’s thirteen years when he’d begun finding ways to make money. To keep them going until his mom found her next Prince Fucking Charming. He ignored the ball of rage lodged in his solar plexus. Anger was not productive, action was. Pulling himself back, he said, “Kid’s okay so far. But it turns out that Isaac and his grandmother are in the process of being evicted.”
“Fix it.”
“On it. Already had one of my assistants pull the records. We’ll pay up their rent through the end of the year. But damn it,” he nearly growled. “I’m not reaching the kid. He, or his grandmother, should have contacted me.”
“Pull your head out of your ass. These boys, all they know is rejection, constant fear and desperation. They don’t believe words. Only actions.” Drake ground his jaw then added, “By getting sick, I abandoned him too. Just like everyone else.”
The ugly reality in his mentor’s words twisted with his own helplessness chomping at his guts. “Look, I’ll bring the kid by tomorrow. You talk to him. Keep his ass in school and off the streets.” Sloane knew the streets too well, knew the degradation and hunger that stripped a boy of his soul. It’s part of what drove him to work relentlessly. He was never going to be that powerless again.
Drake nodded. “I need to keep in contact with the kid.” His gaze sharpened. “Now tell me the real reason you’re haunting my room when I should be dreaming of hot nurses and sponge baths.”
Notching his chin down, Sloane scowled. “Dude, I don’t need to know what kind of sick shit you dream about.”
The other man flashed a merciless smile. “If you don’t start talking, I’ll describe the dreams. In boner-inducing detail.”
Sloane grimaced, then sighed. He was cornered and he knew it. “A woman and her friend were attacked by two carjackers earlier tonight. One of them had a knife.”
Drake reached over to his bedside table, latched on to a puke-colored pitcher and poured some water in a plastic cup. “Not seeing the problem yet. Two thugs, one knife. That’s not even a workout for you.” He took a sip of water.
“The woman. I recognized her earlier in the night but couldn’t figure out from where until she told me her name. I saw her once a dozen years ago when I was a dishwasher at the country club. It was her sweet-sixteen birthday party.”