Hold On (The 'Burg Series Book 6)

by Kristen Ashley

  “Pulse. Weak,” Merry muttered. “Cher, get some towels.”

  Pulse.

  Weak.

  Thank God.

  I moved out. Mike moved in. By the time I got back with towels, they had Ryker on his back.

  Men nabbed towels from me, went for a wound, and pressed.

  I felt a hand on my arm and looked up at Cal.

  He had one of my kitchen towels. He turned into me and his eyes watched his hand as he wiped blood off my face. He didn’t take a lot of time doing it before he caught my chin with his fingers and looked into my eyes.

  “You good?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He studied me.

  Then he grinned. “Tough chick.”

  “You bet your ass.”

  He shook his head and dropped his hand.

  I started to move to Ryker, catching sight of Tanner as I did.

  There wasn’t a lot of room, especially with Ryker’s big body sprawled on my floor, but Tanner was pacing what was left of it, eyes glued to his bud, movements agitated, face set in stone.

  They were tight, Tanner and Ryker. And don’t ask me how I knew, I just knew that Tanner was fighting the urge to drill the body on my stoop with more holes.

  I went to Ryker’s head and got to my knees. Lifting his head gently, I slid my thighs under it to act as a pillow.

  “Merry?” I called.

  Merry looked from Ryker to me. “Yeah, Cherie?”

  “Jones said he shot Ryan.”

  Merry’s mouth got hard and he looked to Colt.

  Colt looked to Sully.

  Sully pulled out his phone and stepped out of my kitchen.

  I turned my attention to Ryker.

  “You’re good, brother,” I told him, curling my hands around his neck. “You’re good. You have to be. Alexis is boy crazy and someone has to protect her from teenage pregnancy, and you are the walking, talking anecdote for any boy who wants to get in a girl’s pants, if that girl’s your daughter, that is.”

  Ryker, unconscious, said nothing.

  My fingers curled in tighter.

  “You’re good, brother,” I repeated. “You’ve gotta be good. You got sugar in your bed. What man in their right mind would leave that?”

  Ryker just lay there.

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Ryker.

  Ryker didn’t just lay there.

  He annoyed.

  He got up in your shit.

  He threw back drinks and spouted inappropriate crap that made you want to smile and punch him at the same time.

  I leaned over him as far as I could get.

  “You gotta be good, brother. People like us, Ryker…people like us, we can’t give up. We gotta show the world. We gotta show our kids. We gotta show ’em it’s okay. We gotta show our babies we can do it if we don’t give up. We gotta show ’em it pays off, it comes to you if you got it in you to wade through the shit. You’ll get the good if you don’t give up. You can live it if you just dare to dream.”

  I heard the sirens.

  I bent even further, my forehead to his.

  “You got it all, brother. You finally got it all. Don’t give up,” I whispered.

  Ryker said nothing.

  He just lay there in a puddle of his own blood on my goddamned kitchen floor.

  * * * * *

  Ryan

  He was trying to open his eyes.

  All he saw was fuzzy. Blurred.

  But he smelled weird stuff. Like he was in a hospital.

  He felt nothing.

  He blinked slowly, the only way his eyelids would move.

  The blur was still there when he was done.

  But he felt something.

  His hand was squeezed.

  Then he heard it.

  “You’re good.”

  Cheryl.

  She was there.

  As crazy as it was with all the shit that had happened to them, she was always there.

  The best friend he’d ever had.

  “You’re good, Ryan,” she whispered. “Rest, brah. Yeah?”

  He tried to nod.

  He didn’t succeed.

  He fell back to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Garrett

  Three Days Later

  “Well, fuck yeah, of course. Because I am,” Cher declared loudly.

  Garrett stood at the door, shoulder to the jamb, and watched his woman move away from the hospital bed. She rounded it and gave Lissa a hug. She went to the chair Alexis was curled into, bent, and kissed her cheek.

  Then she moved to Garrett.

  Garrett nodded to Lissa, smiled at Alexis, and looked at Ryker in the bed.

  When he caught Ryker’s eyes, Ryker lifted his hand, tubes stuck in it.

  It took him time, but he finally executed his badass salute.

  Lissa ruined it when she grabbed his hand on its descent and tucked it to her belly.

  Ryker shook his head on the pillow.

  Garrett bit back laughter.

  Then he mouthed, I owe you.

  After which Ryker did not mouth, “I know.”

  That was when Garrett shook his head.

  Cher made it to him, grabbed his hand irately, and yanked on it.

  He took that and the fact she didn’t stop moving as indication she wanted him to follow.

  He held tight to her hand and followed.

  He also bit back his smile as they walked and he watched her annoyed profile.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “What are you?”

  “What am I?”

  “You said to Ryker, ‘of course I am.’ Of course you are what?”

  She rolled her eyes and faced forward, still moving.

  He tugged her hand and stopped.

  She had no choice but to stop with him.

  “What are you?” he pushed.

  “Mom and Ethan are at your place. It’s been three days. I bought ready-made Christmas cookie dough. I gotta bake that shit, then we got a tree to decorate. But before that, we’re going to the fucking phone store. I’m getting you a new phone and no back talk. It’s your Christmas present. You can use it between now and the big day. I’ll swipe it Christmas Eve, wrap it, and…surprise.”

  He ignored all that, though they definitely were hitting the phone store on the way home. Cher just wasn’t buying his new phone. She could buy him something else for Christmas that didn’t cost hundreds of dollars.

  Instead, he kept at her.

  “What are you?”

  She looked at him a beat then looked away. “Colt has a big mouth.”

  He tugged her hand again. “Cher.”

  Her eyes came back to him. “It was that dare to dream stuff,” she snapped. “Colt told him. Ryker thinks it’s hilarious. He called me a girl.”

  He gave another tug on her hand until his girl was close enough to let her hand go so he could wrap his arms around her.

  “And I am,” she declared. “I am a girl.”

  “Thank Christ,” Garrett muttered, feeling one side of his mouth hitch up.

  She lifted her chin.

  “I’m also a girl who’s moving into your house. Invite or not. Crappy bathrooms or not. We can use my furniture, which is comfortable, even if half of it’s from a garage sale. If you say no, we’re moving in with Mom. But no way am I makin’ my kid egg goo in a kitchen where Ryker nearly bled out on the floor.”

  “Babe, have you been anywhere outside my bed, my house, or my sight unless you’re at work for the last three days?”

  “No.”

  “You think I’m gonna let you make dude food in a kitchen where Ryker nearly bled out on the floor?”

  Her lips started curving up. “No.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” she asked back.

  “Why wouldn’t I do that?”

  It didn’t take long for the answer to come to her.

  When it did,
she melted into him.

  “You take care of me,” she said softly.

  “Yeah. And Ethan. So yeah. Ask for time off. We’ll pack up all Janis Joplin’s shit that lunatic didn’t smash and move it to my place. But first, tonight, we’re putting fuckin’ pink ornaments on our first Christmas tree.”

  She drifted her hand from his chest up to curl around his neck and rolled up on her toes.

  She did this, staring into his eyes.

  “Thanks for shooting a man in the face for me,” she whispered, her brown eyes dancing.

  It hurt a fuckuva lot, but seeing as they were in a hospital corridor, Garrett managed to force his roar of laughter down to just a chuckle.

  “You’re welcome, Cherie.”

  “I love you, Garrett Merrick,” she told him.

  “I know you do and I love you too, but just to repeat during this gooey moment where you might think you can get in there, Ryan is not recuperating in our guest room.”

  The warmth in her brown eyes turned partially flinty at the ongoing argument they were having about her friend who was recovering in a hospital in Indy.

  He’d lost a lot of blood.

  He’d taken shots to worse parts of his body.

  And he’d been left longer.

  He’d also been taken off the critical list that morning.

  “His mother is a ball-breaker,” Cher told him.

  “So are you.”

  He had her there. It was written all over her.

  It took her a few beats, but she finally found her comeback.

  “She’s not the good kind.”

  And she had him there.

  He tried a different tack. “Babe, I don’t have a bed in either guest room.”

  “You will if we use my old one.”

  Fuck.

  She had him again.

  “Right. I don’t want a geek genius in our house, playing video games with Ethan, possibly teaching him geek-genius stuff, which would not be bad, but also teaching him Ryan-stupid shit, which would absolutely not be good.”

  “Hmm…” she murmured.

  It was a good call to pull the Ethan card. She wanted Ryan to teach her son to be stupid less than Garrett did.

  So he dodged the bullet.

  This, and looking forward to store-bought-but-home-baked Christmas cookies and pink ornaments, made him pull her even closer.

  “It happens,” he replied.

  “What happens?” she asked.

  He dipped closer and held her tighter.

  “It happens,” he repeated. “For people like us, baby. It happens, eventually. Just as long as we hold on.”

  She liked that. She showed it with her pretty brown eyes. She showed it by pressing closer. She showed it by wrapping both arms around his neck.

  Finally, she showed it by rolling up further and taking his mouth.

  And he liked that.

  So he showed her too.

  While she was taking his, he took hers.

  And with that—as they did and as they’d continue to do—together, Cher Rivers and Garrett Merrick successfully weathered yet another storm.

  Epilogue

  Such a Girl

  Feb

  May

  I walked into the living room to see my son tossing treats to my cat, my husband with him, holding back our dog by his collar.

  Seeing this and it annoying me, I planted my hands on my hips, asking, “Are you serious?”

  My husband’s eyes came to me.

  They grew dark as they dropped to my dress and his face assumed an expression I felt in my womb.

  My son’s eyes also came to me.

  Since we had somewhere to go, I decided to focus on Jack.

  “What, Momma?” Jack asked.

  “Baby boy, the vet said Wilson’s too fat,” I told him, resuming walking into the living room so I could get to my purse in the kitchen.

  “Daddy says the only eggerzize Wilson gets is runnin’ ’round for kitty treats,” Jack replied.

  I glared at Colt as I walked by him, and I did this mostly because he hadn’t lied to our kid—Wilson was lazy as hell—so I had no retort.

  For his part, Colt grinned at me as I walked by him.

  Years he’d had to become impervious to my glare.

  That was annoying too.

  I hit the kitchen, asking Colt, “How many have you given him?”

  “Three,” Colt lied.

  “Eelehben,” Jack told the truth.

  I again glared at Colt, who had followed me into the kitchen.

  “We need to get goin’,” he stated. “Not have our three thousandth argument about Wilson’s cat treats.”

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

  “Scout taken care of?” I asked about our dog, who had likely gotten his treats earlier but forgotten that had happened, which was why he was now skulking into the kitchen, straight to his bowls.

  I took my clutch from under my arm so I could transfer stuff from my purse, which was lying on the kitchen counter, into it as Colt answered, “Yep,” while fitting himself to my back. He then bent in to kiss my bare shoulder before murmuring in my ear, “Like this dress, baby.”

  I lost some of my annoyance, feeling my husband’s heat. I lost more at the touch of his lips. I lost more at his words.

  I lost it all when I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.

  I loved silver. Because I did, I wore a lot of it.

  And every day, no matter when I got home—if it was eight at night or three in the morning—I took my silver off at our kitchen counter.

  I dropped it in a pile wherever it hit.

  The next time I saw it, I’d see that my husband had organized it. Bangles in a bundle. Rings lined up. Chains straightened. Earrings stacked, one on top of the other.

  Sometimes I saw him do it, so I knew it wasn’t about him keeping it neat.

  When he did it, his touch was reverent, like the jewelry was still on me.

  I didn’t know why he did it. I never asked. I just let it feel nice, thinking of his fingers touching my silver, something that I loved, something that touched me.

  After losing decades, we’d now been back together for years.

  I took off my silver every day in the kitchen.

  And my husband straightened it every day for me.

  It was now straightened.

  And I felt each touch it took Colt to straighten it right on my skin.

  I loved it that I had that like I loved it that I had him.

  And no woman could be annoyed when she had that.

  I finished with my purse and turned.

  Colt shifted to allow the movement, but then he shifted back in, wrapping his arms around me.

  I lifted my hands and rested them on his shoulders, my eyes scanning my man.

  “You don’t look so bad either,” I noted.

  He grinned, dipped in, and touched his mouth to mine.

  “Can we go?” Jack asked.

  We both looked to our son, who was also now standing in the kitchen.

  “I wanna play with Ethan,” he explained his impatience.

  Jack loved Ethan like Ethan was his big brother.

  Ethan gave that back.

  Colt gave me a quick squeeze before he let me go and moved to his boy.

  He picked him up and set him straddling his hip, Jack wearing his little man suit pants and shirt that was a close match to the suit pants and shirt his daddy was wearing.

  “We’re gonna go, but remember what we told you,” Colt said, walking them out of the kitchen. “It’s a big day. Ethan’s gonna be busy.”

  “But he’ll be able to play, right?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, I reckon after a while, he’ll be able to play.”

  Jack smiled at his father.

  Colt returned his smile as he nabbed his suit jacket from the back of a dining room chair as well as Jack’s, which was lying on the table.

  As for me…

  I sm
iled inside.

  I did that a lot these days.

  Then again, I did it a lot on the outside too.

  I grabbed my clutch and moved toward the kitchen door, giving my dog a scratch while I did.

  I walked out. My husband and son walked out behind me.

  Colt put Jack down so he could lock the door and I took my baby boy’s hand. My baby boy who was growing up and not so much of a baby anymore.

  We walked to Colt’s truck.

  We climbed in.

  And Colt took us to Ethan.

  * * * * *

  For a wedding by a lake that was going to be catered by my brother at a grill and a table groaning with potluck chips, dips, and salads—the only thing wedding-esque being the flowers and decorations the bridesmaids insisted on putting up (something we all got up early to do that morning) and a beautiful wedding cake the mother-of-the-bride demanded she provide—the wedding party was enormous.

  Vi as maid of honor, me at her side, Dusty, Rocky, Mimi, Jessie, Josie, and Frankie.

  On the other side, Tanner as best man, Mike, Colt, Sully, Cal, Sean, Drew, and Ryker.

  Yes, Ryker.

  The bride had insisted.

  That said, the groom hadn’t protested.

  So there stood Ryker, grinning like a lunatic and fidgeting in his suit.

  And while folks stood around in the green grass beside a quiet lake outside an awesome lake house, the bride made her appearance.

  She looked amazing.

  Simple, form-fitting, strapless white lace dress that hit her at her knees and had a dusty-rose satin ribbon wrapped around the waist; a thick bunch of silvery-pink Indiana peonies in her hand that she’d cut herself that morning from the bushes that edged the entire house.

  Mother at her left.

  Son at her right.

  They hit the edge of the lake where we were all fanned out, the bride having expertly managed to negotiate the entire trek through the grass in strappy, spike-heeled sandals while one of Morrie’s buds played Pachelbel on his guitar.

  Cher also managed the entire trek with her eyes glued to Merry.

  The procession stopped.

  Pastor Knox asked, “Who brings this woman to be wed?”

  Ethan’s shoulders straightened as he called out loudly, “Her mother and I do.”

  I felt my eyes get wet and I nearly lost it when I caught Cher’s profile, her cheeks dusted rose with blush, shimmering with a powder she’d fanned over the color, pinker now, as were her eyes, as she fought back her own wet.

  Cher didn’t cry. Not ever. Not that I’d seen.