by E. A. James
Paul cooed at Stanton as he opened the stall. Then, as he ran a hand over the animal, he glanced back. “That’s a weird thing to say, but I trust you, Hanes. You do what you got to do.”
Hanes nodded. “Damn straight.”
It would have been nice to have an audience cheer him on again, but Hanes still felt a sense of peace as he settled himself on top of the bull. His hands reached forward and gripped the rope, his peripheral vision noticing Paul double-checking the straps on Stanton.
Hanes took a deep breath and focused on the back of the bull’s neck. The stadium was silent, save for the light whistle of the wind. It was almost easy to act like there was an audience out there, hushed with anticipation.
Hanes smirked.
“You ready?” Paul asked, ruining the illusion.
Hanes glowered, a hint of his frustration welling up within him again. “Yeah,” he said, grunting when the bull shifted. “Just open the gate already.”
A couple of moments later, Paul yanked back the gate as hard and as fast as he could.
The bull was not as energized or rebellious as he needed to be. He trotted out of the stall and bucked a little, but there was no real challenge to it. Hanes’s stomach didn’t soar into his chest, nor did his heart leap out of his throat. The adrenaline that coursed through him was stilted at best.
“Come on!” Hanes shouted, letting go of the rope with one of his hands to slap the bull’s hide. “Come on! Show me what you got! You’re better than this!”
The bull sped up a little, running in a slanted circle around the ring.
Hanes hit him a little harder. “Come on!”
He had been bull-riding all of his life. He had done it with one hand—had done it in worse conditions this. Much worse. And yet for some reason, that one hit was one hit too much for Stanton. Or maybe Hanes’s one-handed grip wasn’t as strong as he thought it was. He would never be certain.
The bull came to a jarring halt while tilting to the side, forcing Hanes to slide over its ribs. And then Stanton bucked, as the bull moved Hanes was thrown into air before he tumbled over the dirt.
The bull charged at him.
Hanes saw a brief image of his father in those moments.
“You’re going to be all kinds of asses in life,” the old man had said, ruffling Hanes’s hair. “Just try your hardest not be a dumb-ass. That’s the worst kind in my book.”
Hanes shut his eyes and curled up his body.
Sorry dad, he thought before the onslaught of pain came.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Frankie frowned as she watched Hanes drive off of his family’s property. Had something happened? She let out a taut breath, not knowing how to feel about his sudden departure. If nothing else, she knew he would come back. He wouldn’t just leave her there.
She leaned back in the porch swing and closed her eyes. Nothing but the slight rustling of the grass filled her ears, soothing her.
Frankie wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when she opened her eyes, her body and her heart relaxed. Her hands rested lightly on top of her belly.
Of course she had overreacted. The hormones, his family’s obvious resentment of her—she should have known better. And the way he had looked at her when she accused him of…a shameful shudder wracked through her, tightening her chest. She had to apologize. Hanes Copper had been nothing but wonderful to her since the day she met him. He had deserved the benefit of the doubt. He had deserved better.
She got up and walked to the side of the manor. When she didn’t see his car there, a mixture of worry and aggravation twisted within her. Where had he even gone to? With everything that had just happened, what had been so important for him to leave?
Frankie bit her lower lip and stared at the empty parking spot, denial flashing through before she shook it off and walked back to the front porch.
She hesitated at the front door, nervousness making her shiver. She shook this off to and entered the mansion.
Even if the majority of Hanes’s family hated her, Gina didn’t. And that was something Frankie held on to give her courage as she searched through the house for any Copper she could find.
She should have figured that they would have remained in the dining room. Though their sullen expressions and hunched shoulders were such a surprising sight that Frankie actually gaped at them for a second.
“Um, excuse me,” Frankie said.
They all jumped and turned to her.
“Frankie,” Hanes’s mother said, relief in her tone. She pressed a bony hand to her clavicle. “How are you feeling, darling? I apologize for our appalling behavior beforehand. Greed can do the worst to good people.”
The rest of them murmured their own apologies. All except Gina and Thomas—Gina who was absent, and Thomas who stared at the table cloth like it was a television screen.
Frankie blinked owlishly, taken aback. Affection and relief floored her—damn hormones. She smiled wide. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She pointedly glanced around. “I was just wondering where Hanes had gone off to. He left here a while ago and he isn’t back yet.”
“He left?” his mother said, face scrunching. “Where would he go to?”
Exactly, Frankie thought.
“Probably to those bulls,” Thomas said, shaking his head a little. “He always goes bull riding when he’s upset, when he’s ecstatic—he’s addicted to risking his life in the dumbest way possible.”
“Right,” Frankie said, pursing her lips. He did love the danger of bull-riding—the rush, the distraction. That made sense. “Then could one of you drive me to wherever he would go to do that? I need to talk to him.”
“Thomas will,” their mother said shortly, glaring at the man in question. “He needs to apologize to his brother, anyway.”
Thomas’s eyes snapped to his mother. But if he had been planning to protest the order, that plan the second he saw the angered expression on the old woman’s face. He sighed and scooted backward.
“Thanks,” Frankie said, uncomfortable. She hadn’t wanted to drive with any of them, but Thomas? He seemed to hate her the most. Nausea churned within her gut.
Thomas nodded, standing up before motioning her to follow him.
Frankie waved an awkward goodbye to everyone else before she hurried after Thomas.
Frankie’s cheeks reddened once she realized that Hanes was at the stadium where his trailer was. Of course. Feeling foolish, she slid lower into her seat as Thomas parked the car as close as he could to the trailer. The whole Copper family must think she is too stupid and poor for someone like Hanes.
“If I tell mom I apologized,” Thomas said, not looking at her, “would you and Hanes be willing to saying that it actually happened?”
“Lie? To your mother?” Frankie would have laughed if she wasn’t busy hating herself and worrying about Hanes.
Thomas groaned. “Just asking.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door.
Frankie was quick to do the same.
Distant sirens grew louder and louder—so fast, so near. Frankie and Thomas stopped, both of them turning in the direction of the sound.
The street by the stadium was mostly bare, save for a car or two that drove down it every so often. For an ambulance to sound so close seemed ominous. There was nothing out here, no fires, no emergencies, no—
An ambulance came into view, speeding into the parking lot before screeching to a halt in front of the stadium’s entrance.
Frankie went ice-cold. Nothing but instinct held her up, her blood feeling as if it was losing all of its density. Weightless yet freezing.
“No,” she said. “Thomas, that’s not—”
Thomas moved toward the ambulance, his steps sluggish yet purposeful. There was a tension in his shoulders, a tension that Frankie had never seen in him before.
“Thomas?” she said, panting—no, hyperventilating. She pressed both of her hands over her belly, her growing child. “Thomas? That’s not for Hanes. Tell me that’s not
for Hanes.”
Thomas just kept moving forward.
Frankie stopped breathing altogether. The suspended sense of fear was too agonizing, so eventually, she found herself following Thomas—her legs working on their own accord, as wobbly as they moved.
By the time that she and Thomas reached the ambulance, the paramedics were already wheeling a gurney out of a stadium and toward the vehicle. A bloodied figure was strapped to it, his entire body wrapped in blankets while his limbs, waist, and head were strapped down.
The paramedics were bringing the gurney to the back of the ambulance when Frankie got a clear view of the victim’s face.
“Hanes!” Tears poured out of her eyes and she rushed forward, only to be stopped by Thomas. Panic—turning into energy—turning into rage and pain—it seared through her, and she thrashed in Thomas’s arms. “Hanes! No, please, no!” She beat her fists against Thomas’s shoulder, a sob tearing out of her throat. “Let me go! Let me go!”
One paramedic held up her hand while her colleagues worked to get the gurney up and into the back of ambulance. When that was accomplished, she looked up at them. “You’re related to the victim?”
“Yes,” Thomas croaked, sounding as wrecked as Frankie felt. “She—she’s his fiancé.”
Frankie was too focused on Hanes to fully comprehend what Thomas had just said.
The paramedic nodded at her. “Get in.” Then she looked at Thomas. “We’ll be going to Saint Thomas Hospital on River Street.”
Thomas released her, and Frankie dashed forward. Mindlessly, she crawled up into the vehicle and crouched by Hanes’s blooded form. She ignored the seat—ignored everything else but Hanes.
Shakily, Frankie placed one hand on the gurney and the other one over Hanes’s own hand. It was warm yet clammy, stained red.
The ambulance doors shut, and the vehicle jolted before speeding away.
The paramedics were yelling things at each other over the piercing sound of the siren, the vehicle shaking a bit every so often.
Frankie dared to squeeze Hanes’s hand. The lack of reaction made her cry harder.
“I need you to be okay,” she choked out, leaning toward his head. “WE need you to be okay, Hanes. Wake up, please. Please.”
He didn’t respond.
Frankie felt something in her chest give out. It wasn’t her heart—it was hammering so hard—but something significant inside of her seemed to shut down. She felt herself breathe, but each inhale and exhale didn’t mean anything to her. It was like a numbed kind of pain, as if a part of her sensory system died.
She dared to squeeze Hanes’s hand a little tighter.
Once they reached the hospital, the paramedics moved too fast for Frankie to keep up. She tried to—reached for the gurney and everything as she ran, but as they rushed through several sets of doors, she found herself slowing. And then she was pulled back—by a nurse, presumably, but it might as well have been gravity yanking Frankie back.
She ended up in a plastic chair in the waiting room somehow. Frankie continued to cry, but it did not add any pressure to her torso nor did it relieve any. She was detached from herself.
Frankie was shaking and clawing her hands into one another when the other Coppers arrived.
“Frankie,” Hanes’s mother said, grabbing Frankie’s shoulder and shaking it. “Darling, look at us. Say something. How is Hanes doing?” The old woman shook Frankie a little harder. “Frankie.”
Frankie managed to raise her sore eyes to Hanes’s mom. “I don’t know. He was…he looked bad.” Her face crumpled, more tears escaping her eyes.
Hanes’s mother was quick to hug her, and Frankie sobbed into her bony shoulder.
Nearby, she could hear the others murmuring worriedly to one another.
Hours later—though it felt like days—Frankie had finally stopped crying, and Hanes’s surgeon came out to speak with them all.
Frankie stood, her legs wobbling and forcing her to lean against Hanes’s mother. The old woman held on to her tightly, strong as ever.
“He is going to be fine,” the surgeon said, his smile full of tiredness and relief. “He has a few broken ribs, a concussion—” He listed all the injuries, what they did to fix Hanes up, and how much time it would take for Hanes to heal fully.
Frankie nearly cried with relief, but fortunately, her eyes seemed to have used up all of the tears she could muster in one day. Wet gasps left her though as she leaned more heavily against Hanes’s mother.
“Can we see him,” she blurted the second the surgeon stopped speaking.
He blinked, frowned, and then sighed. “He really needs to be resting right now. I advise only a few of you at a time visit him until he is in better condition.”
The old woman gently pushed Frankie. “Go. You see him first, darling.”
Frankie stumbled forward, following the surgeon through some large doors and then down a couple of hallways. When a nurse walked toward them, the doctor took her aside and whispered something to her. She faced Frankie as the surgeon hurried down an adjacent hall.
“Follow me, sweetie,” the nurse said, waving Frankie toward herself. “Your fiancé is in Room 32, right over here.”
Fiancé? As Frankie’s brain mulled over the memory of Thomas’s earlier lie, she quickly followed the nurse to an opened door that lead into a stark white room.
Frankie peered into it—looking over the nurse’s shoulders. The room’s windows were covered in blinds, but everything still felt too bright. She squinted. Then her eyes landed on Hanes, bandaged and pale. He looked…wrong, but Frankie was relieved that he wasn’t covered in blood anymore.
“If you need anything,” the nurse said, turning and pointing down the right hallway, “the nurse’s station is just around this corner.”
Frankie breathed out a weak “thanks” as she walked up to Hanes’s bed.
With the exception of his chest moving up and down in a painfully slow rhythm, he remained stiff.
Frankie, once again, grabbed his hand and squeezed. Still warm.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice cracked but otherwise clear. She sniffled and blinked hard, trying to focus. “I’m so sorry about overreacting earlier. I should have known better. I should have trusted you. Please…please don’t ever do this to me or your family again. I know these adrenaline rushes are important to you, but…” Frankie closed her eyes tight, a dry sob threatening to tear its way out of her throat. She bowed forward and inhaled shakily. “Hanes, I need you. I love you. And your child needs you to be alive for a long, long time still. Please just…be okay. Be a little safer? Please?”
In truth, she had been speaking more for herself than for Hanes. She needed to get these words off her aching chest, and she had planned on repeating herself when Hanes was conscious. It was important that they talk about everything—to prevent this kind of thing from happening again.
So she jumped when she felt Hanes squeeze her hand back. Her eyes snapped open and looked at his face.
His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was still slow, but he still managed to mumble out, “Sorry, baby.”
Frankie hiccuped a breathy sound of relief, her thumb running over Hanes’s knuckles. “Thank God.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He had to stay at the hospital for a few days. Hanes had protested that plan the moment he had enough control over his mouth to do so. One day at the hospital would be fine, and then he could rest up in his trailer.
But then his mother had lightly smacked his shoulder, making him wince.
“You scared your pregnant girlfriend half to death,” the old woman said scornfully. She jabbed a finger in Hanes’s face. “Not to mention the rest of us. You are staying as long as the doctor says you need to say. No arguments.”
“They’re just trying to suck out all your money,” Hanes argued, voice garbled. His entire body was either sore or numb in that tingly kind of way—good drugs, and all that—but he didn’t care. “Take advantage of you.”
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“I don’t care, Hanes Matthew Copper. You are staying put.”
So he stayed put. As uncomfortable as he was with hospitals and health care in general, he was even more uncomfortable with going against his mother. Plus, she mentioned to Frankie…it had been a smart move. The guilt and embarrassment that encased him was hard to fight past.
When he was finally released by his doctor, Hanes was on crutches with Frankie and his relatives helping him walk to Thomas’s car before they helped him get settled in the backseat.
Frankie scooted in next to him, her shoulder pressed against his. Her hands gently rested over his arm, but she seemed too afraid to snuggle against him—to hold him tightly.