North on Drummond

by K. C. Burn

  Strong brown fingers directed the bendy straw toward his mouth, leaving Drew grateful, because he wasn’t sure he even had the energy to do that.

  “Not too much, not too fast. You’ve already puked on me twice today.”

  He had? Twice? That explained why it felt like he’d swallowed a handful of fishing lures. It was also embarrassing as hell. Or it would be if his emotions weren’t nicely buffered by morphine or whatever loveliness was in his veins. At least the nice cop didn’t sound disgusted or irritated. Maybe cops got puked on all the time.

  Drew swallowed carefully, relieved that nothing set off his tender stomach. “Sorry,” he rasped out.

  “Not a problem. I’m just glad your injuries weren’t worse.”

  Injuries. Hospital. Right, he’d almost forgotten. “What happened again?” Had he been hit by a car? He thought someone might have told him what happened, but the pain or the morphine didn’t let it stick in his memory. Hell, he didn’t even know what day it was or how long he’d been out.

  The cop pulled his chair closer to the bed and settled in. “Well, I was hoping you’d be able to tell me, but the doctor says your concussion was severe enough that you probably don’t remember.”

  Concussion. Yes, concussion fit his symptoms. Reasonable. “So you don’t know how I got it? Was it a car accident?”

  Which was a little weird since he didn’t own a car, and if he’d been at the Angry Parakeet with Kyle like he thought he remembered, they would have walked, not driven.

  “No, it appears you were an accidental victim of a fight at the Angry Parakeet.”

  A fight? “Accidental, you say?”

  “Yes, it seems you got in the way of your brother’s fist as it was heading toward someone else’s head, and you cracked your head on a table.”

  Huh. That wasn’t going to do anything to redeem his cool factor—assuming he had any at all—from puking on the sexy-voiced cop. If only he could also forget he was such a fucking loser. His brothers were going to owe him for this for the rest of their lives. At least he didn’t have to worry about the medical bills exceeding his piddly insurance plan. If one of his hot-headed brothers was responsible for this, they’d find a way to pay, even if Drew would have to be very careful not to ask exactly how they got the money.

  “Do you remember anything about it?”

  Drew shivered, that deep voice—almost familiar somehow—skimming over his skin like a caress. God almighty, those drugs were fine. If only his damn eyes would work properly. He wanted to see this guy. No way could he be as hot as he sounded.

  Wait. “Sorry, what?” He wouldn’t be upset if the fog in his brain cleared too. Unless that meant giving up the drugs that kept the pain at bay.

  “Do you remember the fight? Going to the Angry Parakeet? Was there a reason you were there?”

  Drew waved a hand in front of his face. Too many questions. Exhaustion hit him like a brick to the face. “Tired. I don’t…remember.” He was slurring again, but his tongue wasn’t obeying any better than his eyes.

  “C’mon now. Try to keep those beautiful blue eyes open a little longer.”

  His eyes were beautiful? They were blue, but he must have imagined the compliment. Cops didn’t go around saying things like that. Never to him. Must be wishful thinking from his fractured thoughts. If he was wishing, he wished he could make out the cop’s features, but all he could distinguish, aside from the blurry green uniform, was black hair and sun-darkened skin.

  “That’s enough now, Officer. Mr. Drummond has another test.” Those brisk tones could only belong to a nurse.

  “Yes, ma’am.” A warm male hand gently squeezed his arm, more comforting than Drew would have expected from a cop. “You feel better now, Drew.”

  Drew tried valiantly to ask if he’d see the cop again, but it was all too much effort.

  * * * *

  Drew blinked, the almost blinding glow reforming quickly into the white walls of his hospital room. His head still ached like a bitch, but his mind and vision were better than the last time he’d been awake. When that had been, he had no clue. Hospitals all seemed to have a sort of timelessness about them—one in the morning, three in the afternoon, it was all the same inside. Especially when there wasn’t a window visible.

  As he scanned the room, a blond man caught his attention. Drew wiped the gunk from his eyes, and Kyle came into view, unfortunately still a little blurry.

  “You’re awake.” Kyle tossed aside the magazine he’d been reading and jumped up to stand by Drew’s bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  Drew cleared his throat while Kyle loomed over him, staring deeply into his eyes.

  “Like hammered shit.” Who hammered shit anyway? Be a bit of a fucking mess, really. Apparently his mind was still a little scattered.

  “You poor thing.”

  “Where are Rob and Wyatt?” Kyle was his best friend, and he expected him to be here, but Drew had also expected his brothers to be around. Despite their reputation, they were very protective of him. Unless… “Shit. They’re in jail, aren’t they? Did they kill whoever did this to me?”

  Kyle shook his head. “Oh boy, they weren’t kidding about the amnesia. It’s a long story, but basically they were trying to…I don’t know…defend our honor or something, and Rob accidentally launched you into a table at the Angry Parakeet.”

  “Rob did this to me?”

  “Kinda, yeah.”

  “So he’s in jail for that?”

  Kyle laughed softly. “No, they had to go to work. You’ve been in here all night. When they release you, I’ll be taking you home and staying with you because they don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Huh. I would have expected them to insist I go home with them. Or maybe to Aunt Pam and Uncle Walt’s.”

  “Please. I know you better than that. I told them you’d be more comfortable in your own place with your own things. But no working. Not for a couple of days, at least. You need to rest.” Kyle made a better mom than Drew’s own had, and at times like this he didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky as to find a friend like Kyle.

  “Thanks.” Drew lifted his hand to move a couple of stray hairs that were tickling his nose and unexpectedly hit the padding of a rather large bandage. “What is this?”

  Kyle clucked in his best disappointed-mother-hen style. “It’s covering eight stitches. Good thing Rob wasn’t trying to damage you.”

  “How many stitches? I’m going to look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll end up with a bitchin’, uber-manly scar. I hear the ladies like that sort of thing.”

  The idea that he’d care surprised a laugh out of Drew, triggering a bunch of miniexplosions in his brain. Groaning, he brought his hand to his head, trying to work around the odd bulk of the bandage to rub at his temple.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Kyle said, his hands fluttering as though he wanted to touch Drew but was afraid to. Nausea rolled through Drew’s belly, and he clenched his teeth, trying to fight past the urge to hurl.

  “Are you going to puke?”

  Drew’s mind muddle had cleared enough to know shaking his head right now wouldn’t be a good idea. “No. Just…laughing hurts.”

  So did blinking and breathing, but laughing was way worse.

  “Oh good. Because if you were, Officer Hottie is on his way back, and you’ve already puked on him twice. Might as well make it a hat trick.”

  Hat trick. Funny, Kyle wouldn’t even know what that term meant if it weren’t for the hockey player he’d dated briefly. The only sport he and Kyle watched with any regularity was soccer. Why hide all those sexy athletic muscles under equipment?

  Drew summoned up enough energy to glare at Kyle. “You just here to make me sick, or you gonna tell me what else is wrong with me?” Drew fingered the bandage on his forehead. Seemed bigger than it needed to be, considering he’d had stitches before.

  Instantly Kyle’s manner changed back into mother hen.
“It’ll be okay, really. You’ve got a gash they stitched up. Shouldn’t scar too badly, and they said you were lucky you didn’t fracture your skull. They had to do a bunch of tests, an MRI and shit to make sure you weren’t bleeding into your brain.”

  This was going to cost a fucking bundle.

  “Didn’t Officer Hottie tell you about all this?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Drew didn’t have enough energy to explain he had no idea who Officer Hottie was, although he had a vague memory of a soothing voice telling him something, and… “Did you say I puked on him?”

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Twice. Apparently that happens with concussions.” Which they both knew, since Drew’s brothers had given and received more than their own fair share.

  “Hey, Kyle, hope you like decaf, because that’s all they had fresh.”

  A police officer wearing a dark green uniform strode into the room, holding two cardboard coffee cups. He stared at Drew while handing off Kyle’s cup.

  “Oh, hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  That voice. Drew remembered that voice, and he blinked. His vision still wasn’t great, but Kyle wasn’t wrong. The officer was smoking hot… Blood drained from Drew’s face so fast his head swam a bit.

  Suddenly the cop was leaning over him. “You okay? Should we get a doctor?”

  “Dude, no wonder he puked on you twice,” Kyle said from what sounded like very far away. “You keep standing in the firing line.”

  “Do you feel sick?”

  Drew breathed in and out, paying close attention to each breath, trying to calm himself. Northcliff Garcia was back. Dressed as a Sandy Bottom Bay police officer. And apparently their first introduction—and second, according to Kyle—involved Drew yakking on him. If there were benevolent spirits out there, they could prove their existence right now by opening up a hole for him to drop through. Instead, he continued to stare up into the dark, warm depths of Officer Hottie’s—aka the guy he’d been crushing on for the past eight years—eyes. Kyle was in so much shit for not warning him about this.

  Cliff was older now, his face and body filled out to more manly proportions. There were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and beyond the weariness that dulled his skin tone, there was a sadness in his eyes, a sadness Drew longed to erase but knew he’d never have the chance. Cliff Garcia was still the most gorgeous guy Drew had ever seen, but now that the man was standing in front of him, Drew realized there was far more than geographical distance getting in the way of a relationship. Their lives and upbringing were too different for them to work, and besides, what would a successful, gorgeous cop want with him anyway? Especially since he’d puked on the guy. Twice.

  Fuck my life.

  KYLE HAD BEEN forthcoming enough to let Cliff know Drew was twenty-two, for which Cliff was utterly thankful because in this bed, surrounded by stark white and almost as pale as the sheets he lay in, Drew looked a lot younger than that.

  How had Cliff never known the evil Drummond twins had a hot younger brother? Granted, when he was a senior in high school, he didn’t pay any attention to the freshmen, but considering how adversarial his relationship had been with the twins, he was still surprised.

  Drew’s bright red hair called to his fingers. He already knew how silky it was because he’d touched it more than once while Drew was asleep. Made him feel just a bit perverted, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Knowing Drew was one of the deadbeat Drummonds didn’t change the fact that he looked helpless and lost in the hospital bed, puffy white bandage obscuring most of his forehead. He didn’t look like a belligerent bully, but how could he not be? Once his brain recovered from its trauma, undoubtedly Drew would become as big an asshole as his brothers.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Sheepish and apologetic? Cliff had never seen Rob or Wyatt with that particular expression. Was this how Drew fit into the Drummond clan? Rob and Wyatt were the muscle, and Drew was the smooth talker?

  Didn’t matter. Drew was off-limits. For a million reasons, Cliff had to shake this little infatuation and do his job.

  “Don’t worry about it. But I do have a few questions about the fight.”

  “I’ll wait outside.” When Kyle spoke, Cliff startled a bit; he’d been so intent on Drew, he hadn’t even realized Kyle was still in the room.

  “Thank you. This won’t take long.”

  Kyle slipped out, and Drew’s look of fear returned. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Cliff took a second to examine the inflection and possible meanings hidden in that question. Was that just the most natural question for a Drummond to ask law enforcement, or had Drew remembered something that would make him culpable? Cliff didn’t think anyone was going to need a lawyer out of this; he’d been up most of the night going over statements and…well…sitting right here in Drew’s room. The medical staff made exceptions since he was an officer, allowing him to remain after visiting hours, and he stupidly hadn’t wanted Drew to wake up alone. He’d been so confused after the accident, and Cliff had felt sorry for him. Yet more evidence of Cliff’s stupidity. Ridiculous to even retain one tiny shred of interest in the younger brother of the evil twins, but that soft spot had kept Cliff at the hospital overnight.

  And he’d thought he’d had some sort of victory by not falling for Brett’s bullshit. Apparently he was going to have to guard himself well against falling for a sexy redhead’s bullshit instead, because if ever bullshit was going to smell like flowers and sparkle like it had been dipped in glitter, Drew was going to be the source.

  “You shouldn’t. I just wanted to get your official statement. Despite the bruising that’s coming up, you look a lot better than you have the other times we spoke.”

  The sheepish look returned, and Drew touched a finger to the white bandage. The guy would be lucky if he didn’t end up with two prominent black eyes, but at the moment, the purplish bruising merely peeped out around the bandage.

  “We spoke… It’s like a dream, actually. I don’t remember.”

  Drew wouldn’t meet his gaze for longer than a second or two. Cliff wasn’t sure if it was because the guy was straight and therefore unaccustomed to looking another man in the eyes, or if it was that Cliff, as the big, bad authority figure, made Drew nervous, legitimately or not.

  “Regardless, I just need your statement, and then you can concentrate on getting better. Just tell me what you remember about the incident.”

  “Are my brothers in trouble?”

  Well, that was a loaded question. Cliff wanted them to be. After all the antagonism at school, and recently armed with the knowledge that Rob and Wyatt and their whole family were troublemakers, Cliff longed to throw the book at them. The fact that one of them had hurt Drew… He didn’t have to admit to anyone else how angry he still was about that, even though there was no reason for him to give Drew preferential treatment.

  “Not unless you want to press charges.” Even without Drew’s consent, he could figure out a way to get the twins jail time, but it hardly seemed worth the effort, especially if it was going upset Drew.

  “No. Please. Kyle said it was an accident, you said it was an accident, and I know they’d never hurt me intentionally.”

  At least one of them was confident on that score.

  Cliff pulled the chair next to Drew’s bedside and picked up his coffee. “Okay, then, what’s the last thing you remember about last night?”

  Chapter Seven

  By the end of the questioning, Drew was almost glad about his concussion. If nothing else, his addled thoughts made his first conversation with Northcliff…Cliff Garcia less terrifying. Then again, he was sort of trapped in a hospital bed, and if he moved too fast, he’d probably puke again. Later, though, he’d likely be beyond humiliated.

  Cliff had been very understanding about the gaps in his memory and hadn’t seemed to react at all to the revelation Drew was gay. For some reason, though, the mention of Brett Cavanagh made Cliff angry. Not that Drew remembered meet
ing Brett, although Cliff assured him he had and that the meeting had sparked the fight. Those words had also caused a muscle to leap in Cliff’s jaw. Drew had remembered—or maybe he was remembering something he’d been told—but he was sure they’d been going to the Angry Parakeet for the express purpose of trying to “accidentally” meet Brett. Cliff hadn’t been very pleased anytime Rob’s or Wyatt’s names came up either. Basically, he’d been scowling throughout the entire interview.

  Drew pressed his lips together. How did one man get so good-looking? Drew wanted, badly, to ask why Cliff was here. At the hospital. In Sandy Bottom Bay. And apparently working for the police. But answering Cliff’s questions was a lot easier than asking some of his own. It wasn’t like they were friends or had ever spoken before today. The fact that his brothers and Cliff were mortal enemies during high school didn’t exactly give them any common ground.

  Kyle stuck his head into the room. “Are you done yet? Can I come back in?”

  Cliff’s cell phone rang, and he frowned at the display. “I should probably take this. Excuse me.”

  Drew let his eyelids drop to half-mast, partly because he was exhausted and partly because Cliff was kind enough to stay in his line of sight, and Drew wanted to mask how intently he was staring at that round, uniform-clad ass.

  The painkillers and the hooked daggers still slicing through his head ensured there wasn’t even a tiny wiggle at his groin, but if it weren’t for those roadblocks, he’d be erecting a tent for all to see.

  “Oh my God,” Kyle whispered. He too was staring at that exceptional butt. “Did you know he was back in town?”

  “No.” There was more he’d say if he had the energy. As it was, the word came out on a defeated huff of breath.

  “He’s hot. I mean, you pointed him out when we were in school, but I never fixated on him like you did. Are you going to ask him out?”

  “Uh, no.” Terror gave those words a lot more oomph. Drew wasn’t great at asking guys out—wasn’t much opportunity to practice in Sandy Bottom Bay. Faced with the thought of asking out Cliff Garcia, he reverted back to that scrawny kid who would have been bullied and probably gay-bashed if it weren’t for his belligerent and overprotective brothers.