He’s talking about Bronte. I have vague memories of her sitting beside the bed, holding my hand, and stroking my arm.
“She hasn’t?”
“She was determined to stay here until you were lucid.” He looks at me knowingly.
“She’s a good kid,” I say.
“Hey, ain’t none of my business.”
Doc isn’t one for gossip. Or judgment.
“I’ll leave you be for now. But when I return, you’re eating something, and then we’re going for a walk.”
As he leaves the room, Bronte walks in. The last time we were together, I was about to tear her clothes off her. The memory makes my dick twitch which, in turn, makes me smile. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I’m weak as fuck, but at least my dick still works. Even with a catheter rammed into it.
“You look like shit,” she says with a big grin on her beautiful face.
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clearly, you’re high. I haven’t slept in days, and I don’t know when I showered last.” She sits beside me. “Are you going to die?”
“Not today.”
She takes my hand, and her face grows serious. When our eyes meet, I can see the concern pooled in hers. “You about done being shot at?”
Her calm demeanor barely conceals the unease on her face. She doesn’t want me to risk it happening again.
“You know I have to find out who did this, wildflower. I need to find out what this is all about.”
She looks at our fingers entwined, her throat swallowing hard as she looks for the right words. “I could’ve lost you,” she whispers.
I squeeze her hand. “But you didn’t, and you won’t.”
She lifts her eyes, and they’re filled with so much affection. It makes me ache to hold her in my arms.
“Come here.” I pull her to me, and she climbs onto the bed, snuggling into me as I wrap my arms around her. The movement sends needles of pain splintering through every nerve ending in my body, but it’s worth it just to have her in my arms. “Now tell me, why you haven’t slept in days?”
“Because I was so damn worried about you,” she murmurs against the bare skin of my throat. “I couldn’t bear the thought of something else happening to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Other than being shot.”
“Yeah, well, that happened. But I think I’m done.”
“Good, because I don’t think I could bear it if I lost you.”
Just like he said he would, later that afternoon, Doc gets me out of bed and up walking. He also removes the catheter—which doesn’t fucking tickle—forces food into my belly, despite my complaining that I’m not hungry, and makes me take a shower while he waits outside the door.
In the bathroom, I check my reflection in the mirror.
Despite feeling better, I look like shit and smell even worse.
My hair is a tangled mess, and my face is barely recognizable under a week’s worth of scruff. I’ve lost weight, not a lot, but the lack of solid food over the last week has me looking gaunt as fuck.
I press a finger to my cheekbone and study the new lines on my face. I don’t even look like me.
Okay, I’m still high.
My fingers drift down to the gauze pad stuck to my chest with medical tape. I peel it back to inspect the bullet wound and am surprised to see how well it’s healing already. My gaze shifts to the scar directly diagonal to it on the other side of my chest where the bullet from Ghost’s gun almost ended my life right alongside Cooper’s.
I drop my head.
I need a fucking drink.
“You doing okay in there?” Doc’s voice floats through the door.
Am I doing okay?
I think about Bronte, and a wave of something that feels like strength flows through me.
I lift my head. “I don’t need a hand, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Hey, I ain’t offering. Just making sure you ain’t dead on the floor, is all.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, just take it easy.” He pauses and then adds, “Don’t worry about getting those dressings wet, I’ll change them after your shower.”
Because I’m so weak, I go through the motions like I’m in slow motion.
Shower.
Soap.
Dry off.
Brush teeth.
Done.
Bronte brought me fresh clothes from home, so I slip on a clean pair of sweatpants but don’t bother with a shirt.
After dressing, I’m fucking exhausted.
I should shave so I don’t look like a Neanderthal, but I stall at the basin when a wave of fatigue washes over me.
There’s a small knock at the door.
“Still ain’t dead on the floor, Doc,” I call out.
But it isn’t Doc, it’s Bronte.
“Can I come in?”
My little wildflower.
“It’s unlocked.”
The door opens, and Bronte steps in, and a familiar warm feeling wraps itself tight around my heart.
“Doc send you in to babysit?”
“I offered.” She gives me a dimpled smile. “He said he’ll come back later to change those dressings.”