2
“If I’m not here, don’t look,” she said, and his heart fell. “But I’ll try to be here. I’ll try to be better.”
Jackson nodded, thinking that was about as good as he was going to get, and he reached into his wallet and pulled out another card. “This is for Marconi rehab. It’s a lot closer. It might be easier if you’ve got someplace for meetings that’s only a couple blocks over, and this way you won’t see Retty again.”
She snatched the card from him with nicotine-yellowed fingertips. “Yes,” she said, sounding almost greedy. “Yes. Someplace else. Someplace they tell me how to love my boy.”
“You just love him,” Jackson said, feeling overwhelmed. “You just… just fix yourself and love them.”
“But nobody shows you how,” Reba Milton said. “Nobody.”
She shut the door then, slowly, like she’d lost all the energy to do anything else, and Jackson closed his eyes for a moment, grateful for the fresh air once the apartment was closed up. He walked away, reluctantly at first, and then with increasing resolve.
He’d done what he could. He’d be back in a month—he’d promised. And in the meantime, he and his friends would keep her son safe.
And someday, Jackson thought, he’d have a talk with Cowboy about how sometimes it wasn’t that the person who let you down was bad. Humans didn’t always have the strength to win with the hand they’d been given. Not all love was perfect love. And sometimes wanting to be better wasn’t enough.
When he got to the car, he wanted to talk to Ellery so badly his hands almost shook with it. But he had to head to the hospital to see Henry, and then go to Richards Boulevard to get backup, and then he really did have one hell of a day planned out.
But he missed Ellery, and what was all that “internal work” for if he couldn’t reach out to the man who was probably fretting over Jackson’s well-being during this entire anxiety-filled day.
He sent the text and smiled a little when Ellery hit the little heart key on it, and then plugged his phone into the charger on Jennifer’s dash. There was no Henry here, he thought dismally. He had to keep his phone charged and his contacts live and his whereabouts known, because Henry wasn’t there to have his back, and the rest of the world was worried about Henry and didn’t have the wherewithal to fuss over Jackson’s worthless scrawny ass in the meantime.
Being a grown-up meant taking care of his own damned business, but it was always a lot more fun when he and Henry were nagging each other to do it.
With a choice swear word, he started Jennifer and drove.
HE HATED the hospital with the fierce passion of somebody who once had the nurses schedule memorized so he knew who to hit up for things like real chocolate and paperbacks.
Dave, who had been there the night before, and his boyfriend, Alex, were frequent visitors at Jackson and Ellery’s house for dinner. They were fond of saying that Jackson had been their worst patient—but he was a fairly decent friend.
Today he walked the familiar corridors of Davis Med Center with what he hoped was a relaxed posture, while he inwardly cursed himself for that damned doughnut two hours ago.
He had to keep his teeth from chattering every time he turned a corner or heard a footstep or the clatter of a gurney. The halls themselves were hushed—there weren’t a lot of party people in the critical care wards—but somebody was always going somewhere, doing something, even in a darkened room.
It made it damned hard to sleep.
Maybe it was his visit to Cowboy’s mom or his sudden loneliness without his backup, but a freight train of memories plowed through his head, flickering like a slideshow on speed.
The explosion of pain in his shoulder, his chest.
The numbness of shock, the confusion of people over him, touching him, shouting about him.
Darkness, so much darkness, while the inside of his body was pushed, pulled, stitched, irrigated, but in his head, just darkness.
He must be dead.
His body shattering into life, to light, to pain.
He must be in hell.
Seriously, that was the only explanation. He was in hell.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” came a familiar voice. “Oh, sweets, you’re blacking out on me, aren’t you?”
Jackson took in a breath and realized he’d been holding it for too long. “Alex?” he asked, feeling a little bit of déjà vu. For all he knew, those were the exact same words Alex had used eleven years ago when Jackson had come to in critical care after he’d been nearly fatally shot.
Well, he’d died more than once on the operating table. Did that count as fatally shot?
“Yeah, sweetheart. You’re here to see your friend, aren’t you. Dr. Luna’s hot boyfriend—that one.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, forcibly shaking off the freight train. “Sorry—PTSD flashbacks. Fucking hospitals.”
Alex had tucked his hand under Jackson’s elbow and was walking with him, slowly, toward the ID-only hydraulic door into the ward.
“Yeah, I hate them myself,” he agreed, and Jackson’s chuckle took them both by surprise.
“Alex, you’re a nurse!” he said.
“Well, yeah. But I mean, work. Who wants to be there ?”
Another chuckle, and another step, and Jackson was taken, one breath at a time, back from that early trauma, that first trauma, into the here and now.
“I don’t mind so much,” he said. “Work, that is. I mean, I meet the nicest people.”
It was Alex’s turn to chuckle, but the slight, blond, practically elfin man grandly escorting him down the hall burbled more than chuckled.
“You say that, but Dave tells me that nice Dr. Luna tried to beat the shit out of you last night. Well done, by the way. I didn’t think Dr. Luna was flappable, but you got him well and truly flapped.”
Jackson grunted this time, suddenly too tired to chuckle. “He was mad at me because Henry got hurt,” he admitted baldly, trying to pull that mantle of maturity on his shoulders. The interview with Reba Milton had stripped it away, apparently, and a lot of his thick skin with it.
“It was your fault Henry was shot by some crazy woman trying to hunt down a kid?” Alex said, sounding legitimately puzzled. “You weren’t even there.”
“Yeah, but, you know. I’m, like, this black hole that pulls people into my bloodbath,” Jackson told him bitterly, and Alex paused in the corridor and slugged his arm.
“Ouch!” Jackson pulled back and rubbed his bicep. “Alex, the fuck !”
“You know what you did,” Alex said darkly and then took his elbow again like he hadn’t almost incapacitated Jackson to begin with. “You end up pissing off the bad people because you defend the innocent people. We all know Henry—he’s the same way. If Lance can’t handle that about Henry, he needs to get out now, because it’s not fair. It’s like me breaking up with Dave because he can’t dance—”
“You lie,” Jackson said, laughing. Dave moved with fluidity and grace. Jackson couldn’t imagine him not being able to dance.
“Ballet? Yes,” Alex told him sourly. “But get that man on a hip-hop floor and all the other gay men are telling me to get him o ff the floor because he’s making our people look bad.”
“Now I know,” Jackson said, feeling bemused—but also much better. “Thanks,” he told Alex seriously.
“Just doing my small part to keep your well-oiled justice machine running smoothly,” Alex told him. They’d arrived at the ID station, and Alex waved his ID in front of the reader, and the hydraulic door opened. Alex pulled him in, still keeping that cheery, grounding contact until they came to Henry’s room.
Dex and Lance weren’t there, but Dex’s husband, Kane, a handsome man with dark hair, enormous brown eyes, and a chest and shoulders as wide as a Volkswagen, had folded himself into one of the chairs next to the bed, his tiny seven-year-old niece tucked under his arm.
“Unca Kane,” she whispered, “is he up yet?”
“No, bunny,” Kane said patiently. “We told you, Uncle Henry’s not feeling good. We don’t know when he’s waking up.”
“But he needs to wake up so he knows we love him,” Frances whispered.
Kane glanced toward the door and caught Jackson’s gaze before rolling his eyes. “He knows,” he replied. “Bunny, we’ve been over this. Uncle Dex knows you love him. Uncle Henry knows you love him. I know you love me.”
“Does Uncle Lance know I love him?” Frances asked.
“Yes, he does,” Kane replied.
“Does Jackson?” Frances asked, and she slipped Jackson a sly glance that let him know he wasn’t invisible hovering at the door.
“No,” Jackson told her, grinning into sparkling brown eyes and returning the irrepressible smile. “I have no idea. Tell me.”
“I love you, Jackson!” Frances sang, and Jackson moved from the door to sit in the hellishly uncomfortable chrome-and-vinyl-cushion thing next to Kane’s respectable green office chair.
“I love you too, Frances bunny,” Jackson told her gravely. “How’s Lizard the cat?”
“She loves me!” Frances said happily. “She likes to give me kisses by rubbing her nose up against my nose, and her breath smells like fishes, and her naked skin is all prickly, and she’s wonderful.”
At the doorway Jackson heard Alex chuckle, and he glanced up in time to see Alex give a brief salute. “His chart says he’s getting his vitals checked in half an hour,” Alex said. “If he’s not up by then, they’ll wake him up, but you’ll have to wait a bit before you can talk. Sorry about that, Jackson. I know you need to talk.”
“It’s good to see him,” Jackson lied, and Alex rolled his eyes before he left. Jackson had no choice but to take his courage in both hands and look at Henry as he lay, still and pale, on the bed, surrounded by rails, with tubes and wires connected and the senser showing his vitals bumping silently along.
He was shirtless, probably because his shoulder and torso were both heavily bandaged, and for the moment the dressing had to be changed often enough to make even a johnny a pain in the ass.
Jackson couldn’t remember if he’d worn one in his early days either.
But worse than shirtless, and worse than the bandages, was the stillness.
Henry was like Jackson—he was always in motion. Always on his way to somewhere to do something for somebody. Even when he’d been sort of an asshole, he’d taken on the job as Galen’s driver and had adapted to it easily, learning when to offer help when Galen was suffering and how to give back Galen’s acid humor as good as he got, because Galen was brilliant, and being bored was almost as painful for him as being injured.
But Henry wasn’t moving now. Even his breathing and heartbeat were slowed as his body took its time to heal. His square, handsome face appeared older—grimmer. It was easy to think of Henry as “sparky” or “kid” when he was sassing back, but now, as even in sleep he fought a grimace of pain, Jackson could see the very adult lines that years of active deployment—and toxic relationship entrapment—had left on his face.
If he was “sparky” or “kid,” it was because he used all his energy to have joy and enthusiasm and excitement about life, and Jackson needed to remember that.
“He’ll be fine,” Frances said softly, and Jackson managed to summon a smile for her.
“I know,” he lied. He didn’t know. Not really.
“Then stop looking at me like I’m dead,” Henry muttered.
Jackson scowled at him. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he accused. “Here I was getting ready for a wasted trip because you couldn’t be assed to wake up, and you pull that shit on me?”
“You told Frances you loved her, but you didn’t give me the tearful soliloquy,” Henry said, his eyes still barely open. “I feel slighted.”
“Your brother-in-law saved me from the tearful soliloquy,” Jackson retorted, but his chest was tight, and he felt like he might have been maybe a breath away. “I’ll have to thank him for that when you stop slacking and get up and help.”
“Admit it,” Henry murmured. “You were worried about me.”
“I’m a man,” Jackson said, sounding stung, but inside so fucking happy he might actually cry anyway. “I can admit it. It would have pissed me off if you’d died, you….” He glanced at Frances, who was staring at him and Henry with open curiosity. “You jerk,” he finished piously, mindful of Kane’s snort at his delicacy around the little girl.
“Yeah. Pissed off is your default, Rivers. I’ll call that a win. You catch the bi… uhm….”
Kane had apparently had enough of the two of them trying not to swear. “Frances, tell Henry you love him and we’ll go get you some pudding.” Kane held the little girl up to kiss Henry’s cheek while Kane told him, “Listen, if one of us isn’t in the room, it’s because we’re taking a leak or getting coffee or something, okay? I’m going to send Dexter home after he comes back in to check on you because he’s so tired he’s running into walls, but don’t worry. After me, you got Galen, and after that, the flophouse kids. After them, we’ll go kidnap people off the street. You don’t have to be alone, okay?”
Henry forced his eyes open to meet his brother-in-law’s steady gaze. “Thanks,” he said with naked gratitude.
“Yeah, well, it was rude of you to get hurt when I was starting to sort of like you. I mean, you brought us the most frickin’ ugly cat in the world for Christmas, and I can’t think of another brother-in-law who’d do that for me, so, you know. Don’t stop breathing.”
Frances laughed, because obviously the little girl could see through her uncle’s almost transparent bluster. “You’re funny, Uncle Kane. You love Uncle Henry too.”
“I do, bunny,” Kane told her as he hoisted her out of the room, “but I don’t want him to get too confident, or he’ll stop bringing us hairless cats for Christmas.”
They left the cubicle, and Jackson turned toward Henry, who had watched them go as well. “Great call with the cat,” he said. “I wasn’t sure that was going to be a good idea, but you were right. Kane wouldn’t be able to resist something that ugly.” The cat had been payment for a client’s legal fees, and the office—all of whom had been rooting for the client, whose big crime had been to help bust a kitten mill by breaking and entering—had been called upon to place all of the kittens in the mill. Princess Leia Organa Lilith Persephone Caligula had been the last cat they’d needed to place by the morning of Christmas Eve, and Henry had said, “Hey, you know, my brother’s husband likes weird-looking critters. I bet something this hideous would be right up his alley.”
The cat had been unbearably sweet, but, well, hairless, and Jackson had privately thought she was amazingly beautiful.
Which was why Henry had taken it upon himself to get the thing the hell out of Dodge before Jackson ended up with three cats and no house, and possibly no fiancé either.
“Dumb cat,” Henry said affectionately. “She seems to think she’s a lizard or something. She loves all the fucking reptiles. Even the snake.”
Jackson chuckled, although Henry had said this before. “Happy family,” he said softly.
“Yeah.” Henry blinked at him. “Who got you?”
Jackson blinked back, and in a rush the aching in his jaw and cheekbone hit him—much like Lance’s fist the night before. “Unimportant,” he said. “How bad does the hospital suck? You can be honest. A twelve? A fifteen? Out of ten?”
“A twenty,” Henry said and then fought his eyes closing. “Accent,” he said. “South. Alabama, Tennessee. Thick.”
And Jackson knew he was talking about the assailant before he fell asleep.
“Good boy,” Jackson murmured. “Anything else?”
“Lots of thick black hair pulled back,” Henry said. “Curly. Some gray.”
“Cowboy’s description of Retty,” Jackson told him. “Good.”
“ID’d herself as with Moms for Clean Living,” Henry murmured. “Saw through the peephole. Went for the gun in Isabelle’s dresser. Isabelle handed it to me. They got away.”
“They did,” Jackson told him. “We got them to safety.” He knew Dex had probably told him this earlier, but it never hurt to hear it again. “You did good, Henry.” And now his throat was tight, and his eyes were watering. “Really good.”
Henry’s eyes were closed, but he wasn’t done talking. “Screamed shit as she fired. Said, ‘Caleb wasn’t my bullet, but you will be.’”
Jackson’s breath caught. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“Don’t know who Caleb is….” Henry was falling asleep again, and Jackson wasn’t ready to leave. Imagine that—so hard to take his steps in the door, but God, he hated to leave his boy in this awful place.
“Friend of Cowboy’s,” Jackson told him. He’d been told once that premature babies would strain themselves to hear whispered voices around them, but if people spoke in normal tones, they were reassured, and slept when they needed to. He figured if Henry was asking, Henry would fret if nobody gave him the answers. “We think it’s why that woman came after him.”
Henry grunted. “I winged her,” he said, and even stoned and in pain, his satisfaction came through. “Hope her ride got blood all over the car.”
Jackson sat up. “Ride?”
“She shouted as she ran away,” Henry murmured dreamily. “Bertha, hit the gas.” He giggled. “It’s almost a country western song.”
“Don’t try to convert me to your cult,” Jackson warned, mostly to keep him smiling as he fell asleep.
“You’ll listen to Dixie Chicks and love it,” Henry mumbled before finally drifting off.
Jackson stood and took his hand carefully, avoiding the tubes and ports and monitors. “Get rest, kid,” he murmured. “Heal up. You and me, we got shit to do.”
He squeezed Henry’s fingers, and his eyes grew hot when he felt Henry squeeze back. He released Henry’s hand with a sigh and turned toward the door, not surprised to see Dex in the doorway with a crooked smile on his face.
“You talked?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I was just leaving.”
“Well, I’m glad you were here when he woke up this time. He felt like he had to make a report to you. It weighed on him.”
Jackson lifted a shoulder. “I figured. He doesn’t like to be left behind on an op. Had to keep him informed.”
Dex nodded and ventured farther into the room. “He really loves what you guys do,” he confided. “I mean, we worry—all of us worry. But we can’t take it away from him, you know?”
Jackson met Dex’s shadowed eyes and made a guess. “Lance still mad at me?”
Dex shook his head. “No. He’s got to process, though. I think….” He let out a breath. “There’s that tipping point in any relationship, you know? Whether it’s fooling around or screwing around or yearning—that point when you realize that ‘Hey, losing this person will end my world. Am I ready to love someone that much?’ And the people who answer yes? They usually have what it takes. I’m not sure Lance had that reckoning. Not up close and personal in the way that counted. This… this makes it real.”
Jackson cocked his head and studied Henry’s brother—who was still the most beautiful man Jackson had ever seen, although yeah, Lance came close.
Maybe it was the softness around the eyes or—ever so slightly—around the middle that made him seem so much older. Everybody had a story, Jackson knew, and he was always curious.
“Someday,” Dex said, smiling slightly, “we’ll get together and have a beer, and I’ll tell you things. And you can tell me some shit too. Yeah, Rivers, we’re friends like that. You don’t have to worry about asking.”
Jackson returned his smile. “I am always— always —pleasantly surprised to find I have friends,” he said. “And I will buy you that beer.” He turned to Henry again, and while the oppression of the hospital beat on his shoulders, a renewed sense of urgency, of mission, was screaming his name. “Once we get the people who did this,” he promised. “Nobody does this to your brother and gets away with it.”
“Vengeance,” Dex said. “I like that in a friend. What’s your next step?”
Jackson opened his mouth, about to say “backup,” but then he closed it again and let out a sigh. “Next stop is talking to a friend downstairs in the place we don’t mention in critical care.”
“And then?” Dex said.
“Then, backup,” Jackson said with determination. “It’s not even noon, Dex. I’ve got some ground to cover.”
Dex held up his fist to bump. “Good hunting. We’ll take care of Henry. You were right—he’s got way too much to do to fall asleep right now.”
Jackson bumped his fist and slid out of the cubicle, reassured by his visit and more determined than ever.
Which was good, because in most hospitals “downstairs” was code for the one place patients didn’t want to end up, and that took a whole other kind of strength to face.