27 Cutter
“CONGRATULATIONS, LITTLE brO. Your first win.” Callum grabs me around the neck and gives me a noogie.
I duck away but can’t stop the grin. “Thanks.”
“We need to celebrate.” He looks at Mom. “Right?”
She nods. “Definitely. Frank’s?”
“No,” I protest. “We can’t afford that.” It’s the most expensive steakhouse in town. “It’s just a high school game.”
“That’s where it all starts,” Callum says. “That killer arm of yours is going to land you in the majors. The gun hit 98 on your last pitch.”
Leave it to Callum to know the stats. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re the one with the killer arm that will get you into the NFL.”
He brushes the comment aside. “Who says we can’t both make it? Right, Mom?”
She offers an indulgent smile. “No matter what happens, I’m proud of both of you.” The win is worth it just to see her smile again. She hasn’t done much of that since Dad died. “And don’t worry, we can afford Frank’s. I have overtime in my check this week.”
I hate how hard things have been for her. If I ever do make it to the majors, the first thing I’m going to do is set her up for life.
“Hear that, Cutty? We’re eating steak tonight.”
He drapes an arm around me and Mom and leads us toward the car. “Got my two favorite people here and we’re going out to celebrate my little brother’s first win. Life is good.”
The image of my brother’s face fades, replaced by an incessant beeping noise. I try to identify it, but everything is kind of fuzzy, like I’m floating in a bubble. It takes three tries to finally open my eyes.
I don’t recognize the room. A dim light from behind me illuminates beige walls, a tall cabinet. A whiteboard mounted across from me, words scribbled in red marker: Your nurse is Susan. How is your pain today?
Nurse?
A woman in scrubs–Susan?–moves past me to the other side of the bed and the beeping stops. I sigh gratefully and attempt to swallow, but my throat is too dry.
“Water,” I manage to croak.
“Well, look who’s awake,” she says. After a minute she holds a plastic cup to my lips.
“Slowly,” she warns as I lift my head and attempt to drink at the awkward angle. I manage to get down a sip before collapsing back against the pillow.
“Don’t tire him out too much,” she says as she heads for the door, and I realize she’s not talking to me.
I turn my head and spot a figure sitting in the chair next to the bed. It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyes to recognize Daryl’s worried face.
“Hey.”
“Thank fuck,” he says. “I told you to take someone with you.”
It starts coming back to me. The parking lot. The attack. I was stabbed.
“Do you ever get tired of being right?” I ask weakly and look around at my bed. “Don’t these things have buttons to raise them?”
I remember that from back when my father was in the hospital. Unlike my dream, that’s a memory I don’t care to relive. Too many weeks spent at his bedside waiting for his body to give up the fight. For cancer to finally win the battle.
Daryl grabs the remote clipped next to my pillow and hands it to me. “Raise to your heart’s content.”
I find the up button and push it until my head is at least in a reclined position.
“Better?” Daryl asks.
I nod. “How long?”
“Have you been here?” He shrugs. “About four hours, give or take. You were in surgery for over an hour and a half, then recovery.”
I smack my lips and glance around for the cup of water the nurse left. Anticipating my need, Daryl hands me the cup. “Remember, she said slow.”
I take a sip then hand it back to him, feeling a stab of pain in my abdomen. It’s the first I’ve felt since waking up, so I must be on some good pain meds.
“Sorry to ruin your evening.”
“Shut up with that kind of talk,” he scolds. “This is my fault.”
I would never say that, but it’s partially true. “It was one of Scarponi’s men.”
He doesn’t look surprised. “I know.”
“You saw his face on camera?”
“Not exactly. I saw the scuffle. By then I was on my way out the door.”
“So we don’t have any video evidence?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked Scarponi,” he says.
I gape at him. “You what? Where? At the club?”
“No, I went to see him”
I try to sit up to look at him and the pain shoots through my body. Fuck. I lie back and suck in a deep breath. “By yourself? And you’re calling me reckless?”
“I’m not that stupid. I asked Javi which of the two security temps was the most competent.”
“So you took Simpson?”
He grins. “Guess you know your men.”
I breathe a little easier knowing he didn’t meet with Scarponi without backup. And Simpson is far more qualified than I am at that role.
“Please tell me he didn’t threaten you.”
“Actually, it was very civil. We met at his restaurant. I told him I had decided I wasn’t going to expand after all and that he was welcome to that territory for his own clubs if he wanted it.”
It registers what Daryl is saying. “You’re not going to expand?”
“Not worth the cost.” He gives me a meaningful look.
“I thought about how chasing a maybe could cause me to lose what I already have. You were right. Listening to my father was a mistake. The fact that he was never satisfied is what got him caught, though in his case, that was probably a good thing. At least it got him off the streets. I don’t want to be like my father. ”
I grin at him. “Yeah, but you kind of are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t channel a little gangster when you’re sitting behind that desk.”
He shakes his head but his eyes light up. “Gangster, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“No, I’m going to remind you every chance I get.”
“Fuck you.”
He grins, then sobers. “I’m glad you’re okay. You had us worried.”
Us? Then I remember. Aubie. He’s the one who found me. The one who ran to me in the parking lot despite the danger. The one who tended to my wound in the car.
“I guess I should thank you both. I would’ve bled out in the parking lot if Aubie hadn’t come out when he did.”
“Why don’t you tell him that yourself?”
“I will when I see him.”
“How about now?” He stands up and walks to the door, opening it and motioning to someone outside.
Aubie steps awkwardly into the doorway, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.
He’s disheveled, hair sticking up in all directions like he’s been running his fingers through it, eyes haggard, his normally cocky smirk replaced with a worrisome frown.
He’s in the same clothes he was wearing last night, his sweater stained with blood.
My blood.
He glances at Daryl, who nods, then inches slowly inside with a shy, “Hey.”
“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” Daryl says. “You want anything?” he asks Aubie.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
After he’s gone, the two of us stare at each other for a full minute. Finally he approaches the bed and clears his throat. “I was so fucking scared.”
Not what I was expecting from him. In fact, this whole image of him is such a contrast to the overconfident man I’ve come to know. “I’m fine, really. A few stitches–”
“But you weren’t,” he insists as his eyes tear up. “You don’t get to die.”
What is this? I didn’t think he actually cared about me. At least, not beyond my dick. “Hey, no one died.”
He sighs and wrings his hands. “I know. It’s just…it’s happened before.” He avoids my eyes, looking around the room. “I hate hospitals, especially this one.”
That sounds like a story waiting to be told. “Want to talk about it?”
At first I think he’s going to pass it off like he usually does, but then he rounds the bed and sinks down in the chair Daryl was occupying, his head in his hands. His voice is muffled when he finally speaks.
“This is where they brought me the night of the accident.” He runs his hand back through his already mussed hair and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Accident?” I prompt, suddenly invested in consuming any bit of background he’s willing to provide.
He nods. “Worst night of my life.” He hesitates, then seems to come to some conclusion. His voice is soft when he continues, containing none of his usual cocksure playfulness.
“His name was Bryce. I was in love with him. The first time…we were fifteen. We didn’t know what we were doing, but it was still…
amazing. After that we couldn’t wait to get out of school each day so we could be together.
We’d meet at my house because my parents were always gone and the staff ignored me anyway.
And then one day my father showed up and caught us.
He lost it. His homophobic brain couldn’t comprehend that. ”
He pauses and I swallow the urge to speak, hungry for this glimpse behind the curtain. To meet the real him.
At last he seems to collect himself and continue. “He forbade me to see him again. Said he wasn’t worthy of a Gauthier.” He snorts. “That was his excuse. Guess it was more palatable to him than the real reason. Can’t have the Gauthier heir turn out to be a fucking faggot.”
A lot of things suddenly make more sense. “Did you stop seeing him?”
The look he gives me is almost wrecked. “I wish I had. At least he’d still be alive.”