Chapter Eighteen #3
“You’re not fragile,” I murmur, voice thick. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I press my forehead against hers.
“But if anything ever happens to you again…”
My voice breaks.
“I won’t survive it.”
Her fingers tighten weakly around mine.
“Yes, you will,” she whispers. “Because you’ll have to.”
She smiles softly.
“Someone has to stay alive long enough to keep my brother alive.”
“I don’t need another Bones in my life, baby sister,” Spike says as he steps into the room. “That man is exhausting about keeping me alive. But I would appreciate it if nothing happened to either one of you.”
“Bubby, you okay?” she asks, lifting her other hand toward him.
“As well as I can be considering ten of my men were killed, my family was put in harm’s way, and my beautiful baby sister was shot.”
Speaking of…
“Is Maverick here?” I ask.
“Right here, brother,” he says from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
“Do you think you can gain access to the feed from those snipers and their scopes?” I ask.
“Already have men working on it,” he admits. “The live feed was cut, but that doesn’t mean they stopped recording. Why do you ask?”
“I want to know which one of those men fired the bullet that hit my woman,” I growl.
“Consider it done,” he says calmly. “Even if the recordings are gone, we can reconstruct the shot. Bullet trajectory, entry angle, firing position. There were only two shooters, and we know where each one was set up.”
“Good.”
“Alright,” Patch cuts in. “You’ve had your visiting time.”
He folds his arms, doctor mode fully back in place.
“You all need to leave so I can actually take care of my patient. Tank, you can stay if you keep your mouth shut.”
He shoots Abby a pointed look.
“And you? No more talking. Your vocal cords are already inflamed and strained from coughing. If you keep rasping like that, you’re going to cause damage that won’t heal quickly.”
He places the stethoscope against her chest.
“Deep breath for me.”
Abby obeys.
Patch listens, his expression tightening slightly.
“I don’t like the sound of those lungs,” he mutters.
That gets my attention immediately.
“Relax,” he adds when he sees my reaction. “It’s not pneumonia. Yet.”
Yet?
“Normally I wouldn’t be too concerned,” he continues, moving the stethoscope to her back. “But right now your body is trying to do three things at once…fight an upper respiratory infection, recover from a gunshot wound, and replace a lot of lost blood.”
He sighs quietly.
“That’s a heavy workload.”
He straightens and pulls the earpieces out.
“There’s a transfusion on the way,” he says, hanging the stethoscope around his neck. “You’re going to need at least two units of blood to get your levels back where they should be.”
He scribbles something on the chart.
“I’m also ordering a chest X-ray and a CT scan just to make sure nothing traveled where it shouldn’t have.”
Abby rolls her eyes weakly.
Patch ignores it.
“I’m prescribing antibiotics for the infection, steroids to open your lungs, and breathing treatments every few hours. If your oxygen levels dip, we’ll move you to respiratory monitoring.”
He looks down at her sternly.
“And before you ask, yes, you’re staying here tonight.”
She opens her mouth.
Patch raises a finger.
“Don’t.”
Her mouth closes again.
Satisfied, he turns to me.
“Tank, if she starts coughing, help her sit forward so she can clear it. Don’t let her lie flat. And if she tries to get out of that bed…”
“She won’t,” I say immediately.
Abby smirks faintly.
Patch snorts.
He pats the bed rail once.
“Alright. I’ll be back when the blood gets here.”
Then he points at me as he walks toward the door.
“Keep her calm.”
He pauses in the doorway and glances back at me.
“And Tank?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m serious about not letting her out of that bed,” he says. “Right now, her leg won’t hold her up.”
I nod once.
Patch studies me for half a second like he’s deciding if I’m going to listen or not.
Apparently satisfied, he turns and walks out of the room.
The door clicks shut behind him, and silence settles in its wake.
I move closer to the bed and sit carefully on the edge of the chair beside her.
Her fingers slide into mine almost immediately.
Like they were just waiting for me.
“You look tired,” she whispers.
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Pretty sure I look worse than that.”
She studies my face for a long moment.
“You look scared.”
The word lands harder than it should.
“Yeah,” I admit.
Her thumb brushes across my knuckles.
“I’m still here.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But you almost weren’t.”
Her gaze softens.
“You came back.”
I shake my head slowly.
“I was too late.”
“You weren’t,” she whispers.
Her grip tightens weakly.
“Tank… you didn’t fail me.”
I look at her then.
Really look.
At the pale skin, the oxygen line beneath her nose, and the bandages wrapped around her leg.
“I was supposed to keep you safe,” I say.
Her eyes hold mine.
“You did.”
“How the hell do you figure that?” I ask roughly.
“Because I’m still alive,” she says softly.
The room goes quiet again.
Then she adds, barely louder than a breath,
“And because you came back to me just like you promised.”
My chest tightens.
“I always will,” I murmur.
She smiles faintly.
“Good,” she whispers. “Because I’m starting to think I might need you around.”
“Yeah?” I ask, hope swelling in my chest. “You forgive me?”
“I did a long time ago,” she admits quietly. “I was just scared to let myself be that vulnerable with you again.”
“I’ll spend the rest of our lives proving to you how much I regret these past years, baby,” I say. “Every single day, I’ll show you how much I love you. How much you mean to me.”
“I plan to live a very long time,” she smiles faintly. “That’s a lot of years for you to spend groveling.”
“You’re worth every second, Abigail,” I say, taking the first full breath I’ve had in what feels like years.
My mama’s face flashes through my mind, and I have to force the tears back.
“Mama would’ve loved you,” I tell her quietly. “She would’ve been on your side the entire time. Probably would’ve been giving you advice on how to make me suffer.”
“I would’ve loved her right back,” she says, not bothering to hide her tears. “I’m sorry I’ll never get to meet her. But she sure raised one hell of a man.”
“Abigail,” I scold teasingly. “You’re far too beautiful to be saying ugly words like that.”
“Bet that’s something your mama would’ve said to me,” she whispers, her voice cracking.
I should make her stop talking, but I can’t bring myself to end the moment.
“You’d lose money on that bet, babygirl,” I chuckle. “Where do you think I learned how to swear in the first place?”
Her smile widens, and she lets out a silent laugh.
“Alright, my sweet girl,” I say as I stand and gently tuck the blankets around her. “You need to stop talking now. I miss your voice, and I need you to heal so I can hear it again.”
Once she’s settled, I press a soft kiss to her forehead before returning to the chair beside the bed.
Fuck, I’m so damn tired.
“Sorry about your friends, honey,” Abigail whispers.
I glance over.
Her eyes are closed, but fresh tears slide down her temples.
“They were your friends too, baby,” I say softly. “They were our family.”
“Big T died,” she whimpers. “Right over my head.”
Fuck.
I knew that… but I’d hoped she didn’t.
“I can’t stay in that house.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly. “You can move into one of the empty ones… or you can move in with me.”
Her eyes open, but not in shock….in longing.
“Your door is ugly,” she says.
I can’t help but laugh.
There are twelve houses surrounding the clubhouse. Most empty. There were fifteen, but we’ve since changed a few into workshops and storage.
The women started this whole thing, where everyone paints their front doors different colors.
Abigail’s is purple.
Spike and Riley’s is teal and pink.
Bones and Sunny’s is yellow and black.
Skip and Eli’s is red and white.
Max and Lila just moved in and haven’t picked a color yet.
Mine?
White…just like the rest of the normal doors.
Abigail has been begging me to let her paint it for years.
Back then, I said no because I was trying to keep my distance. Now I’m wondering if somewhere deep down… I always knew we’d end up here.
“I’ll switch the doors,” I shrug.
“Really?” she asks softly. “You’d do that for me?”
“Oh, babygirl,” I sigh. “Don’t you get it yet? I’d do anything for you.”
I point a warning finger at her.
“Now stop talking.”
“Last thing,” she whispers. “I swear.”
I scowl.
“Fine. What is it?”
“I love you.”
Fuck.
“You already know I love you,” I say roughly. “But words will never be enough to explain how much.”
I lean forward and brush her hair back from her face.
“Now close those beautiful eyes and get some sleep.”
She studies me for one long moment before finally closing them, a soft smile still on her lips.
“Blood’s here,” Patch announces loudly as he walks into the room.
Abigail’s eyes snap back open.
“Damnit, brother,” I growl. “She needs sleep.”
“She needs blood if you want her to keep living,” Patch replies casually. “Sleep or blood, brother. Choose.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter as he grins. “Hook her up so she can get some rest.”
“That man of yours is the worst patient I’ve ever had,” Patch tells Abby as he hangs the bag. “Did he ever tell you about the time I had to stitch his ass?”
“Patch,” I warn.
“He got bit… by a monkey.”
Abigail laughs.
A terrible, broken laugh with that raspy voice of hers.
But it’s still the best sound I’ve heard all night.
“I’ll tell you the rest later when you’re feeling better,” Patch says. “Alright, kids. I’m heading to a newbie doctor’s office to steal a nap. Once the second bag is done and the scans come back clear, you’re free to go.”
Kids?
The bastard’s barely older than me.
I watch the blood slowly drip down the line into Abby’s arm and silently thank the person who donated it.