Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Death fucking sucked.
Everything hurt, the blankets itched, and there was a grating alarm going off somewhere that had about five seconds to quit before I started yelling.
Oh my God, I’m in Hell.
Clearly, making fun of Viola’s new-age relaxation music had been the final straw. She was kind, in the end, and really, wandering around in the jungle couldn’t be as bad as suffering for eternity with that alarm.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
“Turn that fucking thing off,” I mumbled, blinking my eyes open.
My mom’s face appeared over me, a halo of light cradling her head. Her brow knit in concern. “Reece? Sweetheart? Are you awake? How do you feel? Are you in pain?”
Mom’s here, too?
No, that wasn’t right. My mom was a saint; there was no way she’d end up in Hell. But that could only mean…
“Let’s let him wake up slow, Pop. I’ll go flag down a nurse and ask about getting the med bag changed.”
Dad.
Blearily, I looked toward my other side—a great feat, considering my head pounded like it’d been run over by a truck—and found him sitting in one of those horribly uncomfortable-looking hospital chairs.
That’s a familiar sight.
I took in the bed I lay in, and the low ambient murmur filtering in through the door. Somewhere down the hall, another machine began screeching.
So, maybe I wasn’t actually in Hell, but a hospital wasn’t far off.
Dad stood, stretched his back, and padded over, gently ruffling my hair. “Good to see you’re awake,” he said, eyes shining.
Shame kicked me in the chest.
How could I have even considered he was anything other than the patient, gentle, loving father I’d always known him to be?
“Dad, I’m—” I began, before a coughing fit took over. God, I needed water. My throat was parched and scratchy.
“Shh,” he said, leaning down to kiss my temple. “Everything’s going to be ok. You just rest, now. I’ll be right back.”
“Want some water?” Mom asked. She offered me a plastic cup with a straw as Dad left the room.
I sipped it gratefully. “Thank you.”
She wiped at a tear that’d tracked down her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said, trying to contain her blubbering. “I just can’t imagine what would’ve happened if your father hadn’t found you in time.”
I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.
Not because I was afraid to or didn’t want to share things with her. It was more that there was just so much to say. So much to ask. I wasn’t even sure how I was alive, let alone how Dad found me in time.
But one thing dominated my thoughts more than any other, one thing I desperately needed to know. “Charlie? Is he…”
I couldn’t finish my question.
Had I imagined it all? I was on the boat alone with Leonard, and then suddenly, Charlie was there. He defended me. And when I fell into the water, when I was shot…
He’d found me in that gray place, too, and he’d saved me. Somehow, by some miracle, we’d seized the chance to live, and we’d stepped into the colorful unknown together.
Were those real memories, or simply my desperate attempts to cling to life?
Mom doesn’t even know Charlie, I thought. She won’t have any idea where he is or what happened to him.
Instead of the confused look I expected, however, she gave me a soft, knowing smile. “He’s still asleep a few doors down. And now that you’re awake, I can scold you for not introducing us sooner.”
I gaped at her. “Asleep? Like, he’s… here? Down the hall?”
“Mmhmm,” she winked. “Officer Morris has been back and forth between your rooms the last few days to check on you both. Now, he’s dreamy, too. Seems to have something going on with that grumpy FBI agent, though.”
Torn between gouging my eyes out at my mother calling Tate dreamy and clawing my way through the wall until I reached Charlie’s room, I tried to sit up.
“Was he hurt?” I asked her, suddenly wide awake. “Has he come looking for me? I need to see him. Now.”
Mom gently pushed my shoulders back, and to my great embarrassment, I didn’t have the strength to fight against her. Plus, searing pain shot up my entire lower left leg when I tried to move it, halting my flight out of bed. When it abated, I realized it was wrapped in something bulky and heavy.
“He’s okay, sweetheart. He’s resting, just like you. He wanted to come see you, too, but you’ve both been through a lot. You need to take it easy.”
He’s here. He’s resting. I hardly knew what to do with the balloon of hope that swelled in my chest.
Charlie’s still here.
Then her words caught up with me. “Days?” I asked, confused. “How many days?”
“Four.” Every minute of those four days was etched into her face, lined with exhaustion. “Keith’s been here every day, too. He just left about an hour ago. He’ll be so glad to hear you’re awake.”
Just then, Dad arrived with two medical personnel in tow.
“Hello there, Reece. Good to see you’re awake,” the one on the left said.
She was short, with straight, black hair pulled away from her face, and wearing a white coat over her purple scrubs.
“I’m Diya Blake, a Nurse Practitioner. How’re you feeling? ”
The other person, a nurse, I assumed, pushed a few buttons to halt the machine’s awful beeping and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm before she began fiddling with a new IV bag.
“Um,” I paused, assessing. “Like shit.”
She smiled. “Not surprising, given what you’ve been through. You have a mild TBI—a concussion,” she clarified at my horrified look.
I thought back to the force Leonard used when he knocked me out with that heavy flashlight. A mild TBI was probably the best outcome I could hope for. “What about my MS? Is it, I mean, do concussions cause relapses?”
She gave me an understanding look. “You’ll have to talk with your neurologist about keeping an eye on things over the next few months, but there were no new lesions when we did an MRI to assess the extent of your concussion.”
I blew out a sigh of relief, and Dad patted me on the arm.
“So, overall, it seems your head injury is healing well,” she continued. “Our main concern is infection, given the nature of your other injuries and your compromised immune system from the MS treatments. We’ll need to keep you a few more days for observation, but so far, you’ve been doing fine.”
“Infection?” I asked. “In my leg?”
She nodded. “You have fairly extensive tissue damage, but no broken bones. You’ll benefit from physical therapy to rebuild the muscle mass in your leg.”
Again, I was stunned. No broken bones?
Images of the bear trap clamped around my ankle flashed through my mind. Could I really have been lucky enough to avoid broken bones from that monstrosity?
“Wait.” I reached up, patting at where I’d been shot, and frowned. My hands were clumsy with the IV and oxygen monitor, but still, shouldn’t I have felt bandages? Stitches? Something?
“What about here?” I asked. “What about my chest?”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “Your chest, sweetheart?”
The nurse practitioner cocked her head to the side. “You had a few superficial scrapes and bruises, but no significant chest wounds.”
I gaped at her. That was impossible. I’d been shot. Not grazed—shot. Right through the chest. Hadn’t I?
Dad’s face was grave, as if he remembered the same thing I did. Subtly, so Mom wouldn’t notice, he shook his head once, eyes glassy.
I don’t understand, either.
“We’ve got one more round of IV meds for you,” the nurse practitioner said, “so you might feel ready to sleep again, soon. You can use the call button to let us know if you need anything.”
The room was quiet while the nurse finished with her rounds and left.
How was it possible I’d escaped everything Leonard did to me with nothing more than a mild concussion and a bandaged-up leg?
“I don’t want this. Not without you,” Charlie had said, before pouring all of that color and life back into me.
I’m a man of science. I don’t believe in magic healing. I didn’t believe in ghosts, either, before I met Charlie. And yet, he’d brought both into my life. He’d healed me, he’d saved me, over and over.
“I think I’ll step out to use the restroom and find some more coffee,” Mom said with a yawn.
I wanted to tell her she should rest instead, but my tongue already felt thick and heavy from the medication, and I could barely keep my eyes open.
Thankfully, Dad was on the same page. “You should go get some sleep, too, Pop,” he said gently.
“I’m not tired,” she replied defensively. “And I need to be here in case he needs anything.”
“I’ll be here, and I’ll call you right away if something changes. He’s going to be fine. Go, get some sleep.”
“I’mfffine,” I echoed, trying to reassure her. “Gosssleep.”
Her soft kiss upon my brow was the last thing I felt before sleep swept me away again.
“Wow, he really does snore like a wombat.”
My eyes flew open.
Tate sat in the chair that Mom had the last time I was awake, arms crossed with a smirk on his face. I rubbed my eyes and scowled. “I do not.”
“Told you that’d get him up.”
My head hurt less when I quickly looked to where Dad had been—or maybe it was just the sight of the man who’d taken his place that made everything else insignificant. “Charlie.”
He smiled, whiskey-brown eyes bright and clear. “Hey there, you wombat.”
He hugged me, harder and stronger than ever before. I wrapped my arms around him as best I could and squeezed back.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I asked, breathing him in. His hair smelled like hospital soap, and my muscles ached from holding him at this angle, but I’d never let go again.
I’ll never let go.
“I’m okay. More than okay,” he whispered, tucking his face into the crook of my shoulder. I probably stank far worse than antibacterial wash.
He pulled away to look at me, settling on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked underneath him. His skin wasn’t ghostly pale anymore. He had a warm, tawny complexion, and the dusting of freckles across his nose deepened, as if he’d just come in from lying in the sun.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, unable to tear my eyes away. I already missed his warmth.
Wait.