Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brandi struggled against the pounding in her head as she slipped into the same clothes she'd worn the night before. What she wouldn’t give for clean ones.
It had been hours since the cops stopped by.
She was sure they’d contacted Gypsy and Quinn. The fact that they weren’t there yet spoke volumes. She’d screwed up—again. This time might be second only to what happened to Wick. And that wasn’t something anyone forgot.
Pain, shock, anxiety—they twisted through her like wire. Her wrist throbbed. Her ribs ached. The doctors called her lucky: minor fractures, a sprain, bruising. No internal injuries. But she didn’t feel lucky.
Using her good hand, she pushed herself up off the bed. A low groan escaped her lips as her feet hit the floor. She limped around the room, searching for her shoes, when the door swung open behind her.
She expected a nurse.
Not the people who walked in.
Not all of them.
Not him.
“Brandi, what are you doing up?” Quinn’s voice cut through the haze. Her purse hit the counter as she crossed the room fast.
Quinn turned her, searching her face, her eyes scanning every bruise and shadow. “Let’s get you back in bed.”
“I need to leave,” Brandi muttered, trying to twist free.
“Gypsy, tell her to get back in bed,” Quinn said over her shoulder.
“Brandi. Get back in bed.” Gypsy’s voice was calm, measured. Unshakable.
“I can’t afford to stay,” she said, her voice cracking. “I have to pay for your SUV.”
“We’ve got insurance. It’ll take care of it. And the hospital? They’ll take five bucks a month if that’s all you’ve got.”
“I brought you clean clothes,” Quinn said with a gentle smile.
Echo cleared her throat. “I brought the clean clothes.”
“I brought food,” Lilly added, peeking around them with a hopeful grin.
Sloan shoved through the crowd, grabbed Brandi’s chart, and started flipping through it. Bishop was right behind her, and she handed it off without a word.
“You’ll be fine, chick,” Sloan said with a shrug.
Bishop ,on the other hand took the chart and walked up to bed. “Sloan draw the curtain. I want to look at her injuries.” He saw Tool’s expression and ignored it.
Sloan pulled the curtain closed and watched as Bishop helped Brandi lie back. Then he lifted the gown to inspect her ribs and check the bruising from the seatbelt.
He massaged her torso and listened to her moans and groans. “Have they given you any injections for blood clots?”
“No.” Brandi looked from Sloan to Bishop. “Should they?”
“The bruising is deep. But I don’t see any issues.” Pulling her gown back down he signaled for Sloan to open the curtain.
They hadn’t moved back from Brandi when Layla came through the door.
Layla stepped in next, holding up a Solo cup like it was a flag. “Sounds like we’re moving the party here, ladies.”
Quinn gave Echo a look as she tried not to laugh. “Layla…”
“I got her,” Angel muttered from the doorway.
In the corner, Tool stood still. He hadn’t said a word.
Brandi’s eyes flicked to him—just for a second—but she saw it. The way his jaw clenched. The way his hands curled into fists, then loosened. He was fighting something. The need to go to her. The instinct to stay hidden. To keep them a secret.
He looked like he wanted to move. To step in. To help. But he didn’t.
Brandi’s gaze lingered on Tool for a second longer than she meant it to. He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, crossing his arms over his chest like he was guarding himself instead of her.
Quinn touched her shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I can do it myself,” Brandi said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“We know you can,” Echo replied, stepping in on the other side of her, “but you don’t have to.”
They flanked her like bookends—solid, steady, impossible to argue with. Brandi didn’t resist when they guided her toward the small bathroom tucked behind a half-closed door.
Echo flicked on the light, already setting out the clean pajamas she’d brought: soft cotton, worn in the way comfort clothes should be.
Quinn helped her ease out of the dirty clothes from the night before, careful of the bruises mottling her ribs and the thick white bandage around her wrist.
“You’ve got half the damn hospital trying not to stare,” she muttered.
“Why?” Brandi asked.
“You’ve got a room full of hot men.”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to stay upright.
“Let us help before you end up passing out on the tile,” Echo told her.
Brandi didn’t answer, just nodded once.
Warm water flowed into the sink. Echo found a clean washcloth and handed it over, but didn’t leave the room. She stayed close—there but not smothering—just in case Brandi’s knees buckled or her stubbornness ran out before her strength did.
It didn’t take long. They helped her into the pajamas—soft pants and a long-sleeved shirt that hung loosely over her injuries. Something about the feel of clean clothes made Brandi want to cry, but she swallowed it down.
Back in the room, Sloan and Bishop were still murmuring over the chart. Layla had taken over Brandi’s bed, lounging with her boots crossed and sipping from her Solo cup like it was champagne.
“Get up, Layla,” Quinn snapped at her sister, shoving her boots off the bed.
Glancing around, she looked for Angel. When she spotted him, all the brother did was shrug. “Get off the damn bed!!” she snapped at her sister, this time making it clear she was pissed.
“I’m getting up. If I knew the weekend was going to be this boring, I’d have stayed home.”
“Why didn’t you stay home, Layla?” Quinn asked, turning on her sister. “Tell me why Pappa sent you to Lampsing. What did you do this time –or who should I ask whom?”
Quinn hated to have a knockdown, drag out with her sister in Brandi’s hospital room, but she was done. “You need to go downstairs and wait in the lobby until we leave.”
“Whatever,” Layla grumbled flipping off Quinn.
When Layla moved from Quinn’s sight, she helped Brandi sit on the edge of the bed. Echo pulled the blankets down, fluffed the pillows.
“We got you,” Quinn said quietly.
Brandi didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. She let them guide her back under the covers, the cool sheets brushing her skin like a second chance.
And Tool. He remained against the wall, silent, unreadable. Still, she felt the weight of his silence more than anything else in the room.