Chapter 12 FLETCHER
FLETCHER
I’m sore. Sore in that deep, insistent way that crawls into my joints like concrete slowly setting under my skin.
I shift my weight to ease the pressure on my right knee, but the movement only makes my hip protest. Damn tight bathroom corners.
I knew they’d be a pain, but after nearly two weeks in, I feel like I’m ten years older.
I’ll definitely need my hot tub again tonight.
A groan escapes me as I push myself up from the crouch I’ve been in for too long. I rotate my shoulders until they crack. Ahmed and Jose are finishing the molding, so I decide to slip away for a break.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I grab my lunchbox from the floor and step out of the women’s bathroom, the noise of the bar filtering back in. It’s late in the day for us, only a couple of hours before we head home. But it’s early for the bar, so it’s fairly quiet.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and immediately look toward the door. When I don’t see Vince, my heart sinks.
I walk a little further, finding him wiping down a table.
It makes me pause. It’s nice to see him away from the door, but his posture catches me off guard.
He’s bracing his weight heavily on his right leg, head hanging low.
The closer I get, the clearer it becomes: he’s paler than usual—almost ashy.
I step in beside him, and he barely looks up at me. He’s leaning against the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, one hand flat against the surface, his chest rising shallowly under his black shirt.
Shit. He isn’t okay, and he isn’t even hiding it.
A cold slice of worry cuts through me, and I place a hand on his back before I can stop myself. “Hey. You okay?”
He blinks up at me, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Just… got dizzy for a second.”
“Have you eaten anything today?” The question comes out sharper than I meant to, but Vince can be so damn stubborn. Determined to hide his symptoms just to avoid appearing weak. That includes taking breaks or eating on the clock.
His silence is all the answer I need.
“Vince.”
He tries to push off the table as if he can pretend his way out of this conversation, but his knees wobble. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
My stomach knots, and I pull out a chair. “Sit.”
He doesn’t argue, which is another sign of how bad he feels.
I unzip my lunchbox and pull out the sandwich I was going to eat. “Here.”
“I’m fine,” he protests weakly.
I lean in to get his attention. “You’re not fine. Eat something.”
He takes the sandwich, ripping off a bite.
I sit beside him, barely resisting the urge to reach for his hand. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I’m just tired.” His voice is thin, fragile.
“No, there’s more to this. What’s going on?”
He hesitates, taking another bite. “Today’s just… bad.”
The word sits heavy between us. Bad as in a rough night of sleep and no breakfast, or bad as in his body is taking him through a war?
Maybe both.
I wish I could take it all away.
I slide the rest of my lunch over to him. “Take it.” He protests, but I shake my head. “Seriously. I have more food in the truck.”
He seems relieved.
“Hey, Fletch.”
I look up to see Declan. “Hey.”
“The restrooms are looking great. I’m so happy with them.”
I smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are we still on schedule to be done next week?”
“Yup. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think.”
“Awesome.”
When he looks at Vince, Vince immediately sits up a little straighter. “Sorry, I’m just—”
Declan waves him off. “You’re good. No need to get up.”
He walks away without another word.
I touch Vince’s leg under the table, speaking with my eyes. Talk to him.
Vince ignores me, finishing the sandwich.
I sit with him for ten minutes, wishing the food would bring a little color back to his face. He’s still so pale.
My brother’s voice reaches me from the front door. “Fletcher, got a minute? I need to run something by you.”
What is he even doing here? I haven’t seen Darren in over a week. He hasn’t been a part of this job. “Can you give me ten minutes?”
“Not really. I need to get back to the other site.”
I bite back a curse. “Fine. Be right there.” I touch Vince’s arm. “I’ll check on you again in a bit, okay?”
“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes as I get up. I’m getting so damn sick of those two words.
Darren is waiting for me, eyes narrowed. “Is that the guy living with you?” he asks quietly.
I can’t hide my surprise. “You know about him?”
“Georgie mentioned at Thanksgiving dinner you had someone staying in the guesthouse. Said you knew him from the bar?”
Oh. Of course she would’ve mentioned it.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. It’s him. His name’s Vince.”
I can practically see the question rolling around in my brother’s head, but we don’t have time to get into it. Carlos is waiting for us by the door. Seeing him instantly puts me on edge. Darren and Carlos have been in charge of the other site.
“Is something wrong at the restaurant?”
“Nothing big,” Darren assures me. “We just ran into some permit discrepancies that need corrected today, or we’ll be fined.”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head toward the truck. “I’ll show you.”
Outside, we climb into Darren’s truck. He unlocks his iPad. “It’s stupid, really. The city inspector noticed something off with the occupancy. So we have to adjust the floor layout of the remodel.”
“How much is it off?”
“Twelve seats,” Carlos says.
Darren pulls up some forms. “I spoke with the restaurant owner. He’s given us two options, but we need to sign off on it today. Then Carlos will take the corrections straight to the inspector.”
“Okay.”
For ten minutes, Darren explains the benefits of each new floor plan. I’m only half-listening, my attention still on the hurting man inside.
“Well, which do you recommend? I trust your judgment.”
He swipes to the first photo. “This one. They’ll lose three tables, but it actually opens the front area, and I think that’ll be better in the long run.”
“And the owners are good with that?”
Darren nods.
“Okay. Let’s do it then. What do you need me for?”
“The permit is in your name, since you were supposed to lead this job. That’s why I had to come here. They need your signature.”
Carlos leans over the back seat. “And the inspector is only around until five, so if you could hurry…”
“Got it.”
I sign off the digital forms, and Carlos slips out of the truck with the iPad, running to his car.
With the door open, I hear sirens in the distance. They get louder every second until flashing lights pull around the corner. I expect the ambulance to drive by, but when it pulls into the parking lot, my stomach sinks.
Oh, no.
They can only be here for one person.
I get out and rush toward the entrance. The music is cut off, and the crowd is talking in hushed, urgent tones. They’re all standing around someone on the floor.
I shove through the cluster of bodies, and the room tilts when I see him. Vince.
He’s lying on the ground next to the table he’d been sitting at, eyes closed.
“Vince!” My voice cracks, sharp enough to turn a few heads. I drop to my knees beside him. “Shit. Are you okay?”
He barely stirs.
I look around. “What happened?”
Oliver stammers, holding his forehead in shock. “He was getting up, and then he just—he just dropped! I turned around, and he was on the floor. Just five minutes ago.”
Two paramedics rush in, carrying a load of supplies.
“Sir, give us space.”
I don’t move. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Fear chokes me, thick and suffocating. Someone pulls me out of the way.
The paramedic checks his pulse, flashes a light into his eyes. I finally suck in a breath when I see Vince move.
“Does anyone know if he has any medical conditions?”
MS. He has MS.
I somehow don’t shout it, even though everything in me wants to. Vince wouldn’t like be blurting that in front of everyone. But they should know, shouldn’t they?
They need to know.
The moment to speak up disappears as quickly as it came. They rush through the examination, lifting him onto the gurney. It physically pains me when they strap him in.
“I’m fine,” he slurs.
I want to scream at him. You’re not fucking fine!
I get to my feet, following the team of medical professionals out of the building. Declan, Melody, and Piper all follow me, but stay near the doors as I chase after the medics.
“Wait.”
“Sir, get back. We need to go,” a paramedic says.
“He has MS,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.
The medic blinks at me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He was diagnosed a few months ago.”
“Is he on any medication?”
“No. He hasn’t started anything yet. He takes pain meds pretty regularly, but just over-the-counter stuff.”
“Aspirin?”
“I think so, yes.”
He nods. “Thank you.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“Scripps La Jolla.”
I nod slowly and step back, my hand shaking as I press a palm to my chest. My mind is racing. How did everything change so fast? I was just with him. He was sitting up eating, not even twenty minutes ago. I mean, he looked bad, but…
Fuck. Could I have prevented this?
I glimpse Vince’s face before they close the doors, and my heart shatters. He looks so damn weak, but at least he’s awake. That’s something, right?
As they drive away, I wrap an arm around my stomach, feeling like I might be sick.
Darren runs up to me. “Wasn’t that your friend?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I-I don’t know,” I say. “They just said he fell. Passed out or something.”
Darren grips my shoulder, brows pinched. “You okay?”
No. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to decide what to do.
He tips his head toward the cars. “Go.”
“What?”
“Go after him. I’ll finish up here with the team.”
“You sure?”
“He’s your friend, Fletch. Go.” His voice suggests he thinks there might be more than friendship budding between Vince and me, and he wouldn’t be wrong. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
I nod.