Chapter 2 Broken Hands #2
His chest felt like someone had parked a truck on top of it. His shoulder throbbed with a deep, relentless ache that spread down his arm. Heat pulsed through portions of his body where burns had been treated. Even lying perfectly still seemed to require effort.
For several seconds, he kept his eyes closed.
Trying to remember.
Trying to piece together the events that brought him here.
The garage.
The fire.
Tyler.
The explosion.
The memories returned in fragments.
Orange flames.
Smoke.
The teenager's terrified face.
The shockwave.
Darkness.
His eyes opened.
White ceiling.
Hospital room.
Wonderful.
Exactly where he didn't want to be.
A low curse escaped his throat.
The sound immediately attracted attention.
Someone moved nearby.
Deck turned his head.
Big mistake.
Pain flared through his neck and shoulder.
Another curse followed.
This one louder.
A familiar voice answered.
"Nice to see you're still charming."
Kane Whitaker sat in a chair near the window.
Arms crossed.
Coffee in hand.
Looking annoyingly healthy.
Deck stared at him.
"Go away."
Riot smirked.
"No."
"Then stop talking."
"No."
The answer arrived immediately.
Predictably.
Deck closed his eyes again.
Unfortunately, that didn't make Kane disappear.
Nothing ever made Kane disappear.
One of the many reasons their friendship remained exhausting.
The silence lasted several moments.
Then Deck noticed something.
The absence of noise.
No television.
No visitors.
No nurses.
Just him and Riot.
The realization felt wrong.
He opened his eyes again.
"What happened?"
The question came out rough.
Kane's expression shifted.
The humor faded.
Something more serious replacing it.
The change immediately put Deck on edge.
"What happened to Tyler?"
The answer arrived instantly.
Because that was the important question.
The only question.
Riot nodded.
"Kid's okay."
Relief hit immediately.
Hard.
Unexpectedly hard.
The tension in Deck's chest loosened slightly.
Good.
Thank God.
Tyler was alive.
The rest could be dealt with.
The mechanic exhaled slowly.
Then regretted it when pain shot through his ribs.
"Minor burns. Broken ankle. Couple stitches."
Kane took another drink of coffee.
"He's gonna be fine."
Good.
That mattered.
Everything else could wait.
Deck looked toward the ceiling.
Allowing the relief to settle.
The kid was safe.
The rescue had worked.
Worth it.
Even now.
Even with pain tearing through his body.
The realization felt solid.
Certain.
Tyler was alive.
That was enough.
For the moment.
Unfortunately, reality returned quickly.
The next question lingered.
Waiting.
Deck already suspected he wouldn't like the answer.
"How bad?"
Kane sighed.
A long sigh.
The kind people used when delivering bad news.
Terrific.
The mechanic immediately hated whatever came next.
"Your ribs are cracked."
Deck nodded once.
Expected.
The breathing alone confirmed that.
"Burns on your arms and shoulder."
Also expected.
He could feel those.
Kane continued.
"Concussion."
Deck frowned.
That explained the headache.
"What else?"
Silence.
Not a good sign.
Not remotely.
The mechanic slowly turned his head.
Meeting Kane's eyes.
The expression he found there made something cold settle inside his stomach.
Because Riot looked worried.
Genuinely worried.
The sight was rare enough to be alarming.
"What else?"
The question came out sharper this time.
Kane leaned forward.
Setting down his coffee.
Neither man spoke for several seconds.
Then Riot finally answered.
"Your hands."
The words hit harder than expected.
Immediately.
Deck looked down.
For the first time since waking.
Both hands rested atop the blanket.
Wrapped heavily in bandages.
Large bandages.
Far too large.
A pulse of unease moved through him.
Slow.
Steady.
Dangerous.
"What about them?"
Kane rubbed a hand across his beard.
Thinking.
Choosing words.
Deck hated when people chose words.
Just tell him.
Whatever it was.
Tell him.
"The explosion messed them up pretty bad."
Not helpful.
At all.
The mechanic's jaw tightened.
"Define bad."
Another pause.
Then the answer arrived.
"Burns."
Deck remained silent.
"Fractures."
Still silent.
"Tendon damage."
Something inside him twisted.
Hard.
His gaze remained fixed on the bandages.
Motionless.
Almost afraid to move.
The room suddenly felt too quiet.
Too small.
Too warm.
The unease grew.
"What aren't you saying?"
Kane looked away briefly.
Then back.
The movement told Deck everything.
Before a single word was spoken.
"The doctors think you'll recover."
Think.
Not know.
Think.
The distinction mattered.
The distinction terrified him.
The mechanic stared.
Waiting.
Because there was more.
There was always more.
"Recovery's gonna take time."
There it was.
The truth.
Or part of it.
Deck swallowed.
His throat suddenly felt dry.
"How much time?"
Kane exhaled.
"A while."
Not helpful.
Again.
Deck glared.
The older mechanic finally surrendered.
"Months."
The word landed like a punch.
Months.
His chest tightened.
Not from pain.
From fear.
Pure fear.
The kind he hadn't felt in years.
Because injuries happened.
Broken bones healed.
Pain faded.
Months meant something different.
Months meant uncertainty.
Months meant weakness.
Months meant depending on other people.
The realization made him sick.
Instinctively, Deck tried moving his fingers.
Nothing happened.
Not immediately.
Panic flared.
Sharp and ugly.
Then faint movement arrived.
Small.
Limited.
Painful.
But present.
Relief followed.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Still there.
The mechanic stared at his hands.
The same hands that rebuilt engines.
The same hands that paid bills.
The same hands that made him useful.
Necessary.
Worth something.
Now wrapped in enough bandages to make them nearly unrecognizable.
The sight hurt more than the burns.
More than the fractures.
More than the ribs.
Because hands weren't just hands.
Not for him.
Not for a mechanic.
They were identity.
Purpose.
Life.
"What if they don't heal right?"
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Kane understood immediately.
The older man always understood.
Unfortunately.
"They will."
The answer came quickly.
Firmly.
Deck almost laughed.
Almost.
Because neither of them knew that.
The silence stretched.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Eventually the hospital door opened.
A nurse entered.
Checking monitors.
Recording information.
Professional.
Efficient.
Deck ignored her.
His attention remained fixed on his hands.
The nurse eventually left.
Another doctor appeared.
Then another.
Questions.
Assessments.
Explanations.
Deck tolerated them poorly.
By lunchtime, he'd told three people to leave him alone.
By mid-afternoon, that number reached five.
His mood deteriorated steadily.
Every update felt worse than the previous one.
Recovery timelines.
Specialists.
Physical therapy.
Occupational therapy.
Rehabilitation plans.
The words blended together.
One message remained clear.
His life wasn't returning to normal anytime soon.
Maybe ever.
The thought sat heavily inside him.
Growing darker with each passing hour.
The door opened again.
Deck expected another doctor.
Another lecture.
Another reminder that everything was broken.
Instead, he found the blond physician from earlier.
The one with the calm voice.
The pretty face.
The irritatingly patient eyes.
Dr. Finn Ashford.
Wonderful.
Exactly what he needed.
Another doctor.
The younger man carried a tablet.
Professional smile intact.
Composed.
Relaxed.
Everything Deck currently hated.
Finn stepped inside.
Stopping near the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
Deck stared.
Then answered honestly.
"Like hell."
The doctor nodded.
As if that answer made perfect sense.
Maybe it did.
"I'd be concerned if you felt great."
Deck wasn't in the mood for humor.
Apparently the doctor didn't care.
Finn glanced at the chart.
Reviewed something.
Then looked back up.
"The surgical team is happy with your progress."
"I don't care."
Finn nodded again.
Calm.
Steady.
Unreasonably calm.
Deck immediately disliked him.
The doctor continued anyway.
"We'll start discussing rehabilitation plans soon."
There it was.
The word.
Rehabilitation.
The mechanic felt irritation surge immediately.
"No."
Finn blinked.
Once.
"What?"
"No rehabilitation."
The doctor studied him.
Silent.
Thoughtful.
Deck hated thoughtful people.
They always wanted conversations.
He preferred arguments.
Arguments ended faster.
"I'm not interested."
Finn remained infuriatingly calm.
"Fortunately, recovery doesn't require interest."
The answer caught him off guard.
Not because it was rude.
Because it wasn't.
The doctor simply stated a fact.
Matter-of-fact.
Certain.
Deck frowned.
The younger man met his stare easily.
No fear.
No discomfort.
Interesting.
Most people reacted differently.
Finn didn't seem impressed by reputation.
Or size.
Or attitude.
The realization annoyed him.
The silence stretched.
Then Kane stood from his chair.
Apparently deciding enough had happened.
The mechanic moved toward the door.
Then paused.
Looking directly at Deck.
"You can fight everybody else if you want."
The statement sounded suspicious.
Deck narrowed his eyes.
Riot continued.
"But you're working with him."
The words landed heavily.
Final.
Certain.
Deck looked from Kane to Finn.
Then back again.
Immediately disliking whatever conspiracy had occurred behind his back.
"What?"
Kane pointed toward the doctor.
"Finn's handling your recovery."
The mechanic laughed.
Once.
Without humor.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Absolutely."
Deck glared.
Riot looked unimpressed.
The doctor remained annoyingly calm.
The entire situation felt ridiculous.
"Find somebody else."
Kane's expression hardened.
Not angry.
Determined.
Which was somehow worse.
"No."
The answer arrived instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without compromise.
The older mechanic folded his arms.
Looking very much like a man who had already made a decision.
And expected everyone else to accept it.
"Finn's supervising everything."
Deck opened his mouth.
Prepared several objections.
Every one of them died when Riot spoke again.
Whether he likes it or not.
And judging by Kane Whitaker's expression, neither of them had a choice.
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