52. Clara
CLARA
LAND OF CONFUSION
I'm hovering somewhere between awake and not, a distant, persistent buzzing stirring me from the depths of sleep.
I'm cocooned in warmth—Maverick's solid chest pressed against my back, his arm draped possessively across my waist like he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
Another weight pins me down, heavy and almost too hot on my legs.
Juno. He's claimed his spot at the foot of the bed, sprawled across my feet like a furry anchor.
The phone continues to vibrate relentlessly on the nightstand, just out of reach. I try to shift toward it, but Maverick's arm tightens reflexively around me. I wiggle my toes, but Juno doesn't budge an inch.
"Mmph," I mumble, stretching my fingers toward the nightstand. The movement sends a sharp reminder through my ribs, and I suck in a breath.
Maverick stirs behind me, his voice rough with sleep. "Who is it?"
I manage to snag the phone just as it's about to go to voicemail, squinting at the bright screen. The clock in the corner tells me it's just after seven in the morning, but it's the familiar face filling the screen that makes my heart skip.
"Tamara's FaceTiming," I say, already swiping to answer before Maverick can fully process what I've said.
“Best friend,” Tamara exclaims, smiling too brightly for this early in the morning. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” I lie.
“Yes,” Maverick grumbles at the same time.
“You’re such a liar.” Tamara laughs, then immediately presses a hand to her forehead and winces. “Ouch, shouldn’t have done that.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask, brows drawn together in concern as I notice the way Tamara’s still holding her head.
The room she’s in is semi-dark, the only light stemming from the windows. I catch sight of familiar vertical blinds, clueing me in. Tamara’s propped up against stark white pillows, the distinct headboard I know so well supporting her back.
“Wait,” I interject just as Tamara opens her mouth to answer. “Are you in the hospital?”
“Yes,” she replies sheepishly. “The ambulance brought me here yesterday, and the doctor kept me overnight because I was out for two hours. But he’s cleared me to go home, so that’s something!
” She tries to add a little excitement to her voice toward the end, but I know her so well—she can’t fool me.
Something about seeing her hurt and alone in a hospital room cracks my chest wide open.
“I’m glad you get to go home,” I sigh. “So how are you feeling? How’s your concussion?”
I angle the phone carefully, making sure only my face is visible while I settle back against Maverick’s chest. His arm loosens just enough to let me get comfortable, but I can feel his attention sharpen behind me. He’s listening to every word, protective even in his drowsy state.
“Well, I mean, I feel like my brain is made of cotton and someone’s hitting it with a hammer,” she admits.
“The headache’s better than yesterday, though.
” Tamara shrugs and purses her lips as though she’s debating whether she wants to share the next part.
I’m about to press her when she sighs and continues.
“I’m not really steady on my feet… I have to hold on to the walls or furniture when I walk.
” Her voice wavers, and her eyes shine with tears.
Tamara’s always been so strong and independent. She never lets her guard down—never lets herself be vulnerable. Having to depend on someone else is something she swore she’d never do, and now she doesn’t have a choice. Because she can’t freaking walk on her own.
The guilt hits me like a physical blow—I should be there with her. She’s there because of Samson, and he was there because of me. It takes significant effort not to fall back into the depths of self-pity, blaming myself for everything she’s going through.
“I’m so sorry, Tam.” I shift slightly, rubbing my eyes to disperse the welling tears. Maverick’s hand comes to rest on my hip. The gentle pressure is comforting, grounding me in this moment instead of letting my mind drift back to yesterday’s nightmare .
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Tamara asserts.
She shifts against the pillows and studies my face through the screen.
“But enough about me! I’ll be okay. The doctor said it’s normal, and I should be feeling brand spankin’ new within a few days.
But you ! You scared the shit out of me.
How are you doing? And don’t you dare lie to me again. ”
“Sore,” I answer. “My ribs are bruised, so everything hurts. I’ll be moving as slow as a damn sloth, but I’m fine.”
Tamara stares at me, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I keep thinking about what happened. I should’ve stopped him, Clara. I should’ve?—”
“Stop.” I feel Maverick’s breath warm against my hair as he presses closer, silently offering support. His presence gives me the strength to be strong for her. “You can’t think like that, Tam. It wasn’t your fault. It’s none of our fault. That shit lies with that asshole.”
“But I was supposed to protect you,” she whispers, swiping the tears from her face. “That’s what best friends do. I promised Maverick.”
“Don’t, Tam. You fought for me—that’s all that matters,” I say firmly.
“Did they get him?” Her voice is barely audible now.
“They sure did. He’s dead.” The words come out flat, final. There’s no satisfaction in it, just relief that he can never hurt anyone again.
“Well, can’t say I’m sad about it. The only thing I’m sad about is that I didn’t get to cut off his dick and feed it to him.”
I can't help the laugh that bubbles up from my chest, and I clutch my side when the movement sends a sharp pain through my torso. "Don't make me laugh—it hurts." I breathe through my nose until the pain lessens, then pin her with a look. “I did kick him in the balls, though.”
“Yes, girl!” Tamara squeals and straightens, fist pumping the air. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Behind me, Maverick traces soothing, featherlight circles over my ribs. I glance away from Tamara to offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” I mouth.
She squints at the screen, trying to look past me. “Is that Maverick behind you? Hi, Maverick!”
Maverick chuckles quietly behind me, the rumble vibrating through his chest and into my back. I can practically feel his amusement. “Morning, Tamara. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah, me too. I can’t wait to bust out of this joint, though. Sleep in my own bed and wear my own damn clothes.” She tugs at the hospital gown with obvious distaste.
“Who’s picking you up?” I ask. My chest tightens with guilt again. I hate that I can’t be there for her the way she was for me when I was in the hospital. “Are you at Minneapolis Regional? We can come get you,” I offer without even asking Maverick.
“No,” she says—a little too quickly. “You need to rest. You probably shouldn’t move around until your ribs heal.” She fidgets with the collar of her hospital gown before rushing out, “Besides, Cruz is coming to get me.”
“What?” Gingerly, I prop myself up onto an elbow and bring the phone closer to my face. “Cruz is coming to get you?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, huh?” I tease, wiggling my eyebrows. “And how exactly did Detective Cruz end up being your personal chauffeur?”
“Shut your mouth, best friend. Don’t say?—”
A knock at her door interrupts her mid-sentence. She glances somewhere off screen, then looks back at me. “I gotta go, the nurse is here. They won’t leave me alone,” she stage-whispers.
“Love you!” I call out quickly.
“Love you, too!” Before I can say anything else, the phone goes dead.
I lie back and let the phone drop to my chest with a soft thud, suddenly feeling the weight of everything that’s happened. Silence fills the room until Maverick’s lips press against my shoulder, soft and warm.
“She’s going to be okay, sunshine,” he murmurs against my skin.
“I know. It’s just… seeing her like that.” I close my eyes, leaning into his solid presence. “It should have been me alone in that hospital room.”
“Hey.” His voice is firm now, and he shifts so he’s leaning over me. “Don’t do that to yourself. You both survived. That’s what matters, remember?”
I nod, but the guilt still sits heavy in my chest. Maverick seems to sense it because he presses another kiss to my shoulder, then another to the curve of my neck .
“How are you really feeling?” he asks softly. “And I want the truth this time.”
I take stock of my body—the persistent ache in my ribs, the tender bruising on my face, the way my whole body feels like it’s been through a blender. “Like I got hit by a truck,” I admit. “But also… better. Being here with you, it helps.”
He nuzzles his nose into my neck, and I feel him breathe me in. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to eventually. You have a team to lead, responsibilities?—”
“Clara.” The way he says my name stops my protest cold. “Let me worry about that, okay? Right now, all I need to do is take care of you.”
Before I can argue, he carefully extracts himself from behind me, mindful of my injuries. Juno lifts his head as the bed shifts, giving Maverick an accusatory look.
“Come on, boy,” Maverick says, giving him a gentle nudge. “Time to move.”
Juno stretches dramatically but eventually hops down, padding out of the room with his tail swishing. I immediately miss the warmth of both of them.
“I’m going to make you breakfast. What sounds good, sunshine?” Maverick pulls on a t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide how good he looks first thing in the morning. His dark hair is completely rumpled, and his trimmed beard is slightly mussed. He smirks when he catches me staring at him.
“Surprise me,” I say, settling deeper into the pillows.
“I’ve got you covered.” He leans down to press a gentle kiss to my forehead, expertly avoiding the bruises on my face. “Rest, baby. I’ll be back.”
Twenty minutes later, Maverick returns with a tray that makes my mouth water. Toast cut into triangles, fluffy scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit arranged like he’s running a five-star hotel. A steaming cup of black coffee, my pain medication, and a glass of water round out my breakfast-in-bed.
“This looks amazing.” I struggle to sit up without jarring my ribs, using my elbows to scoot back and take my weight.
“Easy,” he murmurs, helping me get situated and adjusting the pillows behind me. “Take your time.”
He settles on the edge of the bed, watching as I take a tentative bite of toast.
“Good?”
“Perfect. I could get used to this,” I say, using the toast to gesture to the tray. “But where’s yours?”
“I ate while I made yours. I can multitask with the best of them,” he says, tapping my hand—a familiar command. “Eat. Or I can feed you.” The tone of his voice tells me he’d prefer the latter.
I shake my head and smile, then take a bite of eggs. “Yes, sir.”
His answering grin is worth every ache in my battered body.