Page 59 of Bears Not Included

“You—” I start, stop, take a deep breath, and march away.

The rest of the day happens in a blur.

I make sure to keep Jimmy and Babs away from him, telling them that Deacon is bad-tempered and best left alone. When they ask if he’s really my other husband since they heard me tell Randy, I realize my damage control was for nothing.

I reluctantly give him a menu, still very mad, and Deacon orders dessert, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

But worst of all, the customers are on edge with his presence. He just has that way. I have to do something about it. I set his brownie and ice cream and his chocolate Sunday down in front of him.

“Can you please eat this in your car? You’re scaring the customers.”

He doesn’t obey my command, obviously. The last three days, they managed to bother, distract, and scare the customers at Jimmy’s BLT. How am I going to continue working here?

At the end of my shift, I do the usual, clean the kitchen, help Babs with the tables, and mop the floors. Deacon is clearly clued up about me giving food to my homeless friends, but when I arrive at their spot in the alley, they’re not there.

I’m almost certain they’re petrified now of whoever I bring with me. My heart breaks for them. But I’m glad to still be feeding people who are hungry when a new group of them stands hesitantly and as far away from me as possible.

I turn around to find Deacon standing right there behind me, hands in his pockets, his stance relaxed, but he deceives no one by saying that he can unleash the beast inside him in seconds.

I sigh—still mad at him for what he did to Randy—and purposefully walk toward the group of teens and hand them their food.

As he drives me back to my prison, my fury towards him transforms into something else entirely. Now I’m the one petrified and jumpy with the envelope Kayla left me at the diner sitting in my tote bag. I feel like a criminal, as if I stole something of theirs. And yet, it’s my freedom I’m talking about.

I don’t know why I didn’t just leave already.

We’ve driven for maybe ten minutes when Deacon’s phone rings. He answers, and soon the voice of a man who identifies himself as a doctor tells him he needs to come to the hospital, it looks grave.

I lift my gaze to Deacon, and except for a single clench of his jaw, his side profile remains the same. He swerves into the next lane and takes another right. Not for a minute do I feel scared for my life, dying in a car crash, despite how aggressive Deacon is driving.

Eventually, he pulls into the parking space of an elite private hospital. I’m not sure what to do, so I sit quietly as Deacon gets out of the car.

When he comes around, opens the passenger door, and curls his huge hand around my arm to pull me out, I look at him in confusion. But one glance at him, and I silently obey.

I don’t know what it is. He looks no different from when I first saw him—when he took my virginity, when he spanked me with his belt, when he sat in the diner eating dessert—but there’s something different about him that’s not visible to the naked eye, yet I feel it in the deepest part of my soul.

He pulls me along, and I struggle to keep up with his wide stride. We pass security guards, orderlies, family, and friends milling around. A nearby cafeteria bustles with anxious individuals sipping coffee. A few doctors pass us by and respectfully nod to Deacon as if he owns the place.

A beautiful receptionist greets him, and he barely registers her. We get into an elevator, and he presses the button that would take us to the twenty-first floor. I still don’t know who he’s come to see or what’s happened to that person.

My eyes widen before a frown sets on my face at the sight before me. One patient, in a single bed in the center of the room, occupies the entire floor. A team of doctors hover around, and nurses too. State-of-the-art medical equipment lines the floors and walls, but as we near the bed, I know immediately that the patient, whoever they may be, is on life support.

When we get closer, I see a glimpse of a young woman. She looks no older than me. Her thinning brown hair fans the pristinely white pillow tucked under her head.

She’s being kept alive by a stream of tubes and wires that forms a cruel web over her frail body. The humming and whirring of machines around her are deafening to my ears, and yet I know it’s the beat of my heart that conducts the relentless pounding around me.

She’s barely there. The white sheet covering her body signifies how sparse her frame is. The sheet only outlines the bones of her frame.

Deacon drops his hand from my arm and steps forward. I stay where I am. A doctor comes toward him. I hear the terms organs, shutting down, and no brain activity. Nothing more can be done.

Deacon looks as if he wants to murder the doctor.

Oh god.

Whoever that girl is, she’s not going to recover. There’s no hope left for her. And Deacon has to pull the plug. I remember what I said in the car about no one being killed today. I feel wretched, and I want to apologize, but this isn’t about me saying I’m sorry, so I feel better about myself.

I act on instinct and go to stand beside him. I’m absolutely tiny next to Deacon, even in my boots. He could crush me so easily. So could Callen and Mason, for that matter. He looks down at me standing next to him, as if he didn’t expect I would do something like that, and then he turns his attention back to the doctor.

“No,” he says succinctly, then moves to the bed. I follow him.

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