Page 133 of Burned & Bound

It took me almost an hour along with half a small bottle of vodka to get my ass inside the hospital. By the time I did, the waiting room was full of cowboys and bunnies along with other random people—probably peoplewho knew Jackson. The devastated mood seeped through my numbed skin as I dropped into an open chair next to Darla.

“Liquid courage?” she asked. From the tone of her voice, she already knew. She scoffed, “Good God.”

“Don’t pretend like you know a goddamn thing about me, princess,” I snapped. The sheer number of people in such a small space did nothing to help my mood.Why the fuck was the waiting area so goddamn small?

“No, I don’t,” Darla retorted. “But I do know that Jackson deserves better than you. He deserves someone who’s goin’ to show up, not drink himself into a fuckin’ hole.”

“That makes two of us,” I muttered under my breath. She made another sound that grated on my nerves, but I said nothing else.

“In case you fuckin’ cared, there’s no update,” she said. “His mama is on her way out, but it’ll take a few hours. His agent says she has power of attorney.”

Power of attorney.

Fucking hell. That didn’t sound good in any way. My eyes burned, and I quickly shut them, refusing to cry in a room full of fucking strangers. I didn’t want Mrs. Myles to show up. I didn’t want to talk about power of attorney or healthcare options.

I wanted Jackson to walk out with that cocky fucking grin of his and tell me it’d all be okay.

I needed Jackson to be okay.

CHAPTER 95

west

When Mrs. Myles hadshown up with Mickey, she all but dragged my ass out of that waiting room. She saved me from drowning in the overstimulation of everything and everyone. I was hanging on by a thread and grateful when his agent pushed for us to have a private waiting area.

And when Jackson was finally out of the OR and put in the ICU, Mrs. Myles made sure I was the first one in there to see him.Because I mattered more to Jackson than anyone else there.I almost broke down right fucking there when she said it—the emotions and everything getting to me.

I thought waiting to find out if he was okay was the worst it’d get, but I was fucking wrong.Seeing Jackson was.

He had fractured ribs and broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken skull, a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, several broken fingers, his left hip had been shattered, his left femur had broken in four places, his left knee cap had been shattered, and his left shin was broken in two places. He was bandages and wires, bruises and cuts everywhere.

The doctors had done everything they could to stabilize him and wait until he woke up—if he woke up—to move forward with an orthopedic specialist. His agent had already tracked down the best one in the country to take care of him. And above all, there was a good chance he’d never walk again.

Days passed in a blurry haze of alcohol and stress. Or maybe stress and alcohol. I couldn’t tell. I was a fucking mess. We were stuck in an infinite cycle of waiting for Jackson to wake up. Whenever Mrs. Myles spent time in his room, I disappeared to drink. It was the only way I could cope with being trapped in the hospital and with knowing there was a chance Jackson might never wake up.

Sometimes I dropped in and out of a fitful nap as I waited by Jackson’s bedside for something—anything—to happen. Every fucking beep of his machines chipped away at me, breaking down my sanity until I couldn’t think straight. A never-ending headache throbbed in my temple. Nothing touched the pain. I was fucking stuck with it.

I was drowning with no hope of finding shore.

On the fourth day, fingers brushed through my hair as I rested my forehead on the bed. My head snapped up as I blinked through the bleariness.

He was awake.

The instant flood of relief knocked the wind out of me. I took his hand in mine, brushing his knuckles across my lips as gently as possible.

“Marry me,” Jackson rasped. The world came to a screeching halt around us.

What the fuck did he just say?

“What…”

“Marry me,” he repeated, his voice a gruff mess.

He couldn’t mean that. I searched his face for some kind of doubt—some kind of indication that he wasn’t serious.

And as I stared at him, some version of a future together played in my head—one full of panic attacks, relapses, flashbacks, and all the demons I didn’t know how to fucking conquer. I could see the hopeful look in those blue eyes, but I couldn’t meet his expectations. I wasn’t the man he thought I was.

Fuck, I wanted to be, but Iwasn’t.

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