Page 126 of The Chance

“It should have been me.”

I’m shaking, aching, but getting closer.

“Fuck, it should be me in that bed,” I croak to his lax face. “Not you, mi Vida.”

His hand is right there so I grab it. Hold it. Interlock our fingers together.

He’s colder than normal and it makes my lip wobble, but I refuse to let go.

“It’s just you and me, okay?” I lift our joined hands and press my lips to the tattoos on his knuckles. “And I’m so goddamned sorry.” Touching my cheek to the back of his hand, I let the wounded sound trapped in my chest out. “Just … come back to me, all right? I’m not done with you.”

Chapter Seventy-Five

Jordan

“Jay, you need togo shower. I can smell you from here.”

I shake my head at Lemon and switch the cross of my ankles. They’re propped up on the side of Mac’s bed and ache like a mother fucker, but I refuse to move them.

“I showered this morning.”

Three minutes in the tiny stall while the nurses checked Mac over hardly counts but it was good enough to clear some of the fog from my mind and the grime from my skin.

“Ugh, fine. How about some damn sunlight?”

I point at the window next to me, the blinds open and letting a few beams in.

“The gym is on fire?”

“Insurance,” I mumble on a shrug and rub my thumb across the back of Mac’s hand. He’s a little warmer today, each day that’s passed like one small as shit step closer to him waking up.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

It’s been eight days since the accident and each one of those days I’ve spent just like this. By his side, talking to him, holdinghis hand, and hoping with everything in me that I get to have more time with him.

The doctors won’t tell me much since I’m not related to him and I’m not a spouse, but that hasn’t stopped Rex, and their mother, from telling me every bit of information they’ve gotten.

Like the swelling has gone down, enough for it to no longer concern them, but that he’s just … sleeping the trauma off.

That he’ll wake up when he’s ready.

That’s the part that has me on edge.

Mac never sleeps.

So while the diagnosis tracks, the behavior doesn’t.

It’s kept my stomach in knots and my ass planted in the shitty hospital chair next to him every second I can possibly manage since.

“You hungry, you damn buffoon?”

My stomach clenches and rolls at the question from across the bed and I give a short nod.

I’m really not, but I know I need to eat something.

I feel Lemon’s eyeroll more than I see it because I’m too busy watching Mac’s chest rise and fall steadily.

“I’ll be back,” Lemon sighs and I nod, still not looking away from the tattoos peeking out of Mac’s hospital gown. They’re colorful splashes against all the drab and washed-out shit surrounding them, just like my drummer is with life, and it makes my eyes burn.

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