Page 92 of Wrecked for Love
She returned moments later with a knitted cardigan, worn but serviceable. It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, but at least it was something. “Let me help you with it,” she said, carefully detaching the IV line long enough for me to slip my arm through the sleeve.
“All set,” I muttered in thanks, pretending to settle back down as she left.
Once her footsteps faded down the hall, I yanked the IV from my arm. As I forced myself upright, every muscle roared in protest, like I was trying to lift a mountain. My good leg swung over the bed’s edge with the force of a wrecking ball while the other—trapped in a cast from my ankle to my toes—dragged stiff and heavy like a downed tree.
The floor’s icy sting shot through my bare foot, triggering pain that flared like a fire in every nerve ending. I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth. But I stood. Despite the tilt of the room and the spin of my head, I stood.
But standing upright was only half the battle. Hobbling on one leg and clutching anything within reach to keep me from collapsing, I spotted a chair nearby and leaned on it for balance. That’s when I noticed a large plastic bag under the bed. Clothes, maybe? Clenching my jaw against what felt like a thousand needles stabbing at once, I bent down.
“Fuuuck!” My mouth let out a long, muted curse as agony ripped through me, but I managed to yank the bag closer.
Inside—thank God—were my things. The same jeans from the fight, belt still threaded through the loops, bloodstains darkening into brown. My boots, socks, and Claire’s jacket were there too. I remembered. My Chili Pepper had given me her jacket. I held it for a moment, breathing in her scent, feeling her with me. It’d have to do for my top, the only warmth I had. But first…the pants.
How the hell am I going to pull this off?
Bad leg first.
Sweat slicked my skin as I fought the denim over the cast. The rough fabric dragged against the edges, every inch a battle. I gritted my teeth, shifting awkwardly and trying not to jostle my leg too much.
By the time I muscled the jeans past my knee, my breath was ragged. One leg down. The good one went on easier, comparatively.
At least I wasn’t sitting here half-naked anymore.
Then came the boots. No way was I squeezing one over the cast. So, with one foot laced up and the other bare, I braced myself and pushed up. My body protested every inch of the way, and a groan slipped out.
Yeah, I might be half-dead, but that still means I’m half-alive. Even if it were just a tenth, I’d crawl if I had to. The burn in my ribs, the pressure on my abs…they all disappeared the moment I thought of Claire. I needed to get to her.
I tested my legs, which was a bad idea. Hobbling on one wouldn’t get me far, not without something to hold on to. I scanned the room. No crutches, of course. The hospital wasn’t exactly setting me up for a quick getaway. My eyes landed on the bedside rails. Desperate times.
I jiggled one free, the metal creaking. Apologizing silently to whichever poor maintenance worker would deal with this, I yanked the biggest piece away from the frame. It wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy enough. Gripping it, I managed to limp forward. Claire’s small jacket barely covered my shoulders, so I tied the sleeves across my chest. It’d have to do.
“No, no, they didn’t kiss!” a nurse exclaimed to her colleagues, their conversation somewhere between fiction and gossip. But the conversation fizzled out when a call from another patient’s room interrupted them.
With the nurses distracted, I slipped out—clumsy, unsteady, and praying no one noticed this rodeo clown tottering along. My head throbbed, every pulse scrambling my thoughts. My body felt like a war zone—broken ribs, a face so swollen that it barely seemed like mine, and bruised hands that couldn’t even form a fist. Each step was a painful reminder of how close I was to falling apart.
But adrenaline was a hell of a drug, and right now, it was pumping through my veins like a damn river in the flood season. And maybe the morphine the doctors had injected into me helped dull the sharpest edges. I had to make it last. Claire. If I didn’t get to her by nightfall, I might lose her forever.
I couldn’t let that happen.
“South border,” I rasped as I hauled myself into the backseat of a taxi. The driver gave me a once-over, probably wondering if I was about to pass out in his cab. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t. “Lazy Moose.”
Just as the taxi pulled up at the gate, I saw Hank’s truck easing out of the driveway. He spotted me, slammed the brakes, and rushed over, his boots kicking up gravel as he ran. Without missing a beat, Hank handed the driver some cash, sparing me the embarrassment of admitting I couldn’t pay.
“El! Jesus Christ!” His sharp eyes scanned me up and down, but before I could catch his expression, he turned his face away, almost like he couldn’t bear to look too long.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I warned, leaning heavily on Hank as he helped me into the truck. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my body, and I collapsed into the seat, my teeth gritting against the ache. “Any news on Claire?”
“Sorry, man, we still have nothing. But Log and the boys are still on it. We’ll find her!” Hank slid behind the wheel and gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His eyes kept darting between me and the driveway. “Did Fritzy do this to you?”
I slumped against the seat, my jaw tight with frustration. “Might as well have,” I muttered, bitterness sinking deep into my bones.
But there wasn’t time to wallow in it. There wasn’t time for anything.
Once inside, Hank eased me onto the couch before heading to my room, probably to grab some clothes.
I took stock of what I had. My Glock, which was not nearly enough for what was coming. I couldn’t take on The Revenants head-to-head, not like this. They weren’t the Vosses. I didn’t know them well enough, and my body wouldn’t hold up in a fight. I’d have to outsmart them. That was my only shot.
“Here!” Hank handed me a thermal and a flannel shirt, then helped me into them.
