Page 20 of Wish

I ripped over the pavement and didn’t look back.

* * *

I drovethe Harley up onto the sidewalk, parking it literally right beside the emergency room doors. My skin felt windburned from the high-speed drive over here and the frigid near-winter air.

“You can’t park there!” someone yelled as I ran inside, face stinging furiously.

There were two nurses in scrubs behind the check-in desk and three people waiting in line.

I went around them all and leaned over the counter. “Wesley Sinclair.”

The nurse paused and glanced up. “The line.”

I leaned closer over the counter, letting my windblown black hair fall into my face. “I don’t give a shit about that line. Wesley Sinclair was just brought in. Car accident. I want to see him.Now.”

The nurse sat back, chair squeaking with the movement. Her lips pursed, and I knew it was about to get ugly.

“Wesley Sinclair?” The nurse behind her repeated his name.

“You know where he is?” I asked, dismissing the other woman.

“Are you—”

“I’m his brother.” I cut her off, going around the desk and gesturing for her to lead the way.

She did, and I followed her down a hallway to a door on the left. The second her palm closed around the handle, mine shot out and grabbed her arm.

Startled, she looked around, eyes wide.

“How is he?” I asked, desperate to get inside but also needing to know what I would see.

She relaxed a little, realizing I wasn’t going to attack, and smiled. “He has a concussion and a sprained ankle.”

“What else?” I asked, preparing for more.

“Stitches. Minor scrapes and cuts. Some bruises. He’ll probably be pretty sore tomorrow.”

I made a sound, latching desperately to that one word.Tomorrow.He had a tomorrow.

I gestured for her to open the door. The second it unlatched, I barreled ahead, pushing into the room and frowning at the curtain drawn across the space and hiding him still.

Moving around me, the nurse grabbed the curtain, dragging it back.

“Wes.” If his name sounded more like a prayer, then I’d be a religious man because my knees went weak the second I finally laid eyes on him.

Silently, I hurried across the room, heart lurching at how fucking small and pale he was lying there in a sea of white blankets and that ugly white and blue gown. There was an IV in the back of his hand, angry scrapes on his cheek, and a gash near his eyebrow. A large bandage covered a good portion of his hairline, and his curls looked black because they were drenched in dried blood.

“Nemo,” I murmured, leaning into the railing pulled up on the side of the bed. My fingers shook when I reached for his hand lying on top of the blankets. The tape covering the IV was smeared with blood, and my stomach revolted.

“Who did that?” I demanded, pointing aggressively at the bloody bandage. “They did a shit job.”

Wes made a soft sound, and everything else no longer mattered as his head turned in my direction. His lashes fluttering heavily, I watched with bated breath as his brown orbs slowly revealed themselves to me.

“Max?” he whispered, voice scratchy and dry.

A sob stuck in my throat, and it took me a moment to finally be able to speak. “You are in so much trouble,” I told him, unable to sound stern even a little.

His lip quirked up on the side, but then he winced and lines of pain creased around his eyes and in the center of his forehead.

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