Page 58 of Entangled

Idid it. I am Beaumont, God of doctors. Even if my patient is a blasted piece of pipe. Poor bastard had a decent chunk blown out of him during the battle for Bristlebrook, and it’s taken me nearly two damn weeks to figure out how to mend the wound.

Finally, I found a dusty tub of sealant in the basement and was able to use that and metal scraps to plug the hole in a rough, field medicine kind of way. Jayk is going to have to fix it properly when he gets back because there ain’t the slightest possibility that it’s going to hold.

I hope Jayk can fix it. Jayk fixes everything.

Damn it, I was really hoping they’d be back by now.

Every day, every hour they don’t return is like a grater peeling flesh from my spine, and I know Lucky feels it too.

Five days ago, by unspoken agreement, we stopped talking about them. Didn’t seem like there was much point. We’re already thinking about them, fretting over them, and it’s not bringing them through these doors any faster.

We both know too well that they might never walk through them again.

And that truth has made Lucky about as charming as a rattler with a sore fang.

And I get it, I really do. But between that and the way he keeps trying to get out of bedrest to “help” me around Bristlebrook, I’m starting to hate him. Just a little bit.

We need a break. Something to lighten the tension.

So, I fixed the water, had the best shower of my life... and now I have a present.

I let myself into his room to find him, thankfully, in bed. As soon as I open the door, though, there’s an abrupt scuffle of motion as he shoves something underneath the covers. Lucky is flushed, glittery eyed, and breathing far too hard.

Concern stabs me, followed by stinging guilt. Lucky might be a surly, miserable toddler when he’s hurt, but heishurt. And my responsibility.

“Are you spiking a fever?” Abandoning my package beside the door, I stride over to his bedside and pull the thermometer out of the side table. How much penicillin do I have left? Is it enough to deal with an infection? It loses so much potency over time, it’s so hard to gauge.

“What? No!” Lucky smacks my hand away as I try to take his temperature.

I sigh. “Lucky, you ought to know better. You want to mess with fever about as much as a rabid badger.”

I lean in again, and he twists away, making the covers fall back. The shine of white silk makes me pause. I snag it from between his sheets, and Lucky lets out a strangled yelp.

He snatches at it, but he still can’t raise his right arm above his head.

“Is that one of Jasper’s shirts?” I ask, dangling the fabric by my fingertips. It must be. He’s the only guy I know who decided business-formal was the most appropriate attire for the apocalypse. “What are you doing with?—?”

It all clicks, and this timeIyelp, tossing the shirt back in his face. “God damn it, Lucky!”

Lucky snorts with laughter, then cackles as he pulls the shirt down. The sound of it is like sunshine breaking between clouds, and it’s almost enough to make me forgive him the last few days. Almost.

Wrinkling my nose, I swipe the hand sanitizer and squirt a generous dollop into my palms. “Really?”

“Well, what was I meant to do?” Another fit of laughter overtakes him, and he winces as his chest shakes. He wipes at the amused tears under his eyes. “You’ve been hovering over me like a nesting hen. I thought I had a minute. Sue me!”

I eye the shirt, rubbing my now-holy-again hands together. “You’re a damn klepto, you know that? A perverted one.” I shudder, and now that I know he’s okay—in the loosest sense of the word—I fetch the package from the door.

“My psychologist is on leave. Take it up with him.” He slumps back on the pillows, all innocent eyes and overgrown beard. “Besides, he’s said before I could borrow his clothes.”

“Towear!” I shake my head, lips twitching. “You know you’re messed up, right?”

“And now you’re kink shaming me. Very uncool, Beau.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, if you’re done making Jesus cry, I have a present for you. Two, actually.”

“A present? For me?” Lucky pulls himself painfully into a sitting position, eyes sparkling. Then he lifts a suspicious brow. “Is it a real one? Or is this like an I’m-giving-you-yeast-flavored-medicine-to-make-you-feel-better kind of present?”

Maybe I should take it back. Lucky doesn’t deserve presents.

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