A thief? Was that what Frank made him do? He’d mentioned something before, but he wasn’t so direct about it.
“Who’s a thief?” Tom asks light-heartedly.
It’s good to see him sitting up. He has colour in his cheeks, and his hair is freshly washed and styled. Sylvie must have brought him a few things. His clothes suit him better than the washed-out hospital gown he wore last time. He’s clearly been making an effort with himself while she’s been staying.
“Jules,” Ben answers jovially. “She’s stolen my heart.” I blush crimson despite knowing he’s only kidding around. Whether that’s because Tom heard it or because of Ben’s too-intense stare, I don’t know.
“Yours too? She’s clearly skilled at it.” There’s an edge of accusation to Tom’s words, but I can’t figure out if he’s pissed at me or Ben. I’m almost insulted when he backs the words up with a sneer. “What did you do to your hair? Did Dax make you change it?”
“I see you woke up in a bad mood again today,” I snap back then turn to Ben. “I’ll wait downstairs for you.” I swivel on my heel and head for the door, but Ben’s sharp tone stops me.
“No, wait! I need to keep you within eyesight. Dax’s orders.”
I suck in a hard breath to keep my words in my throat instead of letting them fly. I’ve done enough in anger today, and taking Dax’s over-protectiveness out on Ben wouldn’t be fair, not after what I’ve already done to him today. I breathe out and turn back around, sitting myself in a nearby plastic chair and offering Ben a nod.
“Oh yeah? And what if she wants to take a piss? Will you need to watch her do that too?” Tom huffs. For a split-second, I think he might be defending me. I shoot a wide-eyed glance in his direction, only to find him glaring with clear malice at Ben. He just wants a fight. Why? Why has he been a punk to everyone who professes to care about him?
“Shut up, you stupid prick. Do you hear yourself? Who are you even mad at? Me, Jules, or Dax?” Ben asks, clearly coming to the same conclusion as I do.
“All of you!” Tom shouts.
“Why?”
“None of you have shown up in the last couple of days. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m ready to come home, and you two just walk in like you’ve known each other forever and barely look up to say hello. Fucking rude.”
Is he jealous? I stay out of the argument. I won’t risk engaging when this really doesn’t feel like ameproblem.
Ben seems up for the challenge, though. He mirrors Tom’s aggression and throws it right back. “Get over yourself. What about Sylvie?”
“What about her?”
“She’s been keeping you company, and you barely even acknowledge her existence.”
“She hasn’t come to see me since you were all here together…” A silence swells between them as they both take in the implications of what Tom’s saying. Tom’s passion evaporates quickly. He frowns; his expression eerily similar to the one forming on Ben’s face. “You thought she was here with me?”
“Yes,” Ben replies quietly. I can almost see him thinking over his options. A frown appears so deep his brows almost entirely obscure his eyes.
I ask what we’re all thinking. “If she’s not been here, where is she?”
“Wait here,” Ben commands and rushes from the room. We watch as he speaks in hushed whispers with the guards outside and then vanishes down the hallway.
“It looks like I’ll be here a while.”
“Relax for a minute. Ignore me. I’m in a shitty mood, and it’s no one’s fault but my own,” Tom offers, pulling out his phone and rattling his fingers against the screen at speeds I’ve not seen before. I wonder if he’s naturally fast or if he spends the day glued to the phone. Practice makes perfect after all.
When he’s done typing, he taps the phone against his chin and stares up at the ceiling in thought. The silence feels awkward. I don’t know him well enough to be comfortable just sitting around in his hospital room. The more out of place I feel, the more I need to move or speak. And moving isn’t a possibility, so— “How’s the convalescence coming along? Still got that gaping hole in your gut?” I cringe at the sharpness of my words but am relieved when Tom’s mouth curls up into a smirk.
“More like a puckered arsehole now,” he admits. “It’s all stitched and stapled, and ugly as sin. The one on my shoulder is a bit more impressive.” He tugs at the shirt he’s wearing and drops the shoulder so I can see the bandage. Before I can even warn him not to, he lifts the edge and gives me a view of the wound. There are staples and stitches holding the torn flesh together. It’s small but bigger than I expected too and jagged like bursts of lightning flaring out from a single point.
“They had to cut it open a bit to get in there and clean up themess. So, it’s probably bigger now than it was,” he explains as I stare mutely. “At least it’ll scar in an interesting shape. Bullet scars are boring.”
I nod along. “Nice. Something to talk about at fancy soirees,” I tease.
“Absolutely! Socialites love a gruesome tale,” he teases back. It’s both awkward and refreshing. I’m compelled to keep the easy banter going between us, though I’m not sure why.
“Harrison Socialites do at any rate,” I continue. “Half of them are corrupt as fuck.”
Laughter bursts from Tom as he nods. “At least you know your audience.”
