Page 23 of Life Or Death

I clear my throat. “Tori had to leave to see to her daughter.”

That much is true, plus the girl was running on fumes. Dread had followed me from the clubhouse to the hospital, something I didn’t realize until they sedated Jess. I left the room to get Tori something from the vending machine and found him lurking in the hallway. He accompanied me to the vending machine, but neither of us spoke. When I left him to go back to Jess’s room, he broke the silence, telling me he was sticking around in case I needed anything.

I cashed in when it came time for Tori to leave. Being as exhausted as she was, I didn’t feel comfortable having her get behind the wheel, but I also knew she wouldn’t be receptive to having Dread drive her. So I compromised and asked him to follow her.

“That’s not what I mean,” Jess says.

“How lucid are you?” The question comes out rougher than I intend.

She blinks at me, confusion flickering across her face. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“They keep shoving morphine into that drip,” I say, tipping my chin toward the IV hanging above her. “… and every time they do, you pass out. So I’m guessing you’re pretty fucking stoned right now.”

She closes her eyes, and for a second I think the drugs have won again. But then her lashes flutter, and she’s looking at me through half-lidded eyes.

Eyes that are so fucking pretty even when they’re glassy and red-rimmed.

“I guess you’re right,” she rasps. “But if none of this is a dream, then I’m lucid enough to know there is no good reason for you to be sitting at my bedside during my darkest hour.”

The words sit on my tongue like acid, but I force them out anyway. “You’re in this bed because of me.”

For a second, something shifts in her expression. Her eyes widen, the haze of morphine thinning as fear flickers behind them. Her body tenses, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.

“Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the bar,” she whispers. “Did you do that?”

“No.” The word comes out low and rough. “But I might as well have.”

I drag a hand down my face, feeling the stubble scrape against my palm. My jaw clenches as I try to find the right words, but there aren’t any. There’s no way to soften the blow.

“I’m going to tell you some things right now,” I say, leaning forward in the chair, my elbows on my knees. “And I really hope you don’t forget what I’m telling you, because your care depends on your cooperation.”

She blinks at me, and I can see the confusion battling with the drugs in her system.

“After they brought you in, no one would give me any information. Not a word. They kept telling me family only.” I pause, holding her gaze. “So I lied. I told them I was your husband.”

Her expression doesn’t change. No anger, no shock, nothing. Just that same glassy, morphine-dulled stare.

“I couldn’t get in touch with Tori, and decisions needed to be made. Someone had to sign off on your care, authorize the surgeries, handle the bills.”

I watch her, waiting for some reaction, but her face remains blank. Either the drugs are dulling her response, or the information hasn’t fully registered yet.

After a beat, she finally speaks. “So, that’s why they keep calling me Mrs. Holland. They think we’re married.”

I lean back in the chair, contemplating whether I should just leave it there. Let her rest and process what I’ve already dumped on her. Then, when she’s stronger, tell her the whole truth. But what good is delaying the inevitable when they’re going to have to move her to a different hospital in a couple of days.

“They’re calling you Mrs. Holland, because that’s exactly who you are.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “What?”

“I was paying cash for your medical bills,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “But I didn’t realize how quickly they would add up, and I’m fucking broke. I needed to come up with a different solution, and there was only one.”

Her eyes widen, and I watch the morphine fog clear just enough for understanding to dawn. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She just stares at me, those hazel eyes—still red-rimmed and glassy—filling with something I can’t quite name.

“You . . .” Her voice cracks. “You married me? While I was in a coma?”

“I had to,” I growl. “The bills were piling up and I couldn’t keep writing blank checks. You needed insurance. This was the only way to make sure you got the care you needed.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”