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I also know damn well Anna’s right. I have to apologize to Dakota and soon. I’m just not sure if it’ll matter.
If Dakota told everyone I didn’t matter to her when I needed her, I might not forgive and forget either.
“Hey, um, Mr. Burns?” Anna meets my eyes.
“Yes?”
“I know you’re my boss. I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but I really hope you—umm—fix whatever it is you’ve done. She’s very talented. The wedding launch won’t be easy without her around, and then there’s the whole engagement interview we promised a couple publications. If people find out it’s all a sham now—”
The entire company loses credibility and it damages the line.
Goddamn, how deep did I dig my grave?
I put my foot in my mouth one time and risk losing Dakota and an entire product line.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I reach for it with a frustrated scowl.
Please be Nevermore.
Then again, I haven’t pulled the words together for a proper groveling yet. I have no idea what to say. There’s no easy way to make this better.
Please don’t be Nevermore.
I glance at the screen.
WYATT flashes up at me.
Oh, shit. It’s the burner phone I bought him that he’s never used, and probably never would unless he’s in real trouble.
I flick the green icon.
“Wyatt? What’s happening?” I lash out, my heart having a fit in my chest.
“Is this Lincoln Burns?” a woman asks.
Oh, boy. Wyatt, what the hell do you have going on?
“Yes, speaking,” I say.
“My name is Jennifer Green. I’m a nurse with Seattle Memorial—”
“Nurse? Is Wyatt okay?”
“Your number is the only contact we found in his phone. He had no ID. The girl who made the nine-one-one call—”
“Nine-one-one? What the hell happened?” Sweat rolls down the back of my neck.
“I think you should come here immediately,” she says carefully.
“Okay, on my way. Where?”
“Intensive care.”
Shit. That poor dumbass has finally done himself in.
Dark scenarios flash through my brain, each more terrible than the last. Some screwball at knife point trying to jack his prosthetic again. A robbery over his coffee can cash. What if he went foraging and fell, or—
“Fuck!” I’m growling, running across the park, pulling up an Uber on the way.
Wyatt, how could you? How many times did I tell you to just crash in my guesthouse? Hell, you could have stayed in the main house. Why end up in ICU for your pride?
“Wait, sir, before you hang up, could you tell me his last name?” The nurse is still on the line. “I don’t have a way to trace his family without it.”
“His name is Wyatt Emory.” I rattle off his date of birth and hang up, dragging a hand over my face.
What else can fuck me over today?
I step in the elevator and punch the button for the ninth floor.
My stomach lurches, ready to barf up lunch.
I have no idea what to expect or how bad he is. I always knew this might happen, but it doesn’t soften the reality one bit.
Please be alive.
Please be mendable.
You can’t fucking die on me now.
The elevator opens and I head to the nurses’ station. “I’m here to talk to Jennifer Green about Wyatt Emory,” I tell the man behind the computer.
He swivels around in his chair. “Jennifer, you’ve finally got someone here who might know something about your new intake.”
“Are you Mr. Burns?” A slender brunette comes to the counter.
“Yes, how is he?”
Her mouth forms a tight line. “Are you family?”
“Brothers.” It’s not a lie.
Once a Marine, always a Marine, and for us, it’s a brotherhood bound in blood.
She nods. “He’s not in good shape, I’m afraid. He hasn’t been conscious since he was brought in for the infection.”
“What infection?” I ask.
“He has severe pneumonia. Looks like the type that creeps along for weeks and takes a sudden turn for the worse if it goes untreated,” she says.
“Who called him in?”
“You can talk to her. She’s still hanging around outside his room.”
“Can he not have visitors?”
“It’s ICU. Only family goes in. Since she was the only person here, I offered to give her a few minutes, pretending not to notice if she went into his room. But she doesn’t want to see him. It’s a little odd. She rode here in the ambulance with him.”
“Have you called his ex-wife? His son should know.”
She shakes her head.
“No. We only pulled up his information before you got here. A former wife came up but I couldn’t find a contact.”
“I’ll find her. What room is he in?”
“Nine twenty-two, the very last door at the end of the hall. You’re welcome to visit, but he’s not conscious. I just want you to know.” She points to her right.
I nod. “Thank you.”
When I reach his door, I find a familiar face in worn flannel and scuffed jeans, one cheek smudged with dirt. Probably from her nonstop gardening.
