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“A sweatshirt would be more comfortable than leather,” Jamie pointed out.
I dropped the jacket on the foot of the bed and gave him the finger. Grasping the hem of the long-sleeved thermal knit tee, I swiped it over my head in one move. Gently, I took the coffee from Wes, setting it aside, and then guided the shirt over his head, carefully avoiding the bandage.
“Do you have stitches?” I asked, gesturing for him to put his arm in.
“Yeah,” he replied, using all his energy, it seemed, to dress.
“How many?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
When I got to the arm with the IV, I frowned.
“This is fine,” he said, smoothing the fabric over the part of his chest that was covered.
But it wasn’t, and rage rose in me like a tidal wave. I hated this. I hated hospitals. I hated seeing him with a needle and tube sticking out of the back of his hand. Fucking bloody bandage.
Grasping the hem, I tugged the shirt down over him, basically pinning the arm with the IV against his side. Then I snatched the jacket and gestured for him to sit up.
“This is fine, really,” Wes tried to protest.
“Wesley.”
He sighed and leaned forward. I draped the leather around his back, pulling the ends close around his chest.
When I was done, I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at Jamie.
Asshole smirked.
Rory and Ryan let themselves back in, both carrying a blanket. “Here we go,” she said, unfolding hers to spread over Wes’s lap. “Oh, what happened to your foot?”
I glanced down, frowning because I’d yet to notice that his one leg from the knee down was out of the blankets and elevated with a cold pack draped over the ankle. I recalled the nurse telling me he had a sprain, but the moment I laid eyes on him, I must have forgotten. Hell, I’d barely looked anywhere but at his face.
“Ah, I’m not sure,” Wes said, frowning at his bandaged ankle and foot.
“It’s sprained,” I explained, reaching down to help Rory spread the blanket over him while she tucked it around his injured leg.
“Nice tank top, bro,” Ryan cracked, giving the white wife-beater style I had on a once-over.
“Shows off all his tats.” Jamie just had to say something.
I didn’t bother to tell them the tank added an extra layer for driving around on a Harley. And the tattoos? Hell yeah, they were on display, which was why it was also my basic uniform at the tattoo shop.
“How did you guys know I was here?” Wes asked.
“Kruger and Prism saw the crash site, recognized your car,” Ryan answered.
My heart dropped just thinking of the memory, the fucking body-numbing fear I felt when I saw his BMW flipped against the tree.
“You saw too?” Wes asked, voice low.
I didn’t have to look to know he was talking to me, and I nodded.
Wes went quiet, and the silence scared me, so much so that even though I’d been avoiding looking at him moments ago, I spun to stare now.
He looked swallowed up in my shirt and jacket, his pale skin a direct contrast to all the black. “Did you call Win?” he asked, brown eyes sorrowful.
The sudden urge to scoop him up and sit with him in my lap hit me again, this time so intense it rocked me back on my heels, and I had to clear my throat. Even still, my voice was hoarse when I answered, “Not yet. Wanted to talk to the doctor first.”
