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Chapter 40
Have you ever had that feeling of déja vu? When you open your eyes and feel like you've been in the exact same situation before? Maybe even before that?
At first, it was the smell that did it: the combination of ammonia, cheap ice cream, and sick people. Then it was the harsh fluorescent lighting, the dingy tiled floors. And the echoing beeps that filtered through the halls from room to room, the hushed tones of doctors as they spoke to patients and their families.
It was the third time I had been to the hospital because of Victor Messina. Three people he had put into the ICU. Three people who had had their lives threatened because of him. First my father, then me. And now, once again, I was the one in the bedside chair, slumped over the small twin mattress, dozing on the scratchy sheets that clothed the body of the person I loved more than anyone.
Just a few months ago, Brandon had been the one forcing his body to sleep in these ridiculously uncomfortable chairs. Who had waited to see if I would ever wake up. Who had wrestled with the uncertainty, the fear, the guilt of the entire situation. And now this time I was the one waiting for him to come back to me.
Blearily, I pushed myself up from the chair and ran a hand through my bedraggled hair. It was still dark outside, and the hospital wing was closed to visitors. I was only allowed in because of the ring on my finger, the one that now marked me as family, or at least, family to be. I wasn't allowed to make any decisions for him while he was unconscious––Ray and Susan had rushed to the hospital to do just that. The fact that I was left out of it all killed me.
"Red."
The deep voice, slightly raspy, but familiar and kind, pulled me the rest of the way out of my sleep. Relief flooded my whole being as the events of the night came back to me all over again. Victor Messina. Brandon being stabbed in the side. The scramble that ended with me shooting Messina through the chest. The arrival of cop cars, an ambulance.
I had been held at the station for what had seemed like hours, released only when Kieran had stormed in and demanded that the cops either file charges or release me. As if I hadn't said that myself. As if I wasn't already a lawyer who was making the same damn arguments on my own behalf.
Bubbe, who had called Kieran, really had a big mouth, and thank God for it, since even if I did possess the knowledge to practice law on my own behalf, I did not have the presence of mind to do so. Around one a.m., I was released, once they'd finally taken my statement and witnesses who had been watching from the windows around the neighborhood had come forward to give theirs. I couldn't help being a little angry at them. Where were they when Brandon was getting stabbed?
But there would be no charges filed against me, they said. Messina was a dangerous, escaped convict. Self-defense.
I couldn't have cared less. I just wanted to know Brandon was going to be okay.
His normally ruddy skin was haggard and pale, and his voice croaked a little from having a tube shoved down it during the surgery. Pushpa had rushed into the waiting room upon my arrival to tell me that he'd needed two transfusions, but the procedure to repair his spleen had been relatively minor and had gone well. By some miracle, the knife had slipped through his ribs and missed his stomach completely. He was hurt, and would be in some pain for a while, but would be just fine.
In the early morning hours, with the winter moonlight still peeking through the window, I had never seen anyone so beautiful. His eyes were bright blue, even in the dim light. And his smile still lit up the room like the sun. Brandon was awake. He was okay. We were going to be fine.
"Come here," he said.
Wordlessly, I scooted my chair closer.
"No," he said, shifting in the bed to make room for me, wincing slightly at the movement. "Come here."
I stood up, but looked doubtfully at the narrow hospital bed, and then toward the nurses' station in the hall. "I don't know...I doubt they'd want me to..."
"Skylar, I swear to God. If I don't hold you right now, I'm going to bust a damn stitch, so get your ass in the bed."
I couldn't help but smile. If he was ordering me around, he was definitely feeling better. I slipped off my shoes and climbed carefully next to him, allowed him to pull me into his hospital-gown-covered chest, cradling me in the nook of his good side. Brandon released a contented sigh, which I echoed.
Then, the scent of him, that familiar mix of almonds and soap that couldn't quite be masked by the astringent hospital, started to sink in. The events of the past twenty-four hours––hell, the past year––came rushing back. And my body couldn't take it anymore. First my toes, then my knees, then my legs, chest, shoulders, arms––everything started to shake.
"Skylar?" Brandon murmured as his arms circled around me, holding me close. "Are you okay?"
His kindness only made me start to shake that much harder. Tears began to well up as I buried my head further into his shoulder.
"Skylar?" Brandon asked again, this time with more concern. "Baby, please."
"Mmmphmamommooo!"
A low chuckle vibrated under my ear, but I only cried harder. It was like a faucet had broken, and there was no way to stop the burst of water.
"Babe," Brandon said gently, although with a lilt of humor. "I can't understand you when you talk like a mouse."
Somehow, I managed to sit up and look at him. "I–almost–lost you!" I managed to choke out in between sobs.
With a half-smile that only made me cry harder, Brandon stroked my cheek. As if by some kind of magic, his warm touch calmed the sobs wracking through my body as his fingers grazed my skin.
"Shh," he crooned, although the smile didn't leave his lips. He was enjoying the fact that I cared so much, the bastard. "I'm here, Red. I'm going to be fine."
