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“I love you,” Peyton whispered, tears in her voice. Everything was dark, but her voice called to me, pulling me back. “Just don’t move. Please stop moving.”
I wanted to tell her I loved her. That she meant everything to me. That those years without her were like a limb was missing.
My mouth wouldn’t work, my eyes stayed shut.
I tried to open them, to tell her I was there and I wasn’t going anywhere. Wasn’t going to leave her.
I slipped back into nothing before I could.
* * *
My eyelids felt like they were being held down by heavy weights. My throat was drier than a damn dessert. A jackhammer went to town on my skull.
My eyelids finally moved, and the only thing I could make out through my blurry vision were blinding fluorescent lights. I blinked as everything came into focus.
Beige walls, tiny TV mounted on the wall. The IV in my arm and the pain I felt every time I moved told me I was probably in the hospital.
Memories trickled in. Peyton, her team, the barn. Being shot. Twice.
Peyton.Where the fuck is Peyton?Is she okay?She’d better be.
“’Bout time you woke up, son.” Dad said from the chair next to me. “Don’t think about ripping those things out of your arms.”
Peyton.I mouthed the word since my throat was too dry to talk. Dad reached over and hit a button, shaking his head. Pushing up on the bed with my elbows, pain skittered through my body, making my stomach roll with nausea.
“What’d I say? Don’t fucking move.” I sucked in air, trying to work through the pain.
A man in a white lab coat walked in and came to my bedside. “Nice of you to join us, Mr. McMillan.” There was something missing from his voice, but my brain wasn’t working well enough to figure out what was wrong with it.
He gave me a cup of water with a straw, placing it on my uninjured side. I chugged the water in one gulp, relishing how it soothed my throat.
“Let’s check your vitals.” He stared down at his tablet, reading whatever it was that doctors and nurses checked out.
“Peyton,” I said, coughing to clear my throat.
“Ms. Linwood stepped out for a moment.” I fucking hated how bored his tone was, like he had more important places to be than doing his job.
“She’s okay?” That was the only thing that mattered. Peyton had to be okay or none of this was worth it.
“Cuts and bruises. Nothing to worry about. She’s had worse.” If I could move without wanting to vomit, I’d slam the guy’s head into a wall for his don’t-give-a-fuck tone when he spoke of Peyton.
He eyed the way I fidgeted on the bed. “You’ve been here for four days. A bad reaction to the anesthesia caused you to hallucinate. Uncommon but it happens.” I nodded, trying to remember something—anything—but it’s all blank.
“Two gunshot wounds,” he continued, eyes on the chart in his hands. “One to the shoulder, one to the gut. The gut was and will continue to be the one I’m most concerned about. It took some luck, but I approve of the work I did. You’re out of the woods for any major complications.” Were all doctors full of themselves like this guy?
Peyton walked into the room, and nothing else mattered. Her hair was up, her ponytail falling to the side. Stitches at her hairline, a map of bruises across her face and neck. Scratch marks. But she was alive and standing in front of me.
Whichever guy did that to her better be dead. If not, I was going to track him down. Kill him slowly, painfully.
“Hey.” She was cautious as she walked up to stand next to my bed.
I turned to the doctor. “You done?” Rather than answer me, he spun on his heels and left. “Dad, get out.”
He chuckled as he stood. “I’ll let your mom know you’re up.”
I gave it two seconds after the door closed. “Either you get in bed or I come and get you. You got two seconds to decide.”
She smiled, big and beautiful. My heart pounded in my chest. Fuck, I loved her.
