But he was talking. About her. “Define messed up.”
“He’s probably got a concussion. Definitely needs a few stitches. There’s a nasty gash on the top of his head.”
“I’m fine, bro. Fiiine.”
Messed up and drunk. God. “Let me talk to him.”
“Uh...” Sam stalled again. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now.”
Probably not, but... “Just give him the phone.”
“He’s not exactly thinking clea—dude! Hold the hell up!” In the background, the truck door opened, followed by a thud. She flinched. “Jesus, Jenn, you’ve gotta do something about this. He’s going to kill himself if this shit doesn’t stop. Last week, I had to pick him up off the bathroom floor. Earlier this week, he puked in my fucking bed at the hotel. Now this.”
Tears sprung up in her eyes. Eyes that shifted to the suitcase sitting on the floor by her closet. How quickly could she get to Oklahoma?
“Sam...give Brody the phone.”
He gave a disgruntled sigh and she heard him moving around. In the distance, sirens wailed. A semi horn honked. “Come on, man. Let’s get you up off the ground.”
“I’m good,” Brody slurred. “Totally good.”
“Fucking Christ.” Sam grunted. Then Brody grunted. A minute later, raspy, labored breath crackled the phone line.
“Superman?” Don’t cry. Do not cry.
“Baby? Is that you?” Every word sounded like an effort. Made him breathe a little harder in her ear.
“Yeah, handsome, it’s me. Heard you tried to be a hero again tonight.” She fisted the comforter and stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
“Not this time.” His wet cough had her pressing her lips together, fighting for control. “I’m a fucking idiot, babe. Thought I could do this alone. Thought I—” He broke off with a garbled, broken moan. The same moan she’d heard seconds before he’d cried in her bed.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I swear.” Even though it would kill her to listen to him fall apart knowing he was so far away, she’d do it for him. She’d do anything for him. “As soon as we hang up, I’m getting in my car. I’ll be in Oklahoma by morning.”
“Ah, babe,” he whispered. “I can’t let you see me like this.”
“Brody, you have to stop saying that. You need me. Please let me help.”
“What I need is to figure this shit out. I’ll come back to you when I’ve done that. Promise.”
“You don’t make promises, remember?”
“Not when I can’t keep them. This is one I intend to keep.”
Please, God, let that be true. She pounded a fist into the bed and sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll wait as long as you need me too, Superman. Why? Because I love your stubborn ass.”
He gave a shaky, wincing laugh. “Got something to say to you, too, sugar. Saving it for when I see you gorgeous face again.”
The dam of tears broke and her voice cracked when she spoke. “Then you better make it quick.”
“Working on it, babe.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Turns out that getting smashed in the face a half-dozen times by a couple three-hundred-pound bikers and then thrown into the side of a truck, head first, is actually not as painful as having a catheter stuck around a cock piercing.
“Can you please take it out?” Brody tried to grab for the nurse as she messed with his IV, but even moving his arm hurt. Everything hurt. His head throbbed.
“Sorry, handsome. Not until you can get up to go the bathroom on your own.” Martha, a middle-aged woman in mint-green scrubs, patted his shoulder, then leaned over to check something in his hair. He flinched when she touched his scalp, sure her fingers were hot pokers stabbing straight into his brain.
“Motherf—mmmmm.” He winced in pain, balling his fists into the white bedding.
“Tender, huh? Yeah, you had quite a gash there. Thankfully the one on your face isn’t as bad. You’ll be pretty again. Eventually.” More shoulder patting. Until she flipped up the blanket, adjusted the catheter tubing, and he damn near went through the roof.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Oh, honey.” She gave him an amused, mildly sympathetic smile. “Maybe I should get you something more for pain. If you keep jumping like that and your ribs will never heal.”
Fucking hell. “How about a lethal injection? That might take the edge off.”
She cocked a dark eyebrow. “Now, now, Mr. Nelson. I’m sure your family would disagree.”
Shit. His family. Someone should probably call his parents...
“I’ll be back with those meds. Close your eyes. Try to get some rest.” Martha flipped off the lights on her way out the door, but the morning sun still lit the room. Thanks to the Devil Chasers, he’d slept for more than seven hours last night. Unconsciously, sure, but beggars and choosers and all that shit.
Goddamn, breaking that bottle had been stupid. Even if it had given him exactly what he wanted—physical pain powerful enough to make him forget the other kind. There was never any way getting roughed up was going to solve his problems. Starting a brawl wasn’t any different than getting wasted every chance he could, because when the buzz wore off, he was still left with the same damn guilt. A crooked nose, a cracked skull, bruised ribs, and one hell of a friggin’ hospital bill this time around, too.
The door to his room cracked open again and Sam strolled in with a cup of to-go coffee in hand. The asshole gave an exaggerated grimace and leisurely dropped into a chair at the end of the bed. “That little cat nap sure as hell didn’t make you any more beautiful, that’s for sure.”
“Fuck you.” Brody looked around the room for a mirror. Then again, if he looked anything like he felt, maybe he didn’t want to see just how messed up he was. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Aren’t you?” his buddy countered, eyebrow cocked. “I lucked out and your little stunt got me the day off. Thanks for that. I definitely got the better end of this deal, bro.”
Bastard. “What’d you tell Steve?” Not that he really needed to ask—he could hear their boss’s voice loud and clear, “Way to waste my time and money, Nelson. You know who pays your insurance policy, right?”
“Told him that you fell down some stairs and rolled into a truck. I mean, it’s not entirely a lie.” Sam shrugged and Brody laughed, which hurt like a mother. Shouldn’t Martha be back by now?
Sam kicked back in the chair, ankles crossed. “So, you feel better now? Worked that poison out of your system?”
Probably not. “Guess we’ll see.”
“You ever plan on telling your folks about the PTSD? They’ll probably be here any time now. You might want to put some thought into how you’re going to explain this.”
So Sam had called them. Damn. In the back of his mind, he’d kinda hoped Jenny would be the only other person to hear about this. “What’s to explain? I got my ass kicked. Not the first time it’s happened. Probably won’t be the last.”
Sam laughed. “What’s so bad about just telling them the truth? Maybe that’s what you need. Get it all out and wipe the slate clean.”
If it were that simple, he would have done it months ago. “Didn’t work that way with Jenn,” he grumbled, wishing the death metal band in his head would take a smoke break.
“Worked for a little while.”
“Not really.”
“You’re full of shit. You were right there—right friggin’ there—until your granddad passed.” Sam squeezed his fingers together, then threw his arm in the air. “Then poof. Back to the miserable, pissed-off-at-the-world son-of-a-bitch just like that.”
Brody shook his head, but stopped when the room began to spin and the tender area beneath his stitches started to throb more reverently. “Not pissed at the world, dude—just myself.”