Desire (Determination Trilogy 3)

by Lesli Richardson

  I don’t know if I can live with myself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Now

  I know in movies they show a guy getting hit by a bullet and collapsing, and either it’s a scratch, an in-and-out that will heal cleanly, or the person dies, usually after delivering a melodramatic line or two.

  That’s not real life.

  Depending on the caliber, the load, the slug—and a variety of other factors, including where it hits and its trajectory—a bullet might do little damage, it might shatter bone, or it could be one designed to somersault and expand and fragment upon impact, doing as much damage as possible. The exit wound could be neat and tidy, or look like some demon punched a fist through the victim’s guts.

  Kevin was shot three times with a .380, fortunately cheap-ass range rounds made for target shooting from a short distance.

  Thank god he wasn’t shot with something larger, or a hollow point.

  Thank god the guy was a crappy shot, and that he was tackled and Jack got his hand over the gun, between the hammer and the slide, before he could squeeze off another round.

  The main concern now is a risk of internal bleeding and infection. All three rounds hit him in the abdomen, two inside him, one in-and-out through his side. All three missed bones and, even more importantly, his spine, miracle of miracles.

  But Kev lost a lot of blood, and there’s a very real danger of infection from the damage done to his intestines.

  I can’t lose my boy.

  Fortunately, Kev’s father lasts less than two hours before he stands and storms out without further word to me or my detail.

  I leave orders with Secret Service and the hospital that the congressman is not allowed further access to Kev unless I’m present.

  I’ve also instructed Comms, through my staff, to put out hourly press briefings, and that we’ll hold an actual presser sometime tomorrow.

  My chief of staff brings me an overnight bag and a change of clothes, my personal phone and charger, and my laptop, because I’m not going anywhere.

  When Shae’s deputy chief of staff stops by and tries to suggest I go home because of the optics, I have to fight the urge to tell him to go to hell.

  I don’t give a shit he’s right that Kev would say the same thing, were he awake.

  The kids want to come visit Kev though. I tell them no, not yet. I feel guilty that I should be there for them, but honestly?

  I can’t right now.

  Maybe that makes me a shitty dad, but my mental tank is empty. Shae will be home soon, and they’re surrounded by staff, agents, and they have Yasmine. I can’t be a good dad right now. They’re used to me or Shae being unavailable from time-to-time, so it’s not like it’s the first time this has happened.

  I want to wait to let the kids come see Kev when he’s awake.

  I absolutely do not want to admit to myself that the only way I want them to see him like this is if we’re afraid he won’t survive, so they have time to say goodbye.

  Or that I want my face to be the first Kev sees when he opens his eyes.

  I ask the staff to bring in several chairs, so the agents can take turns sitting. We’re in a private room, with no one to spy on us, and I know they’re nearly as upset about this as I am.

  Playing dirty, I make it a direct order. Since I outranked them when I was in, they eventually give in and sit, all but one, who stays on the door, and they take turns at that post.

  “It’s not y’all’s fault,” I say to John, giving voice to what they’re all thinking. “It’s mine.”

  John wearily shakes his head. “No, Mr. Bruunt, it’s—”

  “Chris,” I insist, looking at each agent in turn. “While we’re alone in this room, it’s fucking Chris, all right?”

  These four agents are my primary detail and see me nearly every day, and when I leave the residence. When I travel, they are ones who accompany me.

  I specifically requested these four men, because I knew, next to the agents I requested be assigned to The Shift for Shae, these these guys the best at what they do.

  And I failed them.

  “I broke protocol.” I feel I require this confession, these witnesses.

  I have to own my shit.

  “Never should have worked the rope,” I add. “I fucking know better.” The words choke in my throat. “I did this.”

  They exchange a glance, and I know. John tips his head forward for a moment, considering, then looks at me. He would normally never broach this subject, but this isn’t normal for any of us. It’s the stress, and the adrenaline crash, and the worry, and the knowledge they will face a ration of shit from the director, no matter how hard I go to bat for them once I can think straight.

  “Tell me the truth, Chris,” he softly says. “If we’re talking about things that remain inside this room, then tell me the truth so that, if they even let us remain on detail, we can do our jobs better. We all know the three of you are…close. But who is he?”

  Of course these men won’t talk. The shit I’ve seen with them at my side—the stuff none of us have talked about, because it’s our job not to talk about it—I have to confess it.

  Denying Kev, or my love for him, is not an option in this darkest moment of my soul. Maybe Kev would never know I denied him in this circumstance.

  But I would.

  And that’s one thing too much that I cannot live with or have occupying my conscience.

  Sitting up in the recliner, I lean in the way I have countless times already and gently wrap my fingers around Kev’s right hand. I have his bracelet and ring, both on my right hand. I stare at him as I stroke the backs of his fingers with my thumb.

  “He’s mine,” I admit as I will him to wake up. “Ours, but specifically mine. Shae loves him, too. He’s been mine for…” I carefully consider my answer, because I’d never stopped loving or missing him after that week so long ago. “A long time. Then hers, too, when he started working for her before her election. He came to work for her because of me. Because I asked him to.”

  Close enough to the truth.

  I continue. “Obviously, it’s easier for her to spend time alone with him without raising questions, but now you understand why no one can ever offer him enough money to hire him away from us, or why he’ll never willingly leave his post when most presidents have gone through two chiefs of staff, or more, by this point in their administration.”

  A soft breath escapes John. “Damn,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Chris.” He gets now why I won’t leave Kev’s side.

  He understands completely why I totally blame myself.

  It’s also more personal now, the way it would be if it was one of the kids who’d been shot.

  The way it was when my brother died.

  In their minds, Kev has subtly shifted from inner circle to family, even more than the dubious honor of getting shot accomplished for him.

  From this point forward, as long as Shae’s in office, Kev will now be handled with kid gloves, given a driver, a detail—whatever is felt he needs—to protect him.

  He’ll no longer have the luxury of refusing protection.

  Ever.

  Because even if I wasn’t going to make it a fucking order from Sir to his boy, the brass upstairs will make sure it happens, as long as Kev’s a part of this administration. The only thing they hate more than someone getting hurt or killed on their watch is it happening a second time.

  And in no reality do I ever want to contemplate that he won’t wake up and return to us. The only way I can survive this is if I concentrate on when he wakes up and is healed and returns to work.

  The only bright spot in this whole mess?

  Finally, I now have a publicly acceptable reason to permanently move Kev into the residence with us. I’ll ask Shae to “joke” about it with staffers, tell people that I put my foot down as Kev’s best friend to make it so, and that she had to keep her “little man” happy.

  Happy hubby, happy…

  Whatever.r />
  Happy spouse, happy house?

  My phone buzzes a few minutes after ten with a text from Shae.

  Wheels-down at Andrews. Can I come by?

  John is taking a turn guarding the door. I stand, stretch, and walk over to him. “Shae wants to know if she can come visit,” I ask. “What’s the situation? Honestly?”

  He lets out one of “those” sighs. If we weren’t locked in this room, the five of us—not counting Kev—he wouldn’t have reacted like that, but he wouldn’t have given me a forthright answer, either.

  “Tomorrow morning after their shift change, and after morning rush hour ends, would be preferable. We can lock down the hospital now, but I’ll need to call in and roll people out of bed, it’ll disrupt hospital operations, and I’ll have to close their ER to intake, which is full tonight. I mean, I will—”

  I shake my head. “No.” I walk back to my chair and tap a reply. “I’ll ask her to put in a formal request through her detail for late morning tomorrow.”

  I tap out a reply I imagine is making her purse her lips, take a deep breath and hold it to keep the fuck from leaving her mouth, and even as she does, her public mask slips back into place.

  Logistics nightmare. Request late morning tomorrow, pls.

  I know from how long she takes to reply that she’s now sitting there and seriously debating trying to play the POTUS card to defy me.

  I add a text.

  DYD.

  My phone rings seconds later from a blocked number, meaning it’s probably her official, secure phone.

  “I mean it,” I answer by way of greeting, using the only tone I safely can use on her without us being alone together. “Don’t you dare play the POTUS card.”

  Eventually, I hear a soft huff I know is a laugh. “Did I ever tell you how fucking spooky it is when you read my mind like that? It’s bad enough when Kev does it.”

  I manage a weary smile, so she’ll hear it in my voice. Otherwise, she won’t buy it. “And yet, you still married me, honey. And that’s why he’s our Prophet.” I take a deep breath. “Go home, hug the kids for me, and please apologize to them for me.”

  “You aren’t coming home?”

  “Not until he opens his eyes.”

  She knows better than to argue with me. “If I’m not there, as soon as he does—”

  “I’ll call you and put him on the phone so you can tell him yourself.”

  “Okay.” I know she has to get off the line now, because I hear the tears threatening in the soft, breathy way she says it. She’s grasping for the end of the rope and trying to hold on tightly, but she’s frayed.

  I know the feeling.

  * * * *

  The nurses find me a fold-up cot somewhere, and it’s marginally more comfortable than the stupid recliner, except I’m not ready to use it yet.

  They’ve backed off his sedation. He’ll stay intubated, for now, until he’s awake and responsive. But right now he’s also on a fuckton of painkillers.

  The clock ticks past midnight, and the nurse and on-call stop in to check on him. Thanks to Kev’s job title, he has his own assigned nurse who’s monitoring his vitals on a monitor at a station just outside the room.

  The miracles of modern medicine.

  She physically steps into the room to put eyes on him every thirty minutes, and the doctor stops by every hour.

  Once they leave, I take my personal phone, open iTunes, and scroll through to the playlist I used when Kev and I last snuck in a good, hard scene what feels like too damn long ago. A playlist he first heard in those sweet two weeks following our reunion, and music compiled from my memories of that first week we spent together.

  A lot of ‘80s and ‘90s music, along with classic rock, and some indie rock. I turn the volume up just enough I can hear it, and set my phone on the bed near his pillow. Once again, I take his hand and stroke the backs of his fingers. I think about how, in the past, he’s held on to my hand and squeezed—in pain and in pleasure—and wish I was a praying type of man.

  But I’m not.

  I haven’t been in years.

  I lay my head on the bed, as close to his as I can without disturbing IV lines or monitor leads.

  Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, Imagine Dragons, Pearl Jam, and Queen make up a good chunk of this playlist. As the minutes tick past, I think I’m doing okay.

  Until “Love of My Life” by Queen starts playing.

  Oh, fuck.

  Memories slam into me—that last night so long ago, our first night reunited.

  Our wedding night.

  I close my eyes. The tears I’ve been holding back by sheer force of will burst through with a vengeance. It’s too much. The possibility of losing him, especially like this, shreds me.

  I’ll give up everything we’ve achieved, in a heartbeat, if it means he’ll be okay.

  Something brushes against my free hand. When I look, it’s John, trying to hand me a couple of tissues. He holds the box in his other hand and wears a grim expression.

  “Thanks,” I manage. Not releasing Kev’s hand, I blow my nose and settle in again.

  But after a moment, I’m aware that John isn’t moving away to give me space.

  “I’m okay,” I lie.

  He pokes me in the shoulder, and I’m about to order him to leave me alone when I realize he’s not looking at me.

  Jolted into realization, I sit up to find Kev’s eyes barely cracked open and staring at me.

  I guess the whoop I let out scares the nurse, because she bolts into the room, slamming the door into Ted’s back, where he was standing against it. He turns and is in the process of drawing when he realizes it’s her.

  I squeeze Kev’s hand hard, not giving a damn who sees me cry.

  Standing, I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. “Good boy,” I whisper. “I love you so fucking much.”

  He slowly blinks, his gaze full of confusion and pain and the cloud of damned good pharmaceuticals, but yeah, he’s there.

  I reluctantly step back so she can check his vital signs. The doctor comes running in, too, and after a few minutes, he nods.

  “This is a good sign, Mr. Bruunt,” he says. “We still need to watch out for infection, but this is good.”

  “How long does he have to stay on the ventilator?” I focus my attention on Kev, whose gaze searches for me if he can’t see me.

  “I’ll consult with the surgeon and we’ll likely be removing him from it in a few hours. We’ll need to restrain his hands, though, so he doesn’t pull the tube out himself.”

  I somehow manage not to burst out laughing at that news. “Whatever needs to happen.”

  “Eh, you should go home.”

  I finally pry my gaze from Kev’s blue eyes and stare at the doctor. “No.”

  After they affix the restraints to Kev’s wrists, the nurse and doctor clear out for a few minutes. I grab my personal phone so I can text Shae.

  Call me.

  She either couldn’t sleep, or had the phone under her head or something, because my phone rings seconds later.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Talk to him. He’s intubated and groggy, but his eyes are open. He won’t be able to speak to you.” Kev’s gaze follows my hand as I reach in with the phone and hold it against his ear. Because I’m so close, I can hear her, and if the other guys can, too, they pretend they can’t.

  “Hey, you.” It sounds like she’s trying not to cry. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that, dude. What would we do without you?”

  I don’t know how much Kev is processing of what she’s saying, but I lean in and press another kiss to his forehead.

  At this point, I don’t care who sees me.

  His gaze shifts a little, like he’s trying to look at the phone, then returns to mine. I smile at him, stroke his hair, let my hand settle on top of his head and gently rub the spot between his eyes with my thumb.

  He’s mine, and whatever I have to do to make this up to him, I will.

&n
bsp; I’ll divorce Shae in a second and marry him, if he asks me to.

  Dying for me was never part of our agreement. I’m a little mad at him for risking his life for me, but only because I know I owe him everything.

  “The kids told me to tell you they love you and want you home as soon as possible,” she says. “I’ll try to bring them in the morning when I come to visit you. I love you so much, sweetie.”

  I take the phone back. “It’s me.”

  She’s sniffling. “How is he?” I tell her the latest. “Can I bring the kids?”

  “They have school.”

  “I was thinking about—”

  “No,” I say. “They need to go to school. They can’t miss it. Not unless it’s not safe to let them go. Have the detail bring them by the hospital after school, and only if they clear it through me first. Just you in the morning.”

  I’m still rubbing his forehead, and while he’s groggy, I know the gesture make it through to the deeper center of his brain, because his gaze has softened in that familiar way. He might not remember much—or any—of this part later, but that’s okay.

  I will.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Yes. He’ll be more awake by then, too. I don’t know how groggy he’ll be in the morning, and he might end up sleeping through a visit.”

  I finally get her off the phone and resume my vigil at my boy’s bedside. I don’t bother using the cot, for now, because if they’re going to be checking him more often, it’d be pointless to be in the way like that.

  He drifts back to sleep, which is for the best. They’re happy with his vital signs, and happy with the latest round of blood work. That means I feel reasonably safe getting my hopes up.

  I can only hope it doesn’t bite me in the ass later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now

  It’s nearly two hours later when they decide Kev can come off the respirator. In that time, he’s drifted in and out of consciousness, but seeming a little more there every time he opens his eyes and looks at me.