by Jo Raven
“All right.” She sighs and shrugs. “I’ll be in the nurses’ room at the end of the corridor if you need anything.”
She draws the curtains closed and leaves. The door closes, and it’s just me and him again. I walk to the bed and take my usual seat, pull out my drawing pad and pencil, and dash a hand over my face, because my cheeks are wet.
“I’m here,” I say. “It’s me, Dakota, and I’ll be right here until you open your eyes and see me.”
***
“How is everyone?” I ask, cradling Mom’s cell between my cheek and shoulder as I open the door and step outside. Still haven’t had time to buy a new one. I can’t leave Zane alone.
It’s late afternoon, and the sky is full of colors. I breathe in the fresh air and close my eyes.
“Fine,” Dad mutters. “As well as they can be. When will you be coming, Koty? Aunt Carolina keeps asking for you, and your mom… she’d like you by her side.”
“I know. You think I don’t know? But I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why? You said a friend of yours was hurt?”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, a lump in my throat.
“Oh, honey…” He’s silent for a moment, and that’s good, because I need the time to pull myself together.
“He’s getting better.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I shake my head, although he can’t see it. Don’t know what Zane and I are. Doesn’t matter. “Got to go now, Dad.”
“Okay, Koty. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
I disconnect the call and draw in breath after breath. Zane is mostly asleep, but the few times he’s been awake, he doesn’t seem to see me. It’s scaring me. The doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong.
“Dakota!” The male voice sounds urgent, and I turn on my heel to see Rafe running toward me.
Shit. “What’s going on? Did something happen?” My heart booms.
“No. He’s okay. He’s just…” Rafe bends over panting. “He asked about you.”
“He did?” Hope flares, burning bright. “Is he fully awake now? I’m going to—”
“Dakota, wait.” He tucks his blond hair behind an ear as he straightens. “He’s a bit confused.”
“What do you mean?”
“He thinks…” Rafe frowns. “He thinks you’re dying.”
“What?” I gape at him.
“Are you sick?”
“Sick?”
“He said… He said you have cancer.”
I shake my head, speechless. “I don’t have cancer.”
Rafe looks relieved. “Told you, he’s confused. Doctor said he might be after waking up, and dehydration can do funny things to your head.”
“Maybe he’s mixing me up with his sister.”
“Maybe.” Rafe kicks at a stone. “Dammit.” He sighs. “Go see him before he falls asleep again. I swear I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much in my life.”
I leave him to his musings and rush inside. As I take the by now familiar route to Zane’s room, I consider Rafe’s words. The doctors warned us Zane would be doing a lot of sleeping the first week. Coming out of a coma isn’t easy. I know that. I know it better than anyone. I’ve been there, and I know not everyone comes out of it the same as before.
The thought Zane might not recover completely hurts like a stab wound.
Stop thinking like that. Zane will be okay. He’s strong. God… he has to be okay.
My steps echo as I turn a corner and see his door. I turn the handle and enter his room, then stop to catch my breath. It catches in my throat.
Zane is alone, but that’s not what shocks me.
He’s sitting, his back propped on a mound of pillows, his hands in his lap. He’s wearing a green hospital gown that leaves his arms bare. The oxygen mask is gone. And he’s staring straight ahead, his gaze not even flicking when I walk toward him.
“Zane.” I sit on the bed, and reach for his hand. When I curl my fingers around his, they’re cold and still. “Rafe says you asked for me.” Sort of. “It’s me, Dakota. I’m here.”
His lips move. His brows pinch together. “Dakota,” he whispers, and I almost fall off the bed.
“Yes.” My voice cracks. Hell, my heart almost cracks with joy. “Yes, it’s me.”
His lids twitch, and he lets out a long breath. “Can’t find her. Have to find her.”
“I’m here. Right here.”
“She’s dying. Have to find her—”
“I’m not dying.” What the hell is going on? I squeeze his hand. “I’m not, Zane. I’m fine.”
“She’s dying.” It’s eerie, hearing his scratchy voice repeating these strange, ominous things. “Everyone’s fucking dying.”
“Well, I’m not.” My chest is too tight to breathe. “Look at me, Zane.”
“It’s cancer. Not looking good. Must tell her I know, and it doesn’t matter. Fuck, it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving her. I’m staying. I’m—”
“Zane!” I grab his face in both my hands and turn it toward me. “I said I’m not dying. I’m not sick. Can you hear me?”
He blinks and frowns. “She can’t die.” His dark eyes shimmer with the sudden sheen of tears. “I love her.”
My heart flips over in my chest. God, he really thinks I’m dying, and… and he loves me?
“I’m not sick,” I say, my voice choked. “Why do you think that I…?”
“I got the message,” he whispers, his frown deepening.
What message? There must be something I can do to snap him out of this daze. I’ve drawn his image, wept for him, talked to him, shaken him, and nothing seems to work.
It’s time for more drastic measures. Crazy measures. I mean, I don’t believe in magic, not really… But I believe in Zane, and that’s why I lean forward, cup his face in my hands and kiss him.
Chapter Fifteen
Zane
I’m lost inside a dream. It’s dark—a dark gray mist where things and faces move, appearing and disappearing. Sometimes my eyes are open, sometimes they’re closed. Sometimes I think I talk, but maybe I’m just thinking. Sometimes I hear words, but they don’t make a lick of sense. The sounds come from a distance, distorted and twisted.
Emma is gone. Dakota is leaving, and I need to find her. That’s all I know. All that matters.
I look for her, but I can’t locate her. I call for her, but I can’t see her. So I step back into the dark, let it close over me.
Except this time I’m not allowed to sink again. Small hands press on my cold face, shocking me with their warmth.
“I’m not dying,” a voice says, warm like the hands, a familiar voice.
Her voice.
You are, I think, or say, not sure which. I know you are. I got the message. You’re dying. You’re leaving me, too, and I don’t know how to keep you with me. I don’t believe in miracles.
Her touch feels so good, so fucking good that my breath catches in my throat. Her scent rises around me, familiar, delicious, fascinating. I want to touch her, but all I manage to do is curl my fingers on the covers, snagging them on the thin cloth.
Then softness presses on my mouth, warmth spreads through my lips. She tastes of caramel and salt—blood and tears. Sugar and bitter almonds. She tastes of all the hope I’ve ever held inside me, and I want to believe it.
My hands curl and uncurl. They shift on the covers.
She breaks the kiss and draws back. “Zane.”
I blink. The gray parts, thins. I can see her face, her wide blue eyes. The mist lifts, and reality rushes back. “Dakota.”
She nods and smiles. She has tears in her eyes. “Hey.”
Seeing her hurts. It hurts like a bitch, because I know she’s dying, but it also hurts in a good way, because I missed her. I can’t stop leaning toward her, needing her, wanting to be with her forever.
“What are you doing here?” I rasp, my throat like sandpaper. I glance around, at the drawn curtains and the machines. �
��You hate hospitals.”
She laughs, the sound turning into a sob. “You’re here. Of course I came.”
I let out a long breath. “I know you’re sick,” I say and my chest feels so tight I think my ribs might break. “I don’t care. I wanna be with you. If you want me to.” I close my eyes. This is like chewing nails.
“Zane. What are you talking about?”
Why is she denying it, making it harder for me? “I got the message,” I force the words out. “I know.”
“What message are you talking about?” Her voice breaks. “I’m not sick, Zane. I’m not dying. What do I have to say to get it through to you?”
My eyes snap open. “Voicemail. On my cell phone. This man… he said the results were in, that you…” My throat is so damn dry it aches with each word. “That you have cancer. I just…”
I just lost it for a while. Went kind of mad. But I can do this. For you.
“Oh my God.” Her eyes go round, and her hand tightens around my arm, her fingertips digging into my flesh. I welcome the tiny pinprick of pain. “Zane, that was my dad.”
Here it comes, the confession. Her dad called me to let me know because she wouldn’t tell me herself.
“I gave him your number because my phone has been acting up,” she goes on. “Oh God, now I understand.”
“Okay.” I’m so tired. I don’t understand anything anymore. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“Zane.” She’s shaking me. “It’s not me who’s dying. It’s my aunt. Aunt Carolina.”
Her words go through me like bullets, and I jerk. What?
“My mom’s sister. She has cancer. She’s in hospital. She’s the one who’s sick, not me. It’s not me, Zane.”
“Not you?”
“Not me. Not me at all.” She puts her arms around my neck and gathers me close. I let her, limp and blinking, dazed. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“You’re fine.” I have to repeat the words until they sink in. Could it be true? “You’re not sick.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not going anywhere,” she whispers against my neck, her weight sweet against my chest. She curls up next to me. “I love you, Zane Madden.”
She does?
Warmth spills in my chest, flowing into my limbs. My heart beats in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere, faster and faster.
It takes me a while, but I finally manage to reach up and put my arms around her, holding her close. I feel like I’m about to shatter and yet stronger than ever before. I feel grounded and yet light as if I’m floating.
I feel hope for the first time.
***
I’ll be okay. The doctors say there doesn’t seem to be any damage to my brain or organs, something they were afraid might happen. Yeah, so my body’s still messed up, heavy and cold, and my pulse is still a bit too fast—but I’m much better.
That was a close call, the doctors say, prodding and talking, until I say I understand and that it won’t happen again.
And I mean it. No more drinking for me.
I’ve pulled through. And Dakota is not dying. That’s all that matters. She says she’s not leaving my side until I’m out of the woods.
Well, today I’m being discharged from the hospital, so I guess that means I’m officially out of the woods and going home.
As I’m rolled out in a wheelchair, still dizzy for having been flat on my back for almost two weeks, I hear a cacophony of cheering and shouts. A crowd of people are waiting outside, and as my vision clears, I recognize them. Ash, Rafe, Erin, Tessa, Dylan, Tyler, Audrey. The Damage Boyz.
My eyes sting, but I grin for them and wave like a goddamn king. They break into more cheers and dancing, until the nurses recover from their shock and tell them firmly they need to shut up and get out.
Fuckers. I chuckle to myself as I’m led out into the parking lot. It’s so… normal, hearing them cursing and talking as they follow. So good. They’re my family.
Family. I think of Emma, and my grin vanishes as the pain of her death strikes me again. I suppose, with time, thinking of her will get easier. It won’t feel like a knife twisting in my gut.
I’m thankful for Dakota’s small, low car as I’m lifted out of the wheelchair by a strong male nurse and Tyler, who steps in before I faceplant on the parking lot concrete. Can’t imagine climbing up into my truck right now.
Who knew just a few days spent in a coma can fuck you up like that? Even though I’m reassured my body and brain are catching up just fine, my head swims and my muscles tremble just from the effort of getting into the car. I’m tucked and buckled in like a damn kid, and when my eyes clear again, I see Erin and Tyler cram themselves in the backseat of the car.
I lift a brow at them through the rearview mirror. “Your car broke down?”
Erin swats my shoulder. “We’re going home with you. The others are coming, too.”
“Didn’t know we were all moving in together,” I drawl. “Sounds like fun.”
“Shut up, silly.” Erin laughs. “We just want to see you settled in. You need someone to look after you.”
I want to tell them I’m not an invalid, when Dakota slides behind the wheel and buckles herself in.
“He already has a roommate,” she says, and winks at me. “I passed the test, didn’t I?”
“Test?” Erin frowns. “Honestly, Zane, you test your roommates now?”
I drink in Dakota’s bright eyes, her smile. “No need to,” I say. “She’s not my roommate. She’s my girl.”
Tyler whistles from the back seat. Erin whoops.
Dakota laughs softly, her cheeks flushing. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, stretching the soft material of her white blouse. She’s here, perfectly fine, perfectly beautiful and so sexy.
Fuck, the things I wanna do to her… As soon as I sort out this small issue of being able to stand upright on my own.
Soon.
“All set,” I say, grinning widely. “Let’s go home.”
***
Jesus F. Christ. Why did no one tell me a hurricane passed through my apartment? Leaning on Tyler’s shoulder, I peer into the living room, taking in the stack of broken frames and ruined drawings on the coffee table, the broken chairs stashed in a corner, the bucket with the remains of my table lamp, ashtrays and other things I don’t even recognize anymore.
“What happened here?” I glance sideways at the open apartment door. “This… ain’t my door. Is it?” Am I going crazy? There were scratches down the front, fuck knows since when, and traces of a sticker Rafe decided to decorated it with when he was drunk one night. This door is… spotless.
I try to turn to study it better and lose my balance.
“Easy,” Tyler huffs, steadying me. “The door is new. We had to break the old one down.”
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“To get you. You passed out after locking yourself in here. Don’t you remember?”
I open my mouth, and stop. I don’t remember. Don’t remember what happened. I mean… “You found me?”
“Ash called. We all came and broke the door down.”
I swallow hard and follow Dakota with my gaze as she walks to the sofa and picks up things. Shards of glass. A bottle of whiskey, empty. A sweater.
“Why is everything broken? I…” Tyler moves toward the couch, and I have no choice but to stumble along. “What happened?”
“You happened,” Tyler says.
“The hell you say. I did this?”
“Damn right.”
I prod my memories and come up blank. I can’t remember much after the funeral. I remember driving… I remember calling Dakota and not getting through… I remember the message that broke me.
“Easy now,” Tyler mutters, dropping me on the sofa and sinking down next to me with a sigh. He rolls his shoulders and winces. “You’re one heavy motherfucker.”
“You’re just out of shape,” I counter and lean back, doing my damn best to hide how dizzy I am. Sh
it. Dizziness sucks ass.
Tyler chuckles but has no chance to reply as the rest of the crew burst into the apartment, talking and laughing. They make themselves at home, which is good. I’m not in the shape to play host. I’m so damn tired I’m already drifting off.
Someone slides next to me, wrapping slender arms around me. Dakota, my sleepy brain informs me, her scent hitting my subconscious before I even hear her voice.
“Rest,” she whispers and kisses my cheek, a whisper of a touch. “I’m here.”
Peace settles over me. She really is here, here to stay, and the knowledge is like a warm blanket spreading over me, pulling me into restful sleep.
***
Erin made my favorite dish, seafood spaghetti. Well, what used to be my favorite dish. Dakota’s curry is to die for. But I can’t tell Erin that, especially when I can’t even finish even one plate, and she cooked it just for me. I’m just not hungry.
The guys have been amazing, hanging out here, fixing the apartment, making sure there’s food and that I have my painkillers and whatever the hell else the doctors prescribed.
Can’t shake the feeling they’ve decided to watch over me, making sure I won’t pull any more crazy stunts.
They shouldn’t have worried. I have Dakota and she lights up all the dark spaces inside of me. I’ll be fine. Nothing’s the matter with me other than the fact I’m tired and mourning Emma.
I stare at the new door and the window. I need to pay the guys back. Need to thank them for helping me, standing by me, putting up with me. Hell, for literally saving my life.
As for the window… I frown, trying to recall how the hell I managed to break it. I must have been so fucking wasted. Jesus.
I drop on the armchair and try to catch some rest, but Ash plants himself on the sofa, and I have to endure a long lecture on how I always tell others to open up and talk to each other, while I keep everything inside.
He’s right. And yet…
“I thought I could do it,” I tell him. “Everyone has problems. I can’t go around whining all the time.”
“Whining?” He throws a sofa cushion at me, looking disgusted. It misses me and falls to the floor. “What’s wrong with you, man? Telling your friends your problems, asking for help, isn’t fucking whining. Asshole.”
