Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  “Our friend,” I say. “And that would be…?”

  She laughs, like I’m being funny. “Ryan Dawson.”

  Right. “Visit him?” Brylee asks, while I try to formulate my next question.

  “Yes. I know he’s not awake yet, but I was sure I’d see you around.” She smiles prettily.

  Right.

  Not awake.

  What in the actual fuck?

  “We haven’t visited him,” Brylee says, and her voice trembles. “Not yet.”

  “Well, I know you’re not family,” she says, and glances over her shoulder before whispering conspiratorially. “But you’re good friends. And I know all three of you. He cares about you, I could tell. I could smuggle you in, if you like.”

  I open my mouth again, to ask why Ryan’s here, why he isn’t awake, what the hell is going on.

  “The surgery went well, from what I hear,” Nurse Ellen goes on blithely. “Of course the next twenty-four hours are critical, but everything looks good so far.”

  My breath catches, and I can’t seem to be able to draw in any more air.

  The surgery?

  “We’d love to see him,” Brylee says, her voice normal now, although her face is pale. “Please. That’s really nice of you.”

  “Oh, no problem. Hospital regulations are sometimes too strict.” She dimples at us, and steps out from behind the desk, calling another young woman to take her place. Then she turns to us. “This way.”

  It’s not until we’re hurrying along long corridors and Nurse Ellen says brightly, “Here we are,” that I manage to take a full breath. “He has a private room,” she goes on. “Please put on these surgical masks before you go in and use the hand sanitizer.”

  She hands the masks to us, and we take them automatically. She points at the sanitizer, and we nod.

  “Nobody’s in with him right now,” she says. “Don’t stay very long. Five minutes is the most we let family stay inside for now. If anyone asks, you’re siblings. Yes?”

  We nod, and she hurries away, leaving us to stare at the door of Ryan’s private hospital room.

  “Holy crap,” Brylee whispers, her eyes huge, her hand strangling mine.

  “Yeah,” I agree, my brain firing on nothing.

  Glass and chrome and muted beige carpets and nurses moving down the corridors silently, efficiently, ghosts on a mission. Machines beeping and whirring. Someone whispering in the room across from us.

  The Heart and Vascular Institute, said the sign outside. It’s only now that I’m comprehending the words.

  “You knew something was wrong,” Brylee says, turning to look up at me, her face white. “I think deep inside I knew it, too.”

  I turn her so that I can wrap my arms around her for a quick hug. “You heard the nurse. He’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that. She doesn’t know that. She only heard—” Her voice hitches.

  “Hush. He’s fucking strong. He’ll be fine, Princess. Now let’s go visit him before someone throws us out.”

  ***

  So many tubes. Most shocking is the breathing tube that goes into his mouth, delivering oxygen into his lungs. More tubes and cables snake under the covers which are pulled up to his neck. Machines and monitors bleep and blink at his side.

  Hell. I take two steps back and my back hits the wall, but I barely feel any pain. I think I’m in shock.

  I’m in fucking shock, and I’m not sure my legs can hold me.

  Brylee lets go of my hand and approaches the bed. Her hand is shaking badly as she strokes Ryan’s blond hair off his brow.

  “His skin is so cold,” she whispers.

  “That’s in big part because of the low temperature we keep the air in here at the hospital,” a female voice says from the door we’ve left open coming in, and we both jump. “I’m his doctor, Dr. Jensen. Who are you?”

  “Family,” I say automatically, while Brylee says, “Siblings.”

  The doctor looks from her to me and back, her smile faltering. “I see.”

  “What…?” Brylee sucks in a sharp breath. “What surgery did you perform?”

  She walks inside and closes the door behind her, low heels clicking on the floor. “Open-heart surgery.”

  I almost slide down to the floor, my vision graying for a moment. Jesus. “How did it go?” My voice is like rusty nails.

  “Good.” She moves closer to the bed and checks the machines and tubes. “But of course we can’t know before the first—”

  “—twenty-four hours,” I finish for her.

  “Actually, the first few days, but the first hours after surgery are the most critical. As soon as he starts breathing on his own, we’ll be more certain he’s pulled through.”

  Brylee makes a tiny sound of distress. “He’s not breathing…”

  “On his own. That’s normal for now.” The doctor tilts her head to the side. “Who are you, really? Ryan has no siblings.”

  “Cousins?” Brylee says, sounding unsure herself. She’s still staring at Ryan’s still form.

  I’m having trouble looking away myself. I push off the wall and walk on trembling legs to his bedside. I put an arm around her.

  “Are you really family? Do you know his father is right outside?”

  Oh shit. Brylee is trembling against my side, and I’m not feeling that fucking steady, either. “We’re his…”

  I meant to say something else—his partners. His friends. His lovers?

  But Brylee nods in agreement. “We’re his.”

  Her smile warms for a few seconds. “I see.”

  Not sure she does.

  Not sure I am, either. Why I care so much for this guy, after everything.

  But I do. And even if I never pray and I’m not a believer… Dear God, if you’re listening, I’d do anything for Ryan to be well again. Hell, I’ll give up smoking. I fucking swear I will.

  Just bring him back to us.

  “Why the surgery? What was wrong?” In my mind’s eye, I keep seeing Ryan rubbing at his chest. I see the color drain from his face as he makes a dash for the bathroom after sex. I see all the signs I ignored, because why would I think it was anything serious?

  Ryan always looked so…strong. So invulnerable.

  He looks damn vulnerable now. Defenseless and very young with his golden hair and pale lashes, the papery white skin, the covers pulled up over his chest.

  It twists me up inside. Gets all my protective instincts up and rearing to go. He’s ours, and we should have been here for him.

  If only he’d told us.

  As if reading my mind, Dr. Jensen says, “He has had HCM for some years now. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It’s when the heart muscle becomes abnormally thick and makes it harder for the heart to pump blood. It’s a hereditary heart condition. Ryan got it from his mother’s side. His mother died from it.”

  I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “She didn’t want to face it. She pretended she was okay until it was too late. But Ryan has been taking care of himself, and he came in the past to be checked. It got worse over the past year, and when he came in last week, I knew we had to operate.”

  “He didn’t tell us about it,” I admit. “About his heart problems.”

  “He didn’t like talking about it.” She nods. “And he was convinced he would die during surgery. Like his mother.”

  Jesus.

  And everything is falling into place. Why he kept pushing us away, why he didn’t want to start anything in the first place. Why he told me Brylee would take care of me, and told her I’d care for her.

  He wanted us to be happy, and he was sure he was about to die.

  My heart is fucking shattered, but a spark of hope is still burning.

  He cares for us. He never stopped caring.

  “We like having people close to the patients come visit,” she says. “It helps the recovery process. Talking to the patient, holding their hand.”

  The patient.

  It make
s me feel cold. “For Ryan,” I say deliberately, “we’d come every day. If you’ll let us.”

  “Add their names to the visitors’ list,” a male voice says from the door.

  I turn, and there is a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and dark eyes. The colors are all wrong, and his face isn’t that handsome, but there is something of Ryan in there.

  “Mr. Dawson,” the doctor says.

  Ryan’s father.

  He gazes at us, where we’re standing, hand in hand, at Ryan’s side. His expression is stern and hard, and I remember Brylee saying he is a military man. Ryan never talked about him.

  But something flickers in his gaze, something like amusement. “Brylee and Riddick, I presume.”

  Brylee glances at me. I barely stop myself from shrugging.

  “You are the ones Ryan just added to his will,” he goes on.

  “His will?” I blink. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Rid.” Brylee tugs on my hand.

  Dawson Senior lowers the surgical mask he’s wearing and a smile tugs on his otherwise grim mouth. “He didn’t tell you.”

  “Of course he didn’t…” I want to throttle the man. But I still can’t wrap my mind around what Ryan did. “Why would he include us in his will?”

  The smile widens. “My son never tells me much. He doesn’t have to. I can read him like an open book. He’s been happier in these past weeks than ever before. I knew he’d met someone, that he’d let himself open up at last. It took him a long time.” His smile fades. “Since my wife died, Ryan put his life on hold. He was sure he’d die sooner or later. He didn’t want anyone suffering because of it. Not like he did when his mother died.”

  “Mr. Dawson…” Brylee starts, her eyes wet and bright.

  He puts up a hand to stop her.

  “My son loves you, both.” He gives us a shrewd look. “Now you know everything. The rest is up to you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Shaved Ice Tumble Pitcher

  Ryan

  Cold. I’m so cold, and I can’t breathe. I’m drowning, sinking into the lake water, through ice. The dead are watching me, floating around me, trying to catch me with sharp claws.

  Can’t. Fucking. Breathe.

  I kick at the water, at the ice, swimming toward the surface, but the claws drag me down, trying to keep me in the dark.

  “You’re okay,” a voice whispers in my ear. “Calm down. You’re okay, Ryan.”

  I sink back down and float in the crystal ice, struggling to draw air, wondering if my heart will give out.

  Stupid thought, Ryan. You’re dead. Your heart broke, don’t you remember? It’s all over.

  My heart broke. That’s right. It shattered, the pieces too many to be put back together. Yeah, it makes sense, although I don’t remember how that happened. And now I’m alone.

  It’s strangely peaceful after that realization. Strangely sad.

  Dark and quiet.

  Next time I surface I hear more voices. Low and distorted, as it should be here, inside the lake. I don’t understand what they’re saying, but I recognize a face.

  Mom.

  She smiles down at me, her dark hair loose around her face. “Ryan,” she whispers. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Neither did I, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s here now.

  I missed you, I try to tell her, but I can’t. All the ice in my mouth, in my throat, in my chest. Missed you so fucking much.

  “Don’t fight it,” she says. “Easier if you don’t.”

  I’m not fighting it, I promise her. I’ve accepted it.

  “The tube, Ryan,” she says. “Don’t fight the breathing tube.”

  What is she talking about?

  The dark is dissipating. It’s a slow process, but my lashes finally part and I find myself staring up at a white expanse.

  Ice?

  No. A ceiling.

  Machines.

  Something inside my mouth, in my throat, choking me. I panic, thrash about, try to take it out.

  “Don’t fight it,” a familiar voice says, and through my blurry vision I think I see a girl with copper curls and wide eyes.

  I know her. I’m sure I know her. Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?

  “It’s a breathing tube,” a guy says, coming to stand beside her, and I know him, too. Dark hair, pale eyes, broad shoulders. “Calm down.”

  I try. God, I try, fighting panic. There’s no air.

  “Step back,” another woman says, “we need to suction the tube clean.”

  Everything is confused after that, more confused, colors and shapes bleeding into each other, the sounds dimming. Holy fuck, I’m drifting down again.

  I want back up. That girl, and that guy…I want to go back to them. But I’m sinking and sinking into blackness.

  Am I destined to live forever at the bottom of this lake, alone? Is this what death is like?

  Well, shit.

  ***

  I blink crusted lashes, staring up at… the ceiling. That’s right.

  No lake. No ice. No dead faces and claws. And I’m breathing, seemingly on my own. I lick my cracked lips, my tongue swollen and painful. The tube is gone, though trying to swallow is like being stabbed repeatedly in the throat.

  Breathing fucking hurts. My chest hurts. I feel as if a truck fell on top of me, then a ship, and then a plane.

  Whoa, the room is spinning.

  I close my eyes, but open them again at the sound of a voice. A new voice.

  A familiar voice. A familiar face leaning over me. Deep lines at the corner of his eyes, a thin mouth, bushy brows.

  “Ryan,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

  I try again to lick my lips and give up. “Dad?” I croak.

  He smiles. His whole face transforms, and he looks younger. He looks happy. “There you are.”

  Yeah. Here. Wherever that is.

  He gives me some water that I suck through a straw, and just that small action makes me pant with exhaustion.

  At least my tongue feels less like a sausage wrapped in sandpaper.

  “Dad… I saw Mom.” I want to tell him, because I have this feeling he’d want to know. “She looks good.”

  “Ryan…” His smile fades and he steps back.

  What? What am I forgetting? What the hell am I doing here, on a bed? And why does my chest hurt?

  “Dr. Jensen wanted to talk to you,” he says, and I blink at the ceiling, my hands twisting in the covers.

  Dr. Jensen. A hospital.

  Memory rushes back so suddenly I flinch.

  Mind-blowing sex, a pretty girl, a handsome guy, kissing, fucking, bodies moving together. Pain in my chest. Fear. The diagnosis. Surgery.

  I had surgery.

  Fuck. I lift a hand to touch my chest and grunt when the IV needle lodged in my arm is jostled.

  “Ryan.” Dr. Jensen appears at my side, smiling her professional, tight smile. “How are you feeling?”

  Peachy. Awesome. Like I could run a marathon.

  …not.

  “I have good news.” Her smile brightens. “The surgery went even better than I expected. We fixed the problem and found no other issues when we opened you up. You’re good to go, or will be, soon. With some medication and taking good care of yourself like you’re doing now, well…” She glances at where I guess my father is standing and then back to me. “I expect you to live a long and good life.”

  “And sex?” I ask.

  “Sex… is fine,” the doc says. “As long as you don’t overdo it, all exercise is good.”

  My father makes a strange wheezing noise.

  Was it something I said?

  Oh. Looks like my mouth is pretty much disconnected from my brain. Come to think of it, my chest doesn’t hurt too bad, which means I’m probably stoned out of my mind.

  Thank you, drugs.

  Why am I asking about sex?

  There was a girl, and a guy… standing by my bed.
They… I know them.

  “Brylee,” I whisper. “Riddick.”

  She keeps talking, but I tune her out. Slowly, in degrees, one thing is becoming clear.

  I’m alive.

  And likely to remain so. For years. Many years.

  Which means there is a future.

  Holy shit.

  Holy fucking shit.

  “Ryan, are you listening to me?” she says patiently.

  So patient. Everyone has been so patient with me, but holy fuck, it looks like I won’t die, and what should I do now?

  What about what I’ve done?

  My chest hurts. The monitors start beeping madly.

  “Calm down, Ryan,” she says, and my father steps closer, asking what’s wrong.

  Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact I did everything in my power to push the two people I want most away, the two people I’ve given my damaged heart to, and although my thoughts keep tripping over one another, I’m pretty damn sure they have no fucking reason to believe I deserve a do-over. I was an asshole to them.

  Dammit, I really don’t deserve a future or a happy ending. But if they gave me a chance to apologize…I’d take that second chance with both hands and not let go.

  ***

  Second chances will have to wait, though. I fall asleep halfway through the doc’s explanation of what the surgery entailed and what kind of medication I’ll be taking from now on.

  I wake up to loud beeping, fighting with the dead in the lake, then realizing I’m alive.

  So hard to believe.

  A nurse rushes in to check on me, and I fall asleep again before she does more than ask me if I’m okay. I’m totally fucking wiped. Every little thing tires me out.

  Like being rolled onto my side.

  Like being given more water through the straw.

  Like the doctor prodding something painful on my chest.

  Sleep always beckons, the soft darkness, the dreams, sometimes frightening, sometimes peaceful. Sometimes I wake up with tears drying on my cheeks, but I can’t remember why.

  Time stretches, loops, reality seeps into the dream.

  None of it feels real, except the moments when the pain is so fucking bad, but even then it’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

  Yeah, Doc, this was a piece of cake, a walk in the park. When breathing hurts so fucking bad you want to cut open your chest with a rusty knife, you know your life has hit a new low.