There’s a scrape of a chair and then a warm hand on mine. “Lincoln, I’ll just sit here until you’re ready to talk to me.”
That surprises me.
The shit out of me.
I glance over to make sure the man sitting beside me is my dad. The same dad who would normally take charge. Bark orders. Be in control.
It looks like him, but this dad has tears rolling down his face.
“I’ll be okay.”
He swallows so hard I hear the click of his throat as it moves up and down. “Yes. You will. Forgive me.”
I glance at him again. “For what?”
He wipes at his face. “I thought we lost you. We did lose you, twice I’m told. Just seeing you again is the greatest relief of my life.”
I died? Twice?
“I thought I’d lost my chance to apologize to you,” he continues and I force my attention back to him. “I thought I was doing the right thing by you, by all my children. Since being molded for Duffy International and marrying … properly … worked for me in the end. I assumed that once you came to your senses, it would work for you too.”
I try to sit up in the bed a little straighter, but the pain… oh shit the pain. I fight against it and straighten myself anyway. Embrace the suck, I remind myself.
“Did you ever regret it?” I ask him, forcing my jaw to untighten enough to say the words.
Dad looks from me to the machines beeping next to me, to the ceiling and then back to my face. “Just one regret, but even that is now halfhearted. I have a life people envy. It would be crass of me to regret anything.”
“What was the one thing?” I ask him. I think this is the most honest we’ve ever been with each other. Ever.
His eyes flick to the machines, to my face and then to my feet. Foot. His face crumples and he looks at the ceiling again before blowing out a long breath.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He pats my hand and sighs, before lifting a handkerchief to his face to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. “That will be your mother and sister. I asked them to wait until I went back to bring them to you, but I see they ran out of patience.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“It’s okay. They can come in.”
My father stands and walks over to open the door.
Camille is first, bolting through the door like a streak of lightning. She looks terrible. Her blonde hair is standing up in spikes and her blue eyes are rimmed in red, highlighted by harsh purple stains below them.
She sees me and bursts into tears. She stops next to me, her hands going from my face to my shoulders to my arms. It’s like she’s patting me down, making sure I’m real.
“Hi, Cami.”
She cries harder and leans over the side of the bed to rest her head on my chest. I kiss her hair, breathing in its clean scent and hold her until she gets it all out.
“Camille, that is quite enough.”
Well, looks like some things never change. I look up to meet the gaze of my mother. Chanel, Chanel everywhere. And not a hair out of place.
Cam stiffens in my arms, but doesn’t move. She just squeezes me until I’m forced to wince. “Uh, broken ribs, Cam.”
She jumps up, her eyes huge. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.” I pat the right side—the good side—of the bed and she climbs on, lying down beside me, her head cradled on my shoulder.
“Camille, get down from there this instant.”
Cam breathes “Fuck you” against my chest, just loud enough for me to hear.
“She’s exactly where I want her, Mother,” I say to her, keeping my voice neutral.
She sniffs and turns to my father. “Charles—”
“She’s fine, Olivia,” my dad says sharply, then more quietly, “Leave them be.”
Mother’s spine grows even straighter, but she doesn’t say another word.
There’s another tap on the door and it opens almost immediately and an older man with gray hair and a white coat walks in. “Hello, Mr. Duffy, I’m Dr. Branson.” He looks around the room, nods at my mother and father before smiling down at Camille. ‘Mister’ seems to ring in my ears, a reminder that I’m a ‘civilian’. I’m only at Walter Reed because of ‘my contractual connections with the military’.
My dad steps up to shake Dr. Branson’s hand. “Thank you for taking such good care of our son. When can we take him home?”
Home?
What’s he talking about? I’m not going anywhere.
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut when Dr. Branson says, “I need to examine my patient. Would you all step out for a moment, please?”
Cam groans, but sits up and untangles herself from my IV line, gives me a kiss on the cheek and goes to open the door. She waits and my mom marches through, head high, clearly offended by the dismissal. My dad just gives me a little smile and they’re gone.
“Sergeant Duffy,” Dr. Branson begins and I feel my shoulders relax from the use of my proper name. “I’ve been made aware of your unusual circumstances. Due to the sensitive nature of your presence here, it has been determined that you’re to be transferred to a civilian rehab center for your aftercare … in two days, at the latest.”
I’m not surprised, but hearing it doesn’t make the reality easier to accept. “Yes, I was expecting this news. It’s been part of the overall strategy since I moved into ops. I knew if I were injured, I’d maintain the façade of a contractor.”
Dr. Branson nods. “You may already know that your father and mother are petitioning for you to be transferred to their residence to receive in-home care and rehab. That, of course, is an option.”
My immediate reaction is hell no, but I muzzle it for now. I need to consider all the options. In-home could mean 24-7 rehab, which would mean I’d be mobile again sooner, which would mean I’d be back in Delta, seeking revenge against the demon who set us up.
I like that plan.
Plus, the gated compound would provide me a layer of privacy from the news hounds who will surely want pictures of the fallen playboy.
“How soon can I be in a prosthetic?” I ask him.
He walks to a wall, removes two latex gloves and steps back to the bed. “May I?” He gestures to my leg and I grit my teeth and nod. He lifts the sheet and I grit my teeth even harder. Not from pain, but from the continual surprise of my leg being gone. Poof. Disappeared.
The damage to the left side of my body had been extensive and they’d needed to amputate just above the knee. I’d joked that at least it had been my bad knee, the one I’d injured during a football game in high school. But the joke had fallen flat, even to my own ears.
“No signs of infection,” he says as he examines the … dammit, I hate the word … stump. Then he lifts the hospital gown I’m wearing and examines the place where my left nut should be, but now houses a saline-filled sack. Heaven forbid my balls don’t match. No one laughed when I’d requested a double-D. Apparently, my morphine-induced humor really sucked.
Moving on up my body, he examines the multiple scars that are still bright red marks against my skin. Surgical scar from having my spleen removed. Scar from the chest tube. Then multiple scars from where they’d pulled bullets or pieces of shrapnel from my body. Burns. “A couple more of those and we could have nicknamed you ‘pincushion’,” the doctor jokes.
After the examination, he covers me back up and removes his gloves, tossing them in the bedside basket. “How are you sleeping? How’s your memory? Any headaches or hallucinations?”
I go with the easiest ones first. “Some headache. No hallucinations. I remember just about everything up until I was carried to the Blackhawk. It’s pretty fuzzy after that.”
He nods. “Perfectly understandable and expected. And your sleeping?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m sure it will be back to normal soon. Getting used to … everything.”
“Nightmares?”
I look him straight in the eye and lie. “No. Nothing like that.”
He looks right back
, clearly not believing me. “Right. That bad, huh?”
“Nothing worse than anyone would have in my line of work.”
He nods. “I’m going to order sleeping aids and I highly recommend you take them.” He lifts a hand when I start to protest. “The more restorative sleep you get, the quicker you will heal. Additionally, the aids will take you in a deep enough sleep that, hopefully, the nightmares will be held at bay.”
I nod, but don’t like the idea of medication.
“We can also begin Imagery Rehearsal Therapy which has shown promising results.”
Great. Just what I need, a shrink.
“I also understand you’re refusing pain medication other than over-the-counter analgesics.” He pauses, but I say nothing. “Even so, I’m going to prescribe you pain medication that you can take if needed. Once you begin training with your prosthetics, you may find yourself capable of undergoing longer rounds of physical therapy with the assistance of the medication. Less pain also means lower blood pressure, which will assist in your healing as well. I’ll prescribe the lowest dosage of a drug with less possibility of dependency, if that is your worry.”
Dependency does worry the shit out of me. I’ve seen too many good people fallen not by bullets, but by a pill stuck in their mouth. Prescription versus non-prescription doesn’t mean shit. Addiction is addiction and comes with a hefty price tag.
“There are medications you must continue to take regularly. Anti-inflammatories are one. Before prosthetics are possible, your stump…” I narrow my eyes at the word, “…must shrink and any swelling removed. The anti-inflammatories will assist in that.”
“How soon can I begin physical therapy?” I ask him.
“Today. Within the hour. It’s been nearly 24-hours since you were up due to travel and I want you up on the bars as much as you can tolerate, within reason, today. That will also assist in reducing the swelling.”
“Glad to hear that. I’m ready to get up.”
He smiles. “I expected that you would be. Just so you know, your medical chart has you listed as Mr. Lincoln Duffy, lead contractor and owner of Allied Construction and Restoration. Cause of injury is IED on job site, planted by unknown sources. You are in this military hospital temporarily, as it was a military facility you were constructing. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Please let your nurse know as soon as you decide where you’d like to be transferred to and I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Good luck to you, Sergeant Duffy.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “From what I understand, you’ve served your country in the highest capacity and it’s been my honor to care for you while you are here. Just because that paperwork calls you a civilian, you are a soldier and you survived that attack to serve a further purpose. In the moments when you are asking yourself ‘why me?’ immediately ask yourself ‘why not me?’ Then, work toward fulfilling your purpose.”
I swallow. Try to talk. Can’t and swallow again. “I’ll remember that, sir. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Sergeant Duffy. Good luck to you. I’ll send your family back in.”
Why not me?
It’s a completely different question. Something to think about.
A few minutes later, Cam is through the door and on the bed again, my parents right behind her. My dad offers the chair next to me to my mother, but she declines, saying she prefers to stand after such a long flight.
Dad sits and gets right to the point. “I want you to come home with us, Lincoln. You don’t have to stay at the main house if you don’t want, but stay in one of the cottages, whichever you prefer. I want to hire live-in assistance. A nurse or therapist, whichever will be best. Both if needed. I just—”
He stops speaking when I lift a hand. I’d already flown through the possibilities and options in my mind, and going to Malibu is the best solution. With the press issues, living at my home near Ft. Bragg doesn’t seem logical, even though that home isn’t listed under my name. My cabin in Colorado isn’t listed in my name either, but has too many stairs to navigate well, especially in the beginning stages of my recovery.
Malibu is gated. Secured. Easy access to the gym and workout facilities. Hot tubs. Pools. And maybe a little peace. I realize I want to talk to my dad more. Stay in the middle ground we seem to be forging.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the massacre that occurred in Syria,” I begin, choosing my words carefully.
“Yes,” Dad says, nodding. “Horribly upsetting. A tremendous loss for the US.”
“I worked with some of those men. Knew a few of them well. They assisted me in setting up my teams for rebuilding areas where needed.”
His hand covers mine and Cam presses her face harder into my shoulder, her fingers grasping and un-grasping my hospital gown. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I didn’t know.”
I look at him. “How could you? I didn’t speak about my business often, if any. But, there it is. I knew some of those men. I also witnessed how hard they worked. How dedicated they were to their country. I want to help those who survived that attack and also help the families of those who didn’t.”
“Yes. Of course.”
I look over at my mother, who is by the window, looking out. But I can tell she is listening closely.
“I want the widow of Darren Kerry to receive ten million dollars and the families of each lost or missing soldier to each receive one million.”
Mother turns from the window and looks at me. I meet her gaze for a moment, but can’t read her expression. I look back at Dad and he has pulled out his phone and is using a stylus to write notes.
“For those who survived the attack, I want them each to receive the same care I’ll be receiving, if that is their desire. I want them approached privately and offered in-home care and therapy that I will pay for. In addition, I want each of them to receive two million dollars to—”
“Lincoln, surely you realize that money won’t solve their problems,” my mother interjects.
I take a deep breath. Exhale. “Yes, I do realize that. Money will ease financial issues of being out of work, perhaps for the rest of their lives. It will build ramps for their homes. Widen doorways to be wheelchair accessible. Maybe buy new homes. Whatever they need.”
Her lips press together, then she opens her mouth. To my surprise, Cam jumps in. “Shut up, Mother. Nothing you say right now except ‘that’s a wonderful idea, darling’ will be right.”
Mother’s lips grow even thinner, her back straighter, her nose higher, then she says, “That’s a wonderful idea, darling.”
I give my sister a little squeeze and Dad gives me a wink. Mother turns back to the window in what would be called a huff to people more emotionally available.
“Anonymous donations?” Dad asks.
“Yes. Absolutely anonymous.”
“I’ll have Howard take care of the details of establishing the funds and have checks distributed as quickly as is feasible.” He looks up at me. “I’ll secure Brentworth and Associates to contact the surviving soldiers and ascertain their individual recovery wishes. Anything else?”
I almost feel like I can breathe a little easier. I’m doing something. Not much. Not enough. But something.
“If my math is correct, that’s approximately two hundred million, plus medical fees that are still undetermined. Have him liquidate three hundred million from the bonds great-granddad left me to secure the fund. I think G-dad would like his money going toward this.” Dad smiles at me and nods, while Mother sniffs at the window. “I’ve been told that a few of the soldiers who survived may not make it. Distribute to their families as per my previous instructions.” I can’t believe I’m talking about this so clinically. “I’m sure there are other details, but will you deal with them, Dad?”
He looks up at me and I feel the connection between us grow stronger. “Yes, of course. It will be my honor.”
Cam pipes in. “We need to hire a nurse or therapist. Should we let human resources deal wi
th that?”
Dad nods and makes another note on his phone. “Yes. I’ll contact Helen and have her place an advertisement.” He looks at me. “Do you want final hiring approval or do you want me to take care of it?”
Mother turns from the window. “I’d like to assist with hiring, dear.” We all look at her in surprise. “I’ve always had good instincts when it comes to staff,” she clarifies and turns back to the view outside.
Dad looks at me and I nod.
“Very good,” Dad says and stands up. “You’ll be released and flying home in two days which leaves us with much to prepare for. I believe your mother and I should fly home today and begin those preparations. Camille, would you like to stay and accompany your brother home? I’ll send the jet back for you.”
“Yes,” she says and hugs me tighter. “I’d like that very much.”
“Very good.” He turns to Mother. “Olivia, let’s go, dear. We have much to do. Our boy is coming home.”
Chapter 4 – Grace
Ho-ly crap.
Never. Ever. Ever in my life did I ever think a house could be this big. I’d been to the White House on a school trip back in high school. This feels bigger. Grander. Marble and crystal everywhere. Expensive art hanging on every wall. Furniture that looks like it costs more than my yearly salary—each piece. And an elevator. A house with an elevator, how ridiculous is that? This should be a museum, not where someone watches TV or farts.
I sit outside an office with grand wooden double doors, perched on the end of an expensive looking velvety green chair that’s only good for perching. It’s as uncomfortable as a bed of nails. I glance up at the security camera discretely tucked up in a corner and do my best not to fidget.
I’d already survived one interview with the human resources director at Duffy International and now I’m at the Duffy estate for round two. I’m starting to regret my decision to apply for the position of a private nurse and/or physical therapist.
Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance Page 16
