Accelerate

by Tracy Wolff

  The doctor seems to understand when I try to explain it to him, even though I am still fairly loopy. But he refuses to budge, ordering a small but steady drip of the stuff for the next twelve hours. When I protest, he promises that we’ll re-evaluate after that.

  It’s my turn to be unimpressed, but no one else cares. Even Nic looks satisfied with the new outcome, and that’s saying something since he’s looked like a thundercloud every unguarded second since I first woke up.

  Hours later, when my vitals have steadied some and my body has succumbed to the obvious effects of morphine, the doctor decides that I can be moved to my room. I don’t get too excited though—it’s just another cubicle type place, only this time it’s in the ICU.

  Which isn’t scary at all.

  In my experience the ICU is for old people and dying people and the fact that I’m now there does nothing to make me feel better about this situation. I don’t say anything, but Nic notices because, as I’m finding out, Nic notices everything about me.

  “You doing all right?” he asks, holding a cup of water with a straw to my lips.

  The light is better in here and I can see how pale he is, and how exhausted he looks. His skin is gray, the bags under his eyes pronounced, and I’m again reminded of the fact that I’m not the only one who was shot.

  “You need to go home,” I tell him, trying to sound as forceful as possible. “You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “You’re not fine!” I argue, and this time I actually manage to inject some force into my voice.

  “Don’t,” he tells me. “Don’t you dare worry about me when you nearly died. I almost got you killed—”

  “You didn’t almost get me anything! Besides, I’m pretty sure you saved me.”

  “No,” he says grimly. “You’re the one who saved me. That’s something we’re going to talk about when you’re feeling better.”

  “Why do you make it sound like such a bad thing? I’m actually pretty damn glad you’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not so glad that you’re lying here with stitches in several major organs after major surgery and several blood transfusions.”

  “What? You’d rather it be you?”

  “Yes, goddamnit, I would.” He keeps his voice low, but that only makes his words more powerful—and more disturbing.

  “Nic.” I reach for him, my hand finding his. “I don’t regret getting between you and that bullet. I never will. And I need you not to regret it, either.”

  He doesn’t say anything then, just looks away, his jaw working and eyes narrowed with obvious pain.

  The room is silent now, save for the machines making their noise in the background. Even so, I hold on to Nic as long as I can. But eventually the medicine and my own tiredness loosen my grip as I drift off on a wave of pain that has my insides feeling like they’re on fire…

  —

  The next couple of days pass in a blur of pain, heavy duty medication, and Nic. Always Nic. No matter what time it is, no matter when I wake up or drift off, he’s here, next to me. Sometimes they take me for CAT scans or other tests, sometimes Vi visits, sometimes some of his friends come by to check on us—and to bring him food and changes of clothes, but through it all Nic is here.

  When they move me to a real room, two days in, I try to insist that Nic sleep in the bed with me since he still hasn’t gotten any sleep that doesn’t involve a chair. He agrees reluctantly, cuddling gently into me as I drift off. But when I wake up, he’s back in the chair, shoulders stiff and head in his hands.

  “Nic, please. Come here.”

  His head jerks up and his eyes, when they connect with mine, are so haunted they make me hurt. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and he’s by my side in an instant. “Do you need water? Do you hurt? Should I call the nurse? I could—”

  “Stop!” I tell him. “Just…stop. Sit down.” I pat the side of the bed.

  He sits, reluctantly, being careful not to jar or jostle me.

  I reach for him, but instead of taking his hand like I usually do, I wrap my fingers around his thigh. Curl into him as much as I can, considering moving is still pretty painful.

  In response, his arm comes around my shoulders and he rests his cheek against the top of my head.

  The extra pain the twisting and turning caused is so worth it if it means I get this moment with him.

  Which is why I don’t say anything right away. I want to savor this, savor him, for as long as I can. But after several quiet minutes pass, I know I can’t avoid what I need to say any longer.

  I cuddle even closer, press a soft kiss to his biceps, then whisper, “I’m worried about you.”

  He chokes out a laugh. “You’re worried about me?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you should stop. I’m fine.”

  “You’re anything but fine,” I tell him with a snort. “You’re not taking care of yourself. You need to sleep, you need to eat, you need to go for a walk and get some fresh air if nothing else. The only time you’ve been away from my bedside is when you spoke to the police and when I forced you to go for the checkup for your wound.”

  He turns to stare at me incredulously. “You nearly died. You can barely take ten steps on your own. You had to have three blood transfusions! Yes, I’m worried about you!”

  “I’m doing better and you know it. And I didn’t die so you need to stop thinking that I almost did—almost doesn’t count. Plus, you need to stop beating yourself up over it! I’m on the mend and probably get to go home in a few days. You, however, are going to make yourself sick and that is not okay with me.”

  “I’m fine, Jordan.”

  “You’re not, Nic.”

  He stands up then, paces over to stare out the window. “Why are you pushing this so much? I’m allowed to be worried about you.”

  “You are, absolutely. But I’m also allowed to be worried about you. And what you’re doing, it’s not healthy. If I was about to die, okay. I can see—and would appreciate—you staying by my side. But I’m not. I’m getting better every day. The doctor is pleased with my progress and you don’t have to worry about me dying if you leave for a couple hours. So what are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Don’t pull that macho shit on me. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but: You. Almost. Died. Do you get that? You threw yourself in front of a bullet meant for me and it nearly killed you.”

  “But it didn’t!”

  “I’m the one who caught you when you fell. The one who held you when you were bleeding out. The one who watched you get weaker and weaker and weaker. I thought you were going to die. Do you get that? I didn’t think you were going to make it. I didn’t think we’d ever get the chance to—” His voice breaks and he just stops. Just looks at me.

  I look back, a little shocked at what I’m seeing. Big, bad Nic Medina looks lost. He looks helpless, and that’s something I never thought I’d see. And it’s something I never want to see again.

  Nic is larger than life. He’s all about breaking the rules, all about going a hundred-fifty miles an hour and never looking back. All about going at something with everything he has and to hell with the consequences. It’s who he is and to see that dimmed because of some asshole cop? That’s not okay with me.

  “We’re going to have the chance to do a lot of things, Nic. I’m sorry I scared you, sorry I made you worry about me. But what happened wasn’t your fault. It was Anderson’s fault and he paid for what he did—and for what he ordered to be done. You need to let what happened on that road go, need to stop beating yourself up over it. It happened. We both survived. It’s over now. That’s the important thing, especially since the truth is, I’d do it again.”

  “Don’t ever say that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  I swing my feet to the floor, push myself out of be
d. It’s not the first time I’ve been up today, but it still hurts. Still isn’t easy as I cross the room to him.

  He’s looking out the window, steadfastly refusing to look at me, so when I put my hand on his back, he jumps a little, then whirls to face me. “What are you doing? You need to get back in—”

  I cut him off by grabbing his head and pulling his mouth down to mine.

  It’s the first time we’ve really kissed since I was shot and I nearly weep in relief at the feel of his lips on mine. Because, even with everything that’s happened—even with Nic’s incredible guilt trip—this hasn’t changed a bit. It’s still the best feeling in the world.

  I press closer, run my tongue along first his bottom lip and then his top one. His mouth opens on a groan and I lick inside, tangling our tongues together as heat sweeps through me, lights me up from the inside.

  It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve touched him, held him, and I didn’t realize until this moment just how much I’ve missed it. Just how much I’ve missed him and this connection that’s been there almost from the beginning.

  He groans again and then his arms are around me, pressing me flush against his body. Flush against the erection he doesn’t even try to hide. He’s gentle, making sure not to touch my wound and that care—even in the face of his arousal—only makes me want him more, when I didn’t know that was possible.

  Drowning in my emotions and my need, I slide my hands around his waist, cup his ass in my hands. We’re close enough that I can feel his heart beating, can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against my own. And after everything that’s happened—everything we’ve been through—nothing has ever felt so good.

  “I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.

  Nic freezes, pulls away. “What did you say?” he demands, his voice hoarse and eyes just a little wild.

  I smile at him, glide a thumb down his jaw and across his lips. “I love you, Nic Medina. I didn’t plan on it—didn’t plan on you. But I do. I love you so, so much.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Don’t say that, Jordan. Please don’t say that.”

  “I don’t understand.” I stare at him, confused

  He drops his arms from around me, steps back. “Don’t say that you love me when you don’t even know me.”

  Ice coalesces in my stomach, shoots through my heart, my lungs, my veins. “What do you mean? Of course I know you. I know everything about you that I need to know.”

  “You don’t know anything,” he tells me. “You don’t know why I went to prison. You don’t know what I did to survive when I was inside. You don’t know how many people I’ve hurt in my life, how many people I’ve let down. If you did, you would never, for one moment, think that you loved me.”

  There’s so much wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to start. But I have to say something. I hate the self-loathing I see in his face, hear in his voice.

  “You’re right,” I tell him after several seconds pass. “I don’t know what happened to you in prison and I’ve never asked. Not because I’m afraid of what you might say, but because you’ve told me all along that my past is my past and that I don’t need to share with you if I don’t want to. I always figured that applied to you, too, you know? That what happened in the past is in the past. That even though it shaped us, it didn’t ruin us. That all that matters, all that should matter, is who we are now. Who we’ll be in the future.”

  “That’s what makes you special. But it’s not the same for me.”

  “Of course it is. Nic—”

  “No,” he says, his voice strained to the breaking point. “It isn’t. You weren’t responsible for what happened to you. Someone hurt you. I was responsible for everything that happened to me. I’m the one who stole cars—yeah, Anderson had it in for me, but I still gave him the opportunity to arrest me. I’m the one who let my brother and sister go to foster care, where my sister went through hell and ended up pregnant and my little brother…I don’t even know what the fuck happened to Joe to make him what he is today. But I know it was bad. That’s on me, Jordan. That’s not on anyone else. It’s on me.”

  “You made mistakes, Nic. We all do—”

  “No! We don’t all make mistakes. Not like the ones I made. I ruined my family, got my friends arrested with me, even got one of them killed in prison. Most people never make mistakes like that.”

  For the first time, I realize just how deep his scars are. And how much a part of him they are.

  It scares me a little—not what he’s done, not what he thinks he’s done—but how much he hates himself for it. No one should feel like that, especially not a man as kind and caring and wonderful as Nic.

  I start to tell him that, but my tired legs choose this moment to give out. My knees buckle and I cry out as I start to fall. I’m reaching for Nic as it happens, because I know he’ll catch me.

  And he does. Of course he does, grabbing me by the arms and pulling me gently into his chest.

  “Fuck! Are you all right?” he demands, lifting me carefully and carrying me over to the bed.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Of course you’re tired. What the hell are you thinking, pushing yourself like that?”

  “I was thinking that my boyfriend is really hot and I really love him and I really want to kiss him.” I latch onto him, use my last burst of strength to try to pull him onto the bed with me.

  But this time, he resists. “You need to sleep,” he tells me.

  “What I need is you.” I grab his hand, bring it to my mouth and press kisses to his palm as he’s done to me so many times before.

  “I’m the one thing you don’t need. Look around, Jordan. Everything bad that’s happened to you is because of me.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time.”

  “Yeah, I’m so good I kidnapped you, stole your car, got your apartment bugged, got you in a car wreck, and got you shot—all in under forty-eight hours. I’m a real fucking prince.”

  “Princes are highly overrated. I—”

  A knock on the door, followed by today’s nurse—Jenn, I think—poking her head in, interrupts my train of thought. “Time for a vitals check and your pain medication,” she says as she cheerfully bustles into the room.

  I nod, shoot her a tight smile as I extend my arm for the dreaded blood pressure machine. Across the room, Nic shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks as she fastens the cuff around my upper arm. “You’re sweating a little bit.”

  “She overdid it,” Nic interjects. “She was up walking around and nearly fell.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jenn looks at me reproachfully. “We talked about this. Little bit by little bit. Right? You can’t overdo it or you’re going to set your progress back. If you fall, you could really hurt yourself.”

  “I didn’t fall. Nic caught me.”

  “He caught you? Did he pull on your stitches?” She reaches for my gown.

  “No, he didn’t even touch my stitches. He was careful.”

  “Still, I’d like to check. The last thing you want is to tear those open—trying to treat that when it happens is awful.” She glances at Nic. “Can you step out for a minute, so I can check her?”

  “Yeah, of course.” He looks pale, his normal caramel skin almost gray. He grabs his smartphone off the table and takes off for the door like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

  “Lean forward, please,” Jenn says, already slipping my gown down my arms.

  “I’m fine. I was just up too long and I got tired.” I will her to hurry up. Leaving Nic alone when he’s in this mood isn’t a good thing—I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see.” She doesn’t say anything else as she undoes my bandage and runs one gloved finger along my wound. “It looks fine. No harm done.”

  “I told you. Nic was careful.�
�

  “I’m glad to hear that. Still, you need to be careful of yourself, too. Your body’s been through a lot and while we want you up, walking around, we also want you to listen to your body and not overdo anything. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She hands me my medicine—I’ve graduated from the morphine drip to Percocet—and a glass of water. She watches while I take it, then finishes up her vitals check.

  “You’re looking good, Jordan. They’ll bring your lunch in an hour and I’ll be by to check on you then. Okay?”

  “Sure. Can you send Nic back in?”

  “You bet,” she says as she walks out. But seconds later, Jenn pops her head back in. “He’s not out here right now—probably went to get some fresh air. If I see him, I’ll send him your way.”

  Then she’s gone and I’m left staring at the closed door as the knowledge that Nic is gone sweeps through me. Maybe I’m being melodramatic, maybe I’m seeing ghosts where there aren’t any, but I know him and he isn’t on a walk. He isn’t stretching his legs or making a phone call or getting something to eat. He isn’t doing any of the things I told him to do.

  He’s just gone…and he’s not coming back.

  Chapter 26

  Nic

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Joe looks up as I open his bedroom door. Despite the fact that it’s only ten A.M., there’s a beer on his nightstand and a joint dangling from his mouth. “Ever heard of privacy?”

  “Ever heard of drinking and drug laws?” I counter, grabbing the beer and carrying it to the bathroom where I dump it down the sink.

  “Wow. You’re quoting the law to me? That’s hilarious.”

  “Glad I can make you laugh,” I tell him, glancing at my watch and trying not to wonder what Jordan’s doing right now. It’s been three days since she said she loved me. Three days since I told her not to. Three days since I walked out of her hospital room without a word and left her all alone.