Ronnie takes the dirty bandage and dumps it in the rubbish bin next to the desk before retrieving the bag of supplies the hospital sent us home with. There are some painkillers – nothing I couldn't get from any roadie on the tour though – antiseptic ointment, clean gauze, some medical tape. We're supposed to change the wrappings twice a day. Well, I'm supposed to do it twice a day, but I'm lucky – I have Ronnie. I swallow hard, and I know without him even having to say it that he loves me as much, if not more, than I love him. I don't know how or why, but I'm pretty positive he fell for me that first day, when I approached him backstage and pretended to be interested in his assorted collection of gossip and travel stories. That's a drummer for ya. Always intense, focused, always in rhythm. I try not to smile.
His hands are gentle as he cleans the wound and replaces the bandage. I have to look away, not because blood makes me squeamish, but because the soft touch of his hands is too much. Blood and gore, I can deal with. Somebody like this, treating me like I really mean something, I don't know how to process that. My chest heaves and I have a hard time finding my next breath. When Ronnie reaches up and cups the side of my face, I feel tears threatening to squeeze out from under my eyelids.
“I'm sorry about Poppet,” he tells me, and his voice is so sincere that I feel sick to my stomach. I can't hold back the wave of emotion when he's looking at me like that, his dark hair falling across his brow, his full lips slightly parted. I lean into his touch and close my eyes again, letting the liquid drip down my cheeks. “I am so sorry that you got dragged into this.”
“It's not your fault,” I whisper back to him because it's really not, not at all. I should've been stronger, should've told Stephen/Tyler to go fuck himself when he approached Ice and Glass and tricked us into becoming his little minions. I wanted so much to be more than just a sugar farmer's daughter, something more than a girl who'd bet everything on traveling to another country to be with a boy. In all the ways Cohen Rose was rough, Ronnie is gentle. In all the ways he was weak, this man is strong. Maybe, somehow, fate knew I'd end up with Ronnie eventually? If I think about it now, all the pain and the heartache and the guilt, it feels like it was worth it, just to feel the touch of his skin against mine. “I wish I'd been a stronger person.”
“You are a strong person, Lola Saints. Listen to me.” Ronnie's voice brooks no argument, so I glance up and focus on the snake tattoos that wrap his neck. I meet the eyes of a cobra and swallow back another wave of tears. Fuck. I keep promising myself that I won't cry, and then I go and do it again. Damn you, Ronnie. “If you hadn't fallen prey to Stephen's promises, somebody else would've. Somebody with no conscience, no heart. You came to us and told us the truth, Lola. If you hadn't done that, who knows where this all would've ended up? Believe it or not, things could've been worse.”
“Is it over?” I ask, and Ronnie's silence tells me all I need to know.
“Over is a relative term,” he says, dropping his hand from my face and taking a step back. The soft black cotton of the jersey dress drapes over my form with a swish of fabric and I cross my arms over my chest before looking up at his face. “Here.” Ronnie holds out a hand and smiles at me. I reach out and curl my fingers around his, around the knuckles that spell out LOVE in black ink. “Sit down and I'll order room service. You should try to take it easy.”
“I've never had it easy,” I say and then cringe, realizing how bitchy that sounds. “What I mean is, I'm not sure if I even know how.” I move over to the edge of the bed with Ronnie's help and straighten myself out on top of the white linen with a groan. I'm feeling better, and the pain has definitely lessened, but bloody fuck, am I knackered. I close my eyes and rest my head against the pillows, enjoying the gentle reprieve from the chaos that has been my life for the past few weeks. It feels good, too good maybe, because before I know it, I'm asleep.
I must not stay that way for long though because when I wake up, there's a cart next to the bed with silver trays that are still warm when I reach out and touch them. Ronnie's disappeared, but the TV's on, some stupid reality show playing. I sit up and wrap my arms around my chest, staring at the flickering colors with blurry eyes and a yawn. There's a bloke on there wearing high heels and traipsing down a runway. Perfect. This is exactly the sort of mindless shit that I love. Nothing dulls the mind better than a healthy dose of 'reality' TV.
I scoot towards the edge of the bed and moan when I swing my feet onto the floor. Getting shot blows some seriously fat donkey dick. Not gonna lie about that one. I touch a hand to my dress and force back the memory of Poppet's face staring back at me. She didn't have to shoot me. She could've dropped that kid's shirt and backed away, held up her hands and said she was sorry. We could've moved on together. I close my eyes against the thought that someday very soon, I'm going to have to call my father. He might already know. Hell, he must because nobody's contacted me about funeral preparations.