Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)(109)

"It's in the genes, I guess." I stroked my chin thoughtfully, taking a sip of my cup of Joe. "Who fucking cares, Vic? Seriously. She needed me, and I stood her up. She needed me, and she stood in the rain waiting on me. I should burn in hell. In fact, I bet you'd be happy to light the fucking match." 

Vicious offered me an uncommitted shrug, moving his teeth across his lower lip.

"What?" I elbowed him.

"I mean, honestly? Who hasn't fucked up? I fucked up with Emilia so many times. I did things that were far worse. But she wasn't sick. That's the only difference. She was there to accept me when I finally pulled my head out of my ass and started groveling."

"And you think Rosie is not going to make it?" I cleared my throat so I wouldn't choke, and there was not enough air in the fucking room as I waited for his answer.

He looked down. "I'm not a doctor, but I'd be lying if I said her prognosis is good."

"I have to speak to her." I angled my body to face him, clasping both his shoulders and forcing him to look at me-look at my grief. "You need to help me, Vic. I can't not see her right now. You realize that, right?"

He measured me, silent and cunning. His lips were pressed together. He was thinking.

"What do you want?" I scrubbed my face. "Name your price."

Holy fuck, we were doing this again. This. Negotiating each other's happiness. Fine. Whatever. Everything had a price tag. Especially in Vicious's world.

"What would it take for me to get to her?"

Nothing was a hard limit. I think he knew it.

"I want fifteen percent of your shares in Fiscal Heights Holdings." He served me my own medicine and shoved a good amount of it down my fucking throat. I didn't even think about his request before the words left my mouth.

"Take them. They're yours. Now get me up there. I need to see her."

"Twenty," he said. Fucker.

Straight-faced, I said, "Yours."

"Twenty-five. All of your shares. Mine. Sign it tomorrow morning."

"Take all my shares. Take my clothes and my apartment and my inner organs. Let me see her. Reason with the LeBlancs."

He got up, finished his coffee in one gulp, and set his cup down.

"The thing is, Mr. Cocksmacked, I don't need any of your shit. But I'll help you. This is the hard part, by the way. Even if her parents would let you see her, the LeBlanc sisters don't go down easy."

I stood up, finally allowing a smirk to grace my face.

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm a very good tackler."





What makes you feel alive?

The struggle. To breathe. To live. To not let go.



THE MUTTERS BEHIND THE CLOSED door awakened me. Whoever stood there lost their patience quickly. The stomping on the floor tipped me off. Then the voices started bleeding into my ears and the puzzle pieces fell into place.

Mama raised her voice. "I don't actually care. My daughter is very sick, and you were well aware of that. You know her, after all. Now go away, boy, and don't you come back here. Rosie is fighting for her life, and make no mistake, I blame you for it. What makes you think she'll want to see you?"

"Mrs. LeBlanc." His voice had an edge I couldn't decode. Dean Cole wasn't the groveling type. "I apologized. Let your daughter decide for herself. I assure you, she wants to hear me out. Ask her."

"She's asleep."

I opened my mouth with the intention to call out to them, but nothing came out. The unwelcome transformation my body had gone through in recent hours left me speechless. Literally. No longer able to move my head, I found myself fighting for my next blink. Everything was sore. I had to take shallow breaths purposely, to make sure that my ribs wouldn't crack. I needed to tell the nurse to up my painkiller dose. But I didn't complain. Morphine would only make me sleep more, and there was so much going on around me, I didn't want to miss a thing. The other reason I didn't want to be given more narcotics was naked, raw fear. What if I died in my sleep? My eyes were heavy, but I fought to stay awake.



       
         
       
        

I was desperate to see Dean again. Did he screw up? Yes. Badly. Was I mad at him? Sure. Furious. But when you were on your deathbed, there was no time to be mad. Vindictiveness was thrown out the window, along with any other soul-eating, negative trait that was ingrained in us. When you were on your deathbed, time reminded you just how precious it really was. Feelings were bare and open for the world to see, poke, and dig into.

"Charlene." Vicious interfered from the hospital hallway outside my door. "Rosie loves Dean. He has a reason for not meeting her in the Hamptons yesterday, and I can tell you that his reason doesn't suck. At least ask her if she wants to see him."