Twisted(115)

“Oh Jesus.” Had he gone to see his parents and not to see his dealer? If so, what had happened to him? She gripped the arm of the couch and sat down, incapable of standing. “You don’t understand—”

“I never answer her calls, but something told me to today. You knew about my…brother, and didn’t tell me. What else you keeping from me, baby?”

“It’s not like that. It’s not. I wanted to tell you—”

“You always want, you just never…do. I don’t fucking care anymore. Get off me,” he roared at Nick, who didn’t move.

“Your shoulder is dislocated, at minimum,” Nick said, his voice so calm that Jazz didn’t know if she envied his strength or wanted to kick his ass. “If you ever want to play again, you’ll let me drive you to the hospital.”

When Gray didn’t respond, Nick searched through Gray’s pockets and pulled out the keys to Harper’s truck. “Take these,” he said, tossing them to her. “Go start the truck and we’ll be right out.”

“But I can help—”

“Go,” Gray and Nick said in unison, making her eyes burn.

She knew she didn’t have any right to feel hurt. Gray was in agony, and yes, he was angry—for some good reasons and for some stupid ones—but his reaction was marred by pain. She couldn’t take offense at what he said in this state, and besides, it didn’t even matter how he felt about her just then. The only thing that mattered was getting him help.

Nodding, she rose and swayed, digging her nails into the chair arm to maintain her balance. She glanced up to see Gray staring at her, his lips parting as if he’d been on the verge of saying something. As if maybe he wanted to know if she was okay. Then he firmed them and looked away.

She rubbed her thumb over the key fob in her hand and hurried outside, forcing herself to focus on what she had to do next. One foot ahead of the other, down to the truck. Start the vehicle and wait for the guys to appear. She quickened her steps, skirting the hood. She wouldn’t analyze, and she wouldn’t think. She’d just—

Something was on the hood, easily visible because Harper’s truck was white and the substance was dark and sludgy. Mud maybe? She dipped her fingers into the wetness before she thought better of it. The coppery scent of blood hit her nose.

Blood. Gray’s blood.

“Oh God,” she whispered, barely making it to the grass before she emptied her stomach.

* § *

In the darkness, he could smell her.

Watermelons and wildflowers, fresh cut grass and sunshine. Her hair tickled his cheek and her heartbeat matched its rhythm to his, occasionally speeding up and slowing down before syncing with his once more. Her comforting weight on his chest abated his pain, more effective than any medicine. When she was with him, he could breathe again.

Gray opened his eyes, his mouth already curving in preparation of seeing her. But she wasn’t there. The room was empty and dimly lit, illuminated just enough for him to make out the curtain pulled shut beside his bed. His hospital bed.

They’d taken him to the freaking hospital and left him alone.

As you asked them to.

He tried to lift his arm and groaned at the fiery pain between his shoulder and neck and the drag of an IV pulling on his forearm. Fucking hell. He tried to sit up to pour a glass of water and only managed to make it halfway to the jug on the bedside table before the myriad aches in his body forced him to be still.

Nope, no water. No anything. He was just going to lay there and listen to the guy moaning in the next bed and try to find his sense of gratitude that at least his soreness was manageable. Mostly.

The next time he woke, the room was full of light. The curtain beside his bed had been pulled open and his neighbor in the next bed was gone. He hoped he’d left on his own two feet.

Pale sunlight streamed in through the small window, making him blink. Maybe he could try reaching for the water again—

The click of high heels on tile caused him to turn his head. And inwardly groan. “Need some help?” Lila asked pleasantly.

“No.”

He slouched against his pillows and rued the day he’d ever met Deacon McCoy. If he hadn’t gotten friendly with him at some dive club, he wouldn’t have ever tried writing with him. If he hadn’t tried writing with him, they wouldn’t have penned “The Becoming”, the song that ultimately became Oblivion’s first hit. Then he never would’ve met Nick and Simon, and he wouldn’t have joined this godforsaken band.

That he loved, goddammit.

“Sure about that?” She stopped beside the bed and poured a cup of water before offering it to him.