I want to stay in the stage of denial for the rest of my life. I run both palms over my cheeks.
“Is he alive?” Asking those words takes more effort than running the New York Marathon. “Did—you find him?”
Beacon nods. “He’s been here for the last four days. He just woke up this morning. His face is all swollen—”
Terror overwhelms me. It’s not him. The other guy had colorful hair and his wallet. This one might be another mistake. I swallow hard. “Are you sure it is him?”
He nods. “I already spoke to him. It’s the same asshole, just banged up,” Beacon jokes.
“This isn’t funny, Beacon,” I protest, my voice loud enough to get the attention of the people on the other side of the door.
“Calm the fuck down,” he states. “He’s fine. You can’t go inside looking like the living dead and shaking like you’re in Antarctica without a jacket. The last thing he needs to see is you losing your shit.”
I hate to agree with him, but I take a few minutes to settle myself. “How did you find him?”
“All that matters is that we found him, he’s safe, and he has a long haul to recover.” He tilts his head toward the hospital. “I told them he’s my brother. We registered him under the name of Willie B. Hardigan. Are you okay now?”
“Yes.”
“Follow us,” he orders.
I hate his attitude, but I understand why he’s doing it. I’m a fucking mess. If I don’t get my shit together, I might make a mistake. This moment is important. I have to make amends.
As we walk toward the ICU, he tells me what he knows so far. The police found him in an alley here in Miami. The authorities believe someone mugged him. He was found unconscious, almost freezing, and with several cuts in his torso. None of them were deep, nor did they reach any vital organs.
Why was the guy who had his belongings in Fort Lauderdale? There are so many things that make no sense. I want to have all the answers.
“The guy in Fort Lauderdale had a pocketknife,” I state. “It was bloody.”
Beacon glances at me then at Byron who hasn’t said a word since I arrived.
“He’s probably the one who mugged him,” Byron says. “He must’ve taken everything, including the drugs he bought at the nightclub.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s just say your boy bought a lot of product. They caught it on the CCTV in the club,” Beacon answers. “We’ll take a closer look.”
When we arrive at a nurse station, Beacon says, “Hey, Gloria, we’re back.”
“Only one of you can see him,” she states, studying us like a teacher knowing we’re up to no good.
Before anyone speaks, I say, “I’d like to see him.”
“Another one of your brothers?” She arches an eyebrow suspiciously.
“No, Ethan is Willie’s—”
“Partner,” I interrupt him before he makes things worse and they don’t allow me to visit with Zeke.
“What kind of partner,” she asks skeptically.
“The domestic kind.” My short snippy answers grant me a nose scrunch.
She looks at my hand. “No ring?” she asks, as if calling my bluff.
“No rings,” I confirm. “Neither one of us is into jewelry.”
“If I find out that one of you is lying, I’ll call the police,” she warns us.
Beacon grins at her. “Now, sweet Gloria, why would I lie to you? My grandma wouldn’t be happy, and I’d hate to upset her.”
She smiles at him. “Fine, only one of you can see him.”
“There you go, lover boy,” Beacon pats my back. “We’ll be here waiting for you.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
When I enter the room, I flinch. His face has several bruises and a couple of stitches. His left arm has a cast. Beacon didn’t mention broken bones. I stand by the entrance for a long moment watching him sleep, organizing my thoughts, breathing with relief.
He’s here, alive, breathing.
I don’t waste more time. If I learned anything in the past few days it’s that life is precious, love is limitless, but the one thing we don’t have is time. Everything can end in a second, without notice. I have to act. I waltz to the side of his bed, taking his hand and squeezing it. I kiss it and mumble, “Hi.”
My body relaxes as I feel his pulse and the warmth of his skin, and I breathe his scent mixed with antiseptic and cleaners. Carefully, I lean forward and kiss his temple. God, I could hug him. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let him go. A few tears roll down my cheeks. He’s here.
“Deep down, I knew you were still around,” I whisper. “I love you so much, babe.”
I wish he’d wake and talk to me. I need to listen to his deep, husky bass complaining about the bed, the food, and how he can’t do whatever the fuck he wants. Soon he’ll be well enough to make the nurses squirm with his flirtatious tone.
I place a kiss on his lips. “I almost died thinking you weren’t around anymore. I…I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
His eyes open, and he stares at me.
“I thought I lost you,” I confess, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
He blinks twice. “Who are you?”
My stomach twists. Beacon didn’t mention anything about amnesia. “Zeke, it’s me,” I twine our fingers and almost stammer as I say my name, “Ethan.”
His blank stare is freaking me out. Fuck, did the asshole mess him up so bad that he can’t remember who he is? This is a temporary side effect from the beating he suffered, I assure myself. And even if he can’t remember, I’ll remember for us. We’ll make new memories. I’ll dedicate my life to make up for everything I wronged.
“It’s okay,” I assure him with a calm voice unlike the panic stirring inside me. “We’ll hire the best doctors. I’ve heard about some cases like this. We can overcome it.”
I kiss him again on the lips as gently as possible. “We’ll be okay, babe.”
“No, really, who the fuck are you?” he insists with an angry hiss. “Did you get a lobotomy, Killion?”
The mention of my last name and the anger sparking inside him like a flash of fire makes me release his hand and take a couple of steps back. His eyes blaze with rage. I’m afraid that I’ll catch on fire and burn. The room might explode. What’s happening?
I stare at him in confusion, holding my breath. “You know who I am?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he groans. “Fuck. I need something for the pain.”
“Do you want me to call the nurse?”
“No. They can’t give me anything. I’m not going through another withdrawal just because I can’t take a little pain,” he states, closing his eyes for a few moments. When he opens them, he asks, “Why are you here, Killion?”
The vile in his words is bitter. I take it. I’d rather deal with him than with his funeral. His attitude must be the result of everything that’s been happening to him for the past few days.
“Because you’re here,” I answer without telling him everything that’s been happening since I learned he left the center.