They’d brought Killian there too, after he was safely removed from the rubble. In addition to medical care, he’d been offered any damn thing he wanted.
All he wanted was his best friend alive again.
He’d stood with Tommy’s parents when the doctors informed them that he’d been dead on arrival. The damage from what Killian believed was a bomb had been extensive.
Each word had been a blow. He’d stood by them as they railed at the doctors, begging for transplants, drugs, even cyber enhancements. Any options that would save their son. Killian understood what they were going through. He’d done the same five years ago.
Though Killian had known the odds of Tommy surviving were slim, the loss hadn’t sunk in until Tommy’s father had wrapped his arms around Killian and he’d felt the other man’s hot tears on his neck.
Killian hadn’t lost it then. Wouldn’t—couldn’t—until whoever was responsible was punished.
No one had told Portia yet. He didn’t envy the person who had that task. She was on a floor above him, in the family’s private wing.
He couldn’t visit. Not yet.
It should have been him. Tommy should have been on the dance floor with his wife. Killian should have been on the sidelines holding the package. His selfishness, his demand to dance with Portia, had destroyed her life.
She’d never forgive him and he didn’t blame her.
“Are we done?” Brusque, but he didn’t care. Maybe the doctor would write his rudeness off as grief and stress.
Stress—yeah, that was a perfectly valid reason. So was the fact that he hated hospitals. Had hated them ever since he’d woken up an orphan after the accident that had taken his leg.
The doctor frowned. His fingers brushed the screen as he scrolled though Killian’s records again and sighed. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’d prefer to keep you for observation in case of concussion. But I imagine there are better places for you to rest and recover. Ones without all the attention from the newsies.”
“Perfect.” Let him think the paparazzi were the reason Killian didn’t want to hang around the hospital.
“Not to mention we could use the bed,” the doctor continued. “They’re still bringing in people who were hit by debris. Plus all the lookie-loos who got into traffic accidents from staring at the news when they should have been paying attention to their surroundings.”
Killian raised a brow. The hospital was a private one, available only to Tremaine investors, employees, and people who paid dearly for access. “They’re accepting outsiders?”
The doctor nodded. “I hate to say it, but it’s good PR. And most of the injuries that occurred outside of the building won’t require extensive medical assistance.”
That made more sense. Tremaine never did anything without a reason.
Though Killian itched to leave, the opportunity to gather information was too good, especially since the doctor was in a chatty mood. “Were many other people injured?” Anyone associated with the big corporations would likely have been taken to private facilities the way he and Portia had been.
Everyone else? Normally, they’d need to make a deal with the devil to get care. Was the courier one of those?
As his head cleared, Killian had decided that if Tommy had been at the center of the explosion, the courier was the most obvious way the bomb had gotten into the building. But why would she do it?
Did it really matter though? If she were responsible for Tommy’s death, he would make her pay.
Until then, he hated to think of her battered and bruised, dying in a dark alley. Nobody deserved to die like that.
He frowned. Why the hell was he worried about her? He must have hit his head harder than he’d thought. She was likely some kind of domestic terrorist or corporate assassin.
“A dozen, maybe two,” the doctor said. It took Killian a second to remember what he’d asked. “The worst of it was within the hotel itself. As you know,” he added.
Yes, he did. Killian pushed back the memories and slipped off the exam table. The pain in his leg caused him to bobble his first step, but he ignored it, pushed through the pain, and steadied himself.
The doctor frowned.
Killian stared back, daring him to say something.
Finally, the doctor dropped his gaze to his tablet. “Do you want a prescription for the pain?”
Hell, yes.His back and shoulder twinged. The strain in his leg where muscle and bone met metal and machinery burned. “A mild one.” Killian waited for the usual raised brow, the sternly worded warning.
