“Hey,” I choke out. “Hey, you.”
I snatch up his right hand in both of mine. His fingers are limp and unmoving. Fuck, his skin is cold. And he still has that stupid breathing tube in, making that awful rhythmic noise.
“Don’t die, okay?” I say, even though I know he can’t hear me. “Don’t you dare fucking die.”
I’m desperately close to crying again, and I know I have to let go of him before someone walks in. I squeeze his hand tightly, then lean forward and press my lips to his temple.
“Don’t die,” I repeat in a whisper. “Promise you won’t die.”
The sound of footsteps in the hall outside gives me just enough time to drop his hand and step backward before a nurse walks in. He’s got a pinched, arrogant sort of face, and he scowls at me straight off the bat.
“Qu’est-ce que vous avez fait?” He waves me out of the way and peers at Jacob’s hand. The IV in it is bleeding around the edges. Fuck, I must’ve done it when I squeezed his hand.
The nurse looks at me like I’m trash and says something in rapid French. Then, to make things even worse, Jacob’s brother, Paul, walks in.
“What’s going on?” he demands, his sharp eyes taking in me, the nurse, the bleeding IV. “Why’s his IV bleeding?”
I take another step back, wishing I could melt into the wall.
Paul’s eyes narrow. “You were here yesterday, weren’t you? We aren’t talking to the press.”
“I’m not with the press,” I force out. “I’m one of the drivers.”
His scowl fades a little. “Oh. Which one? Josh? Patrick? Auguste?”
Cheeks burning, I shake my head. “No, I’m—Travis? Travis Keeping?” I don’t know why I say it like a question.
Paul’s eyes narrow again. He doesn’t watch Formula 1, I remember. He once told Jacob it was “overrated.” “I don’t remember hearing your name before,” he says. “And I talk to my brother all the time.”
There’s no mistaking the suspicious tone in his voice. He must think I’m a real piece of shit, sneaking in here to get dirt on his dying brother.
“I’m... not in F2,” I say throatily. “I’m in F1. With Harper Racing?” I clear my throat. “You can look it up.”
“I will,” Paul says. He whips his phone out and taps at it for a minute, then looks up again, his frown a fraction smaller. “We can’t be too careful,” he says, not quite an apology. “Stupid reporters have been trying to get in all weekend. And I haven’t heard him mention your name before,” he adds sharply.
I don’t know what to say to that. I doubt he’d believe the truth, even if I blurted it out right here and now.
“What happened with his IV?” Paul asks the nurse, forgetting me for a moment. “Does it have to be changed?”
“No, I have fixed it,” the nurse says in English, shooting me a dirty look. “The doctor will be here any moment.”
“Good, thank you,” Paul says briskly. The nurse leaves, and Paul parks himself in a chair by Jacob’s side. He gives me an expectant look. “Nice of you to visit.”
It’s an obvious dismissal, but now that I’m here—now that I’ve touched Jacob’s skin—there’s no way in hell I’m leaving.
“Everyone’s wondering how he’s doing,” I say, as steadily as I can. “All the other F1 drivers. I’m sure they’d all like to hear an update.”
Paul opens his mouth—to disagree, I’m sure—but he’s too slow. An older lady with gray hair and dress clothes, the same one I saw the first night, steps into the room.
“Ah, Monsieur Paul, bonjour,” she says, holding a hand out for Paul to shake. “And who is this?”
She holds out her hand to me.
“Travis Keeping,” I say, shaking it. “I’m a friend.”
Paul shoots me a swift, skeptical look, but the doctor nods, unaware of the tension between us.
“Very good,” she says. “I’m Dr. Kajetanowicz—Dr. K, you can call me.”
