“What about me, Boss?” Duncan asked. “What am I gonna do?”
“You’re going to sit over on that couch and stay very quiet.”
Duncan shrank. “Right. Got it.”
“Well!” Roger beamed at Mickey, teasing, “Ready to blow my mind again?”
Mickey sighed haggardly.
Yup.
This was the man he wanted to cook lasagna for and introduce to his grandfather.
The crazy really was catching.
Chapter 15
At precisely five forty-five, Mickey was wheeling a stretcher down the hallway into the ICU at Strassen Springs General with Roger right behind him.
The driver from the funeral home had met them at the gas station as planned, and he passed over the keys for the van, no questions asked. There was a diner a few blocks away, and he would wait there for them to return the vehicle.
Roger certainly cleaned up well, and his suit looked great on him. It was a dark blue pinstripe that brought out his eyes, and Mickey definitely appreciated the fit of his pants.
Mickey’s suit was black on black, and he thought it was fitting for playing the role of a funeral director. And if Roger’s ogling was anything to go by, it looked pretty good.
Roger had been eerily quiet on the drive over to the hospital, and Mickey let him be. This was much more personal for Roger, and Mickey was fine with giving him some space. If he felt the need to reach over and wordlessly pat Roger’s leg to reassure him, it wasn’t a big deal.
This was an important mission, and time would not be on their side.
Apparently, neither was the damn equipment.
They had a little bit of trouble getting the stretcher out of the van. Something went wrong with the wheels not locking, and the damn thing collapsed with one end up and the other flat on the ground.
It was then Roger broke his silence and cursed frantically, kicking the stretcher. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Come on! Piece of shit fuckin’ thing!”
“Calm down,” Mickey hissed. He picked up the end of the stretcher that had collapsed and tried to use his foot to kick the wheels down. When that didn’t work, he found a handle beneath the bed and pulled. He heard a click, and the wheels dropped and locked into place. “See? No problem.”
Roger pushed his hands through his hair. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m just nervous. This has gotta be perfect. We’ve gotta get her out of there.”
“It will be,” Mickey insisted. “Shut your mouth and get your shit together.” He stared Roger down. “That’s an order from your fuckin’ master. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Roger breathed out. He immediately relaxed, and his eyes became glassy. “I got it.”
Mickey wasn’t about to debate the morality of using Roger’s penchant for submission to get him focused.
They had a job to do.
And if it got Mickey kinda hot, well, that was something they’d take care of once Crybaby was safe.
Hospital security ushered them through, confirmed their paperwork, and gave them directions to the ICU unit. There they went, Mickey pushing the stretcher down the hallway while Roger followed. They stopped at the nurses’ station and were waved on to Crybaby’s room.
Mickey was very pleased to see there were no cops present, and he and Roger were able to slip inside and shut the door behind them.
Crybaby was unconscious, pale and limp in a faded hospital gown. She had multiple IVs in her arms, but they weren’t currently hooked up to anything. After all, a dead person wouldn’t need any fluids.
Roger’s calm expression was strained, but he kept it together as they pushed the stretcher next to the bed. Together, they carefully pulled her over onto the stretcher. Roger cradled her head and adjusted the pillow beneath it. Mickey buckled the straps and gently draped the stretcher cover over her.
“Ready?” Mickey whispered.
