Frank huffed a small breath. “Wish I’d just trusted you, though.”
The knot in Rick’s chest loosened, though he wouldn’t give Frank the satisfaction of seeing it. “Would’ve saved you a cracked skull and a couple weeks of soup dinners.”
Frank snorted. “Don’t rub it in. Stella will be bad enough.”
For a moment, their gazes held, and something unspoken passed between them: memory, regret, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need words. Years of nights like this—close calls, bullets dodged, cases gone sideways. No speeches, no apologies, only the weight of everything they’d already lived through pressing into the silence until it settled into something familiar. The kind of silence brothers shared without needing blood.
Frank shifted again, and his gaze caught on the door’s small window. His brow furrowed. “Christ almighty,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Guess I really did hit my head hard. I’m seeing that pretty boy of yours out there.”
Rick followed his stare. Ash leaned against the corridor wall, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, head tipped with that same melancholy poise he wore like a suit. He’d changed at the loft—new pair of black jeans clung to his legs, clean black hoodie hugged his torso under the jacket—but in the bleached glare of hospital lights, he looked out of place. Too vivid, too alive, the world bending around him without meaning to.
Rick’s groin gave a traitorous pulse. That kid. That damn kid. He’d been haunting him even when he wasn’t in the room. “You’re not seeing things,” he said, words rougher than he meant.
Frank turned sharply, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. “You’re telling me he’s actually here? What the hell for?”
“He’s agreed to help with the case.” Rick braced for Frank’s blowback.
And it came; Frank’s mouth tightened, breath flaring sharp. “For fuck’s sake, Rick. Like it wasn’t bad enough you screwed him. Now you’re working with him?”
Rick felt his own temper rise. “It’s not like I have options! You’re laid up, and I’m running out of road. He can… do things I can’t.”
For a long moment, Frank only glared at him, weighing, measuring. The anger bled into something else; weariness, maybe, or the kind of reluctant acceptance that tasted bitter going down. Finally, he gave a dry, quiet grunt. “So you’re taking whatever help you can scrape up, even from the demon stripper built to ruin men?”
Rick almost smiled, though it snagged at the edges. “Something like that.”
Footsteps echoed along the corridor; the faint squeak of rubber soles on polished tile, the ghost of antiseptic riding the air, softened by the powdery trace of perfume. Rick caught the nurse’s scent before the door even swung open.
A petite brunette slipped in, crisp in her white uniform, the cap perched neatly over shining curls. Scarlet lipstick gave her smile a touch of glamour, her appearance polished and professional. She carried the clipboard with practiced poise, as if it were part of her image.
“How’s our troublemaker today?” she asked, voice brisk but lilting, glancing at Rick before turning to Frank.
“The old noggin’s still attached,” Frank said with a grin, shifting against the pillows.
Rick smirked. If Frank had the energy to flirt, he was mending fine.
The nurse moved to the monitor, tapping the screen with a pen. “Vitals look good. A lot better than when you were firstbrought in. Another day or two and your wife’s going to have her hands full keeping you in line.”
Frank gave a rough chuckle that turned into a wince. “Don’t jinx me, sweetheart. I’m aching in places I didn’t know I had.”
Rick leaned at the foot of the bed, watching the easy rhythm between them. But Frank needed downtime, and Rick had his own miles yet to walk. He rose, gave the rail a parting tap, and reached for his hat. “Take it easy,” he said as the nurse bent to adjust the bandage with deft fingers. “Stella can keep you in check. I’ll handle the rest.”
As he tipped the brim in a casual goodbye, Frank’s voice caught him. “Hey, Slade.” His gaze sharpened, though the glint there was warm. “Try not to get yourself killed. I called dibs on that.”
Rick let one corner of his mouth lift. “No promises,” he said, tugging the brim lower before turning for the door. The sound of their laughter trailed him into the hall.
Ash was waiting across the corridor, eyes half-closed, jacket drawn close, fists sunk in his pockets. He pushed off the wall as soon as he saw him. “How is he?”
“Stubborn as they come.” He let the words hang a beat before adding, quieter, “He’ll pull through.”
A faint smile tugged at Ash’s mouth. “Good.”
Rick’s gaze roamed over him—the tilt of his shoulders, the careless fall of his hair, the quick beam of merriment that always caught him off guard. He forced his tone steady. “Ready to hit the road?”
Ash tipped his head, a flicker of mischief playing at his lips. “Yeah. I called work, took some time off. I’m all yours now.”
Fuck. The line hit deeper than it should, low in his chest and lower still. The kind of line that should’ve slid off harmless, but it sank straight into him, heat and ache in one stroke. Rick’s mouthcurved despite himself. “Vinny gonna survive without his star dancer?”
Ash’s grin widened, sharp and sure. “Vinny’ll live. He always does, as long as I promise to return.”
