“Your wife’s here. She’s with mine.” Boss’s low rumble nudged Rusty from the drug-induced sleep that was pretty much his life these days. “They’re in the hall, and they look pissed. Go figure out what’s going on.”
“Me?” Ghost’s quiet baritone pulled Rusty closer to full consciousness. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because I’m scared of my wife when she’s pissed.”
Incredulity laced Ghost’s tone. “What makes you think I’m not scared of mine?”
“Did we forget something? Was there a meeting or—”
“Oh hell.” Rusty heard a slapping sound that made him think Ghost smacked a hand to his forehead. “Was today the day we were supposed to go with them to register for the baby shower?”
“Was that today?” Boss sounded horrified. “Oh shit.”
Rusty, high on drugs, found the doom in Boss’s tone amusing.
“Why the hell do I have to be part of this again?” Boss demanded. “It’s your baby.”
“But your wife is the one throwing the shower.”
“Right.” Rusty could hear Boss’s beard stubble rasp against his callused palm when he dragged a hand over his face. “And she likes to torture me.”
“That she does,” Ghost concurred, a smile in his voice. “Or else she’s softening you up for when it’s your turn in the hot seat. Speaking of, when you gonna knock up Becky?”
“It’s not like I’m not trying, man.” There was a smug, self-satisfied quality to Boss’s response. “I’m trying day and night. I try in the shower. I try on the back patio when everyone else has gone to bed. I try on top of—”
“Spare me the details. Let’s go before we get in worse trouble.”
“Right,” Boss agreed. Then, “Well, Rusty, my man”—Rusty felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder, but he still couldn’t manage to open his eyes—“we’ll catch ya later. Keep on keepin’ on.”
The sound of booted feet clomping on the hospital’s tiled floor met his ears. It was briefly interrupted by harsh female whispers. He caught the phrases two hours late and lucky you’re a smoke-show in the sack, or I’d smack you upside the head before the voices drifted down the hallway outside.
With no distractions, oblivion threatened to close in on him again. Then, a sharp pain stabbed through his gut, and he was yanked from the soft arms of unconsciousness back to twilight. He patted around for the Button of Dreams—that’s what he’d taken to calling the device that allowed him to self-administer his pain meds. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find it.
“Damnit,” he grumbled. Forcing open one eye was a herculean effort, and when he did, he ignored how his bandages made odd lumps beneath the hospital sheet.
He’d been told about his operation in Germany and then the flight to the U.S. once he was stable. But since he’d regained consciousness… What was it? Three days ago? Four? Time had gone all weird on him. He knew the Black Knights had been to see him. Remembered a few of their visits, thought maybe he’d dreamed others. One thing he was sure of was that his folks had been by his bedside around the clock. His folks and Ace…
He might have thought that was a bad combo considering his parents were so conservative and Ace was so…gay, but the few snippets of conversation he’d heard had let him rest easy. Ace wasn’t about to out him, and his folks seemed to like Ace. In fact, just last night—or was it two nights ago?—he’d surfaced from his drug-induced haze to hear his dad and Ace speaking in low whispers.
“I sure wish you’d tell me what yinz were up to over in Moldova.” Yinz. His dear old pop was a Pittsburgher through and through. He actually used the colloquial expressions that graced souvenir T-shirts and bumper stickers. Things like Tony’s got it! and hygge. “I promise I won’t tell a soul,” his father finished.
“Wish I could, Mr. Parker,” Ace said. “But just know that Rusty was a hero. He saved my bacon, and I’ll never be able to thank him enough.”
“First off, I thought I told you to call me Gary. Second, the way I hear it, you saved his bacon too. That tall dude, the one with the crazy hair who has a weird fascination with Captain Kirk?”
Ace laughed. “Ozzie.”
“Yeah, well, Ozzie told me Rusty is still here ’cause of you. Said you gave him your own blood during a BCT or a BTT or some such thing.”
“BBT,” Ace corrected him. “It’s a buddy battlefield transfusion, and it sounds a lot more badass than it really is. I only had to donate a pint or two.”
Rusty’s father made a rude noise. “The way Ozzie tells it, you nearly bled out, you gave so much.”
Rusty had feigned sleep, allowing the information to sink in and—
Aha!
He got distracted from his reverie when he found the Button of Dreams. Giving it three quick pumps, he settled more comfortably into his pillows and waited for the warm, floating sensation produced by high-powered narcotics. The first rush of drugs through his blood made his skin tingle. The second had his opened eye slamming shut.
