He wouldn’t. Dillon knew he wouldn’t even remember the name of the hospital. He could call all the hotels. He could call the rental car places. It wouldn’t do any good, though. Coke would somehow, some way, be on his way home.
When he got back to his rental car, Dillon sat in the driver’s seat and leaned his head against the rest, closing his eyes. Now he had to go to Texas. Fuck, he was tired.
Maybe he should just… Maybe he ought to call Coke first. The man still wasn’t answering his cell, but Dillon could leave a voice mail at Coke’s house, explain what he and Nate heard. Soften Coke up a little first. Maybe that would…
His cell phone rang, and Dillon dug it out of his pocket, slamming it open. “Coke?”
“Better than, honey.”
“Adam?” The last person he’d expected to call him right now was Adam Taggart. “You okay?”
“I am. I’m okay as anything. I’m heading to Coke’s.”
Dillon sat up fast, banging his head on the roof of the car. “Ow! Coke? Is he all right?”
“He’s in a bad way, Dillon. Banged up and was driving himself home. He got himself a little stuck. I sent the boys to get him. How soon can you be here?”
“If it’s anything like getting here, it will be late tomorrow.”
“Well, come on, then. I’m going to clean up, make sure he has some food. I’ll leave the key taped to the top of the inside of the mailbox.”
“I… What if he doesn’t want to see me, Adam?” That was the worst thing he could think, that Coke would send him away.
Adam kinda yelled at him after that, and Dillon laughed, even as tears welled up in his eyes.
“Okay, okay. I get the picture. I’m on my way.”
Hanging up with Adam was tough, because that was one friendly voice, and that was something he’d had too little of lately. Sighing, Dillon turned the key in the ignition and headed back to the airport.
Coke was too important not to try.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Okay.
Coke had survived the drive from Great Falls.
Through the mountains.
Through fucking Denver.
He’d survived a fourteen-mile grasshopper swarm that turned the plastic bag he’d wrapped his hand in to goo. If he’d had any sense, he’d have broken the right one, so then he could have spread the hand out over the passenger seat.
He’d survived trying to pee in rest stops where he couldn’t see his own cock for the brace.
He’d survived a thousand cups of coffee.
What broke him?
Pulling into a fucking Woody’s in Amarillo, too close to the ditch. He couldn’t pull forward and he couldn’t turn to look back and he couldn’t fucking figure out what to do, he was hurting so bad.
So he did what they all did when the shit hit the fan. He called the Taggart boys.
And, just like he knew they would, the triplets said they’d come.
They had to come up from Floydada, which would take an hour and some, so he tried to settle, drink his next horrible coffee. Maybe he could grab a nap.
“Lord, Coke, you look like shit.” One of the boys leaned against a display of corn nuts just beside the little café booth, the other grinned over his brother’s shoulder.
