He took a step forward and slipped, his whole body landing in Balta’s arms, and the big Brazilian caught him, held him. When he glanced up, Balta wasn’t looking at him, but the dark cheeks were streaked with tears. Beau just held on tight, letting his cheek drop to Balta’s chest. Yeah. Just like that. Fuck. A sob tore out of his chest, and Beau was glad for the locked door, and for Balta’s solid presence.
He was still pretty damned lost, no matter what.
Balta held him for a good, long while, then Joa’s voice sounded. “Balta. Doc’s back. Come on.”
Easing him away, Balta moved silently to get them both some paper towels. Beau cleaned up, blew his nose, completely unsurprised to see he’d worked himself into a nosebleed. They walked out together, Beau going right to Doc.
Doc’s face was blank. Just blank. “Come on. I want you to see him before they take him.”
“Take him where?” Beau’s hands shook, and his knees were about to go. Balta was the only reason he stayed upright.
Jesus, Doc looked old. “They’ve got to remove a piece of skull, get the swelling down. They’ve got him on a respirator now and, if he gets through the surgery, they’re going to put him in a coma for a few days so he’s not hurting so bad.” Doc took a ragged breath. “It’s not good, Beau. You have to pray for him. Come on, now. You need to see him, in case.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, if Sam died, he was gonna go get Balta’s gun and shoot himself. Pure D. Beau followed Doc, his hands clenched so tight he heard things creak.
Sammy was lying there, a little gray against the sheets. There were tubes and shit, Sam’s mouth open with a tube coming out of it. It wasn’t right.
No fucking way.
It had just been what? An hour? Two? Who knew, but Sam had been bouncing. Smiling. On top of the fucking world. Beausat on the little stool that was probably for a doctor, not him, but he didn’t care.
He picked a spot with no tubes, touching Sam’s arm. “Poot…”
Sam was still warm. Still alive. He had to remember that, remember that if Sammy had one reason to stay here, it was him.
“You do what you got to do to come back to me, you hear me? I need you here, Sammy. I can’t do this without you.”
He closed his eyes and prayed. This wasn’t gonna be it, damn it. It wasn’t. He was getting his Sammy back. He had to. God couldn’t steal this from him.
A nurse came up, touched his shoulder. “I have to take him up now, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” It took him a moment longer to let go, and he stared at Sammy, not wanting to remember him like this if it was all over, but it wasn’t, so he’d look and see and be happy that it was better after.
Doc was out in the hallway, right there. “I’ve talked to the neurosurgeon. He flew in from LA. He’s good, Beau. One of the best.”
“You tell me, Doc. You tell me that he can recover all the way, if this surgery works.” Sammy wouldn’t want to be…not right.
“The brain’s a fucking amazing thing, Beau. He can recover.”
“You’ve seen a lot, Doc. Where he got hit…” He just needed hope. Something extra to add to his prayers.
“Speech.” Doc nodded. “If he had to get hit so bad, that was the spot.”
Shit. Yeah. Okay. He’d seen guys come back from that, and fast. Beau sagged a little. “Thanks, Doc. I—thanks.”
“Go. Breathe. Pray.”
“I will, Doc. You can count on it.” Like he’d never prayed in his life. He would drag Sam through this, no matter what. He could only hope it came to kicking and screaming, because that would mean Sam was all right.
Please God, let him be all right.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Lafitte. Wake up, huh? Doc says no sleeping for another half hour.”
Beau rolled a baleful eye at Balta, who just flat-out refused to let him escape, even if it was just to sleep. “Bullshit. That was an hour ago.”
“Haven’t been here an hou--”
