“Walk with me?”
“Yeah.” Folks were staring, and Beau didn’t feel like sharing a warm, fuzzy moment with fifteen people he didn’t know. He led the way to a smaller waiting room down the hall, where the docs met with people. It was empty at this time of night. “You bring me coffee?”
“No.” Adam gave him another hard hug, one that settled something deep inside. The Taggarts were like no one else on earth. A force of nature. “You need to sleep tonight, if you can. Just a little.”
“I don’t know if I can.” He held on to Adam the way he had to Balta, clinging like a possum in a hurricane party. “What am I gonna do if he don’t wake up, Tag? What am I gonna do?”
“Oh, now.” Tag eased him down on a sofa, arm around his shoulders. “We ain’t gonna think like that. We’re gonna think about what we have to do to get him all recovered.”
“We are, huh?” Beau sniffed, trying to stop hiccupping. Fuck, he felt like a fool.
“We are.” Adam stroked his back, and if it was any other time, he woulda protested the touch, because it was like Adam had a right to do it, to treat him like glass. But this was after Doc and Coke and Dillon and Balta and everyone, when it was too quiet and there was too much thinking and he thought he might just curl up and die.
“Promise me he’ll be okay, Adam. I’ll believe you if you just promise.”
Adam pulled back to stare at him, steady and sure and just right there. One hundred percent. “I promise, Beau. He’s yours, and he’s gonna be okay.”
Beau nodded, staring into Adam’s eyes and letting the man be a rock for a moment. He’s said he would believe.
Now he just had to.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Beau had given up on the plastic chair for the night.
The fold-out chair thing wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but with the ICU-approved pillow and blanket, he could rest. He’d moved the chair a little, not enough to get in the way if something happened, but enough that he could see Sam’s face every time Beau opened his eyes.
Sam hadn’t opened his eyes. He’d done all sorts of other things since they’d weaned him off the drugs. Moved his feet, clenched his hands, had dreams. At least that was what the techs called the weird eye movement under Sam’s lids.
Beau didn’t understand the jargon, really. He just knew that his hands were raw from washing, his voice was raw from talking, and if he had to see Balta, Dillon, Coke, or Doc one more time with those sad, sorry looks on their faces, he was gonna lose it.
They’d all stayed. All of them. Sam had the best damned friends in the world.
Then there was the phone calls. Jason. Andy. Missy Gardner. Granny. Daddy. Thierry. LouAnn. Mrs. Scott and Jack. His phone bill was going to be a zillion friggin’ dollars.
Beau rolled his head back and closed his eyes. He’d check his email one last time, send thank yous to all the people who were donating to Sam’s care, then go to sleep.
“I tell you what, Poot. You’re way more popular than I am with the fans, championship or no.”
Sam shifted, feet sliding on the bed.
“Yeah. I swear, people is praying for you like it’s the rapture and you’re the only way into heaven.” He reached for his laptop, automatically opening his eyes to check on Sam.
Those eyes were staring right at him.
Beau blinked. Then did it again, his body moving without any thought at all. He’d dreamed this a thousand times, but in his dreams Sam talked to him. This was just…
“Poot? Sammy? Babe?”
Sam blinked at him, groaned, hands and feet moving. Sam saw him. Sammysawhim.
Shit. “Okay, baby. Okay. Let me get the doctor, huh? He can help. I’m here. I got you.” He waved frantically at the nurse, who must have seen the spike in Sammy’s machines.
“Well, look who’s up!” That was Kelly, hurrying in. “Try to relax, huh? You have a breathing tube in, you can’t talk. Just relax for me.”
Sammy wasn’t doing so good at that, though, the man struggling but good.
“Sammy.” He caught one hand, which was moving weakly. “Sam. You got to hold still. You could hurt your throat. Geronimo got you hard.”
