Easton closed his eyes. How the fuck could he respond to that? He wondered if her medical team planned to do anything for her mental state. Clearly, it wasn’t better.
Slender fingers wrapped around his wrist. Her touch jolted him in an unexpected and unwelcome way. His eyes flew open.
“Do you want to come with me the next time I visit?”
Leaning over, he kissed her forehead, allowing his lips to linger longer than necessary. “We’ll see, sweetheart.”
“I love you,” she murmured.
As before, he was at a loss as to how to respond, so he simply said, “I love you, too.” He didn’t need to offer a detailed explanation that it wasn’t romantic love. She probably wouldn’t understand anyway. But he didn’t want her upset, and not responding might’ve hurt her feelings.
They’d shared a very traumatic experience and would always have a connection, a fucked up bond that no one except the two of them, uhhim, comprehended.
Unable to take the pain any longer, he grunted his way to the chair near her bed and dropped heavily into it, wondering what her future held. She needed more than patches and bandages. She needed intensive therapy and he said as much to Cox as the motherfucker wheeled him to the elevator surrounded by eight security guards. Two in front of him, two behind, and two on each side.
Just what the fuck were they expecting to happen?
Cox waited until they were headed outside before he answered. “I have made my recommendations to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.”
Ryan’s parents. That made sense since Molly had been that fuckhead’s girlfriend.
“She’s being flown to LA tomorrow to begin intensive therapy.”
Easton snapped his brows together, regretting that he hadn’t visited her more when he’d had the chance.
“About fucking time,” Bash snarled when Cox finally wheeled Easton outside where he drew in deeply to breathe fresh air for the first time in days.
Fuck, he’d never been so grateful to be alive and he laughed at the sheer joy of the breeze blowing through his hair.
The security guards fanned out, and Easton blinked. Instead of Bash’s Harley, a shiny Lamborghini roadster greeted him.
Bash grinned at his shock. “Always wanted one of these.”
“You don’t like cages,” Easton said stupidly. The concept of Bash driving a car shocked the fuck out of him. Rain, sleet, snow, or sunshine, Bash was always on a bike. “You drive?”
“Don’t like to, but yeah, I fucking drive. Don’t you?”
“You know I do!”
“Get the fuck in. We don’t want Cleaner laying in wait and takingpotshots at you.” Bash indicated the guards, who now surrounded the sports car. “Dee Dee explained it all to me.”
Cox wheeled Easton closer.
“Scratch this fucking car and you’ll be sorry,” Bash warned.
Easton didn’t point out that Outlaw probably wouldn’t be happy that Bash was threatening a motherfucker on his payroll. Once Easton was settled in the car, Bash got behind the wheel and swerved away.
Instead of buckling his seatbelt, Easton took off his T-shirt, intending to remove the bulletproof vest, but Bash shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. As a matter of fact, I’d wait until you know we’ve cleared out and hightailed it back to Utah before you stop wearing that motherfucker.”
“If he takes a headshot, I’m done for anyway, Bash,” Easton said, but put his T-shirt back on. “Besides, once you get back to Salt Lake City, Cleaner will get you back on drugs again and you’ll be gunning for me.”
“Possibly,” Bash said with a shrug.
“You can save us a lot of grief if you kill that fuckhead.”
“You said he didn’t shoot you. I have no good reason to kill him.”
Normally, Bash was logical if quite unreasonable, but his explanation defied rationality.
