Beep… beep… beep…
This time it doesn’t feel quite as ominous.
It feels like I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still lucky.
And I have a hell of a lot to fix.
***
After the doctors checked me over, the police followed in right behind them like clockwork, clipboards and measured expressions replacing stethoscopes and sympathetic nods. I gave them my statement as Effa told me to, repeating the story we had rehearsed in low voices between morphine doses and drifting consciousness. They seemed satisfied with my version of events, nodding along as I described masked men, random violence, and a senseless alley attack.
I’m honestly impressed that, with the morphine haze I’m floating in, I remembered everything Effa told me to say. The details didn’t blur, the lies didn’t tangle, and I delivered it clean, calm, and controlled.
At least I got that right.
After they left, I sent Effa back to the hotel to get some much-deserved rest. It took more convincing than I expected becauseshe didn’t want to go. She hovered, adjusting blankets that didn’t need adjusting, refilling water that was already full, brushing her fingers over my arm like she was checking to make sure I was still solid.
Putting her through that much stress in her already weakened state has me twisted up inside. She’s barely back on her feet after everything she’s been through, and instead of me being her shield, she’s sitting in a hospital chair all night guarding mine.
I should be the one looking after her.
Not the other way around.
And Effa keeping vigil by my bedside all night, refusing to sleep, watching to make sure I didn’t vomit blood again, makes me feel like absolute fucking shit. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she asked if I wanted her to cancel the show at Madison Square Garden tonight.
Madison Square Garden.
I told her that would be ridiculous.
We’re only three weeks back into the tour. The band has only just regained momentum. For her to cancel another show now because of my stupidity would be reckless. The fans would understand, sure, but that doesn’t mean we do it. Tank’s stepping up to take the lead while I recover, and that’s how it has to be.
The show must go on.
Even if I’m not above the stage tonight.
Even if it kills me a little to know I’m not there.
I’m not exactly looking forward to Luke visiting. Hell, I don’t even know if I have a job waiting for me once I’m back on my feet. I know how he operates… efficient, ruthless, and business first. Emotions are somewhere down at the bottom of the list.
But whether I’m lighting that stage or lying in this hospital bed, the machine doesn’t stop turning.
They can’t stop for me.
Right now, though, I have a call to make before Luke steps in here and rips me apart with his eyes alone. Grabbing my cell from the portable table beside my bed, I dial Kiera’s number at the hospital in Pittsburgh. It only rings twice before she answers.
“Kaden?” Her voice comes down the line bright and immediate, but I can hear the strain under it.
“Hey, booger-butt…”
“Oh… my… God, it’s so good to hear your voice. What the hell happened? Raoul was not helpful at all and would only tell me you’re in the hospital with broken ribs and a banged-up nose. What the fuck, Kaden?”
I can’t help the smile her voice brings to my face, and sink back into the bed at the sound of her. Just hearing her steadies something in me. A part of me expected, despite Effa handling Vex, that something would still happen. That he’d circle back. That he’d decide Effa’s money wasn’t enough and go after the one person he knew would crush me.
But apparently, the bastard kept his word.
