“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t make me regret keeping you company in here.”
A slow smile lifted Lance’s lips. “Who said you even should?”
Jon arched a brow.
“Listen, Jon,” Lance began, “I’ve known you for like sixteen goddamn years, and not once have I seen you look at a woman the way you looked at the bakery lady yesterday.” He paused long enough to pitch his crumpled cup at his friend. “If you don’t go after her, I’ll beat your ass. Just as soon as I get out of this bed.”
Jon snatched the cup easily and scowled at him. “I wasn’t looking at her any sort of—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.” Lance held up his hand. “You forget who first caught on to Carter and Penny. I know of the shit I speak.”
Jon groaned and let his head fall back. “One time, in sixteen years, you catch on to a secret relationship, and that makes you an expert?”
“How many’ve you sniffed out?”
Jon’s jaw jumped. “I never bothered.”
Lance smirked. “Uh-huh. Well, I did, and I succeeded, so my track-record’s better than yours. And that makes me more likely to be right in the current scenario.”
“For fuck’s sake, just drop it.”
“No.”
Jon glared at him.
Lance grinned wider. “Don’t waste your time becoming one with that chair when you could be out there, becoming one with—” His mouth suddenly dried up and his words died off in a choked cough. The fucker had super-gagged him.
Jon sat back in his chair. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear that last part.”
Lance raised a hand and flipped him the bird.
Jon’s eyes crinkled the way they did when he was trying to hide his amusement, and Lance’s salivary glands started working again.
Fucker.
Lance coughed one more time, cleared his throat, and said, “My point, asshole, was that she obviously still means something to you. And I’m just gonna be laying here like a lump. So go do something for yourself for once and maybe you’ll have a good time. Don’t be an idiot.”
Jon grunted and drained his own coffee in silence.
Lance rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “You better not be worrying about me, Johnson. I can still take care of myself. One legged just means it’ll be more fun.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” But Jon said it with a low chuckle. Then he stood and dropped both cups in the trash before facing Lance’s bed. “I’ll have my phone if your situation changes. But since you’re so insistent, I suppose there are a few things I can think of that need handling. I’ll swing back to check on you when I can.”
“Watch out for the wildlife,” Lance teased. “And the people. Might be hard to tell the difference.”
Jon moved to the door. “I’m telling them to put you back on meds.”
Lance chased him out with a laugh that was mostly genuine. The truth was, his leg hurt like shit. And it was going to continue to hurt like shit if he was actually choosing to pursue what might be with that fairytale promise, and the beautiful nurse Lynnette. Because he didn’t want to be doped up for the short time they’d have to establish any type of bond. He didn’t want to be doped up, in general.
He’d let himself get shit-faced shortly after their discharge, when they’d still been on the East Coast. Drunker than he’d probably ever been in his life. Definitely drunker than his thirty-five-year-old ass had any right to be. Even with his natural, uninhibited restorative ability, it’d taken him days to fully recover from what he’d deemed Satan’s Hangover.
He was never voluntarily touching anything stronger than a single beer ever again. Lesson fucking learned.
So, he’d be so sober it quite literally hurt, and he’d be the best version of his charming self he was capable of. Considering the circumstances.
Just as soon as Lynnette came back on shift.
