Theydidn’t matter anymore. The history was the history, but there was no future anymore. Not even in bad feelings.
“It was going to happen anyhow,” Tag admitted for the first time. “We don’t get along, do we?”
Kieran leaned his head back against the pillows. “No. Not for a while,” he admitted. “But when they brought you into the hospital, back in New York, we all thought you were going to die. I guess I was so scared for you then that I figured I had to love you.”
That stung Tag’s ego a little, but only in principle. He knew what Kieran meant. That day in the street, when he’d seen Kieran’s blood all over the wall, felt like the moment in a movie where people realized how they really felt—heightened, exaggerated. If nothing else traumatic had happened and Tag weren’t fully committed to the bad idea that was Bass, maybe he would have thought it meant something more.
“What about you?” Kieran asked. “Are you okay?”
Tag shrugged. “Broken ribs, bruises.” He lifted his hand, the cast so light that it was always a bit of a surprise when he saw it. “A few fractures. I’ll live.”
Kieran raised an eyebrow. “You’ll live,” he repeated with the professional edge to his voice that suggested he knew Tag better than Tag did. “Is that all you’ve got now? I understand your… biker friend… was one of the men arrested. What does that mean for you? The hospital can’t be thrilled that you got yourself involved in that.”
That wasn’t something he was supposed to talk about. The FBI had asked him to keep Bass’s shock confession under wraps for now in case they needed to use him to draw out the remnants of the Brothers from wherever they’d gone to ground. But it wasn’t easy.
The fact that your bad-news boyfriend being a secret undercover cop was the kind of thing you wanted to talk about, though? Did it mean he wasn’t bad news after all, or worse? Should Tag be angry that Bass had lied to him, or let it go since Bass had told him directly that he was a liar?
“That’s… complicated.” Tag settled for the hedge that didn’t break any confidentiality and didn’t help him make any decisions either. “He’s gone, though.”
“I’m sorry,” Kieran said. He didn’t sound that convincing.
“Really?” Tag asked.
Kieran took another sip of water. “No,” he said. “It’s obviously for the best. But I’m sorry you didn’t find the right person, the one who’ll be there for you.”
For a second Tag remembered the desperate edge in Bass’s voice as he begged Shepherd to take him instead. The terrible, unconvincing lie of his over whether or not he cared.
“He was,” Tag said. “When it mattered. He saved my life, Kieran.”
“So did the dog, from what I hear,” Kieran said acerbically. “And if you have to keep one of the two, dogs are probably easier on the furniture. Just because you can’t have me, Tag, doesn’t mean you burn your life down. You can do better. Find your own Freddie.”
It wasn’t funny, and Tag’s ribs hurt too much to laugh. But Tag snorted a laugh between painedows as he hugged his ribs. By the time he could sit up straight again, Freddie had made it back, and between him and Kieran, it was obvious Tag had worn out his welcome. After a brief moment of confusion as he tried to work out how to say goodbye when they weren’t together or at odds—a handshake was out since they’d both lost easy use of their right hands, a hug sounded godawful, and the go-to “fuck off” of the last few months didn’t seem appropriate—he decided to just say goodbye.
He would have been disappointed if Freddie hadn’t muttered, “And good riddance,” as he walked away. One apology down and one to go. He took the elevator up to pediatrics.
Maria was there on her own rights. She was seventeen by a whole week. Ned told Tag the peds nurses got her cupcakes to celebrate. In her pale-blue smock and fluffy terrycloth slippers, she looked younger.
“She’s going to testify,” Deputy Tancredi told Tag as she walked him into the ward. “So once she leaves here, she’ll go into crisis foster care. I think she’s going to be okay.”
It turned out she not only wasn’t Ribka’s mother, she was no relation to him at all. She had no idea who was either. Apparently she and Ville had gone down to Mexico for the weekend, and one night a man brought the baby to the door of their hotel room. After that she’d been left to take care of him while Shepherd arranged an adoption.
Tag sat down in his second uncomfortable chair of the day while Tancredi took up a station at the side of the room.
They had mirrored injuries—broken ribs, bruised ears, and a hand in plaster. Maria had a broken nose too and a foot encased in a blocky pink cast. Tag nodded to her hand as he sat down.
“Shepherd liked to stick to what he knew, huh?” he asked.
Maria nodded. Most of her long hair was gone, trimmed down to a pixie cut that tried, but failed, to hide the still-tender bald patches. She picked nervously at her fingernails, and Tag scratched under his cast.
“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time.
Maria looked up and smiled. That might be the first time Tag had seen that. “I shouldn’t have run away,” she said. “I was scared they’d find me. They found me anyhow.”
“I should have tried to help sooner,” Tag countered. “I should have realized something was wrong.”
She shrugged. “No one else did.”
That probably wasn’t true. Other people had heard the baby cry or watched Maria struggle with the stroller on the stairs, but they just went back to their own lives. Something was obviously wrong, but not in an easy-fix-and-walk-away way.
