The left half of Grant’s face, or Griff’s, or whatever his name really was—zero.
“The day I met Gray,” he mumbled, and with the effort to speak sapping the last of his strength, he smiled like a man in love before falling unconscious again.
“What about Madelyn?” Tom One demanded.
“They’re taking her with them.” Tom Two replied.
“Alright,” JP said, his voice drawing closer. “Time to depart.”
“Get better, asshole.”
“Yeah, take care of our fly girl.”
At the sound of the Toms saying goodbye, Grant did his best to pay attention to the shit going on around him, but slow to respond, his brain kept him disoriented. Time and space irrelevant, he floated in a black sea of tar as his former JTF2 teammates took their leave.
Speech eluding him, he tried to open his eyes. Nope. No go. The effort sent a meteor shower of stars shredding through the vast emptiness of his head. He had shit to say, thanks to offer, and reassurances he’d take care of Madelyn to give. And he couldn’t form a sentence if his life depended on it.
He attempted to lift his forearm. The once simple task now a fight to the finish, he was about to give up when he felt the familiar warmth of a smaller palm wrap around his and squeeze. “Repose-toi tranquille, mon ami.” A tether for him to hang on to, JP’s voice telling him to rest easy, soothed his fears. “We’ll see you and Madelyn sometimes again, eh.”
Reassured by JP’s confidence, Grant let the darkness reclaim him.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Hell, for all he knew, it could’ve been days, weeks, months, years.
“Hey, Griff. Wake up.”
Fucking hell. As soon as he was capable, whoever was on the other end of the knuckle rub turning his sternum into a musical washboard had a fist to the face coming. All he wanted to do was sleep…but no…these dickhead JTT motherfuckers insisted on waking him every two fucking seconds.
“What,” he growled, although it came out closer to a breathless whine.
“What’s your name?” Zander demanded.
“Grant.” Heavy and weightless at the same time, he wanted to puke up his guts as a steady whomp pushed his sluggish blood through his veins, the helo’s rotors doing the hard work of keeping him alive even as they lulled him back to sleep.
Another knuckle rub had him groaning a silent vow to punch Zander into a coma. See how much he liked being played like a xylophone. “What’s your full name?”
Every ounce of strength he had in reserve mustered to make his displeasure known; he wheezed, “Grant fuck-off-or-I’m-gonna-beat-your-ass Kincaid.”
“Hey, Doc? Is excessive aggression a sign of permanent brain damage?” Zander asked.
Too tired to care if he ever formed another coherent thought, never mind had permanent brain damage, he drifted back off to la-la land, grateful to sink into the pain-free fog waiting for him on the other side of consciousness.
The next time Grant came to it was on his own, and God damn, his head hurt. In every possible way. Between electrical zips and zaps, his brain pounded, his eye throbbed to the beat of his heart, and his skin burned.
Some extra-strength anything would be nice. Add in a whisky chaser, plus his own bed to sleep in, and he’d be five-by-five. Happy as a pig in shit. Funny. Because he was—indeed—in shit.
He just wasn’t happy about it.
The drone of the helicopter reminded him of who had control of the flying situation. Fucking Chase. Bastard hadn’t spoken two words to him since Grant had made a miraculous comeback from the dead. Asshole.
A spike of anger ice-picked its way through his brain. The pain a sheet of red against the backs of his closed eyelids. Everything he’d done, every decision he’d made in the last six months, had been for Chase and Grace.
To keep them alive. To keep them together. To give them a shot at the happiness they deserved. Even at the cost of his own. And what did he get in return?
Black-eyed glares and the cold shoulder.
Dickhead.
