9. Kenna

9

KENNA

"Worryin' is like sittin' in a rockin' chair. Don't matter how fast ya go; it won't get ya anywhere." ~ Archie "Witty" Whitlock

My foot tapped on the waiting room's white and gray vinyl flooring. Taylor had explained that the surgery could take up to two hours. I checked my phone again, and I saw that it had been two and a half hours.

Something was wrong.

I glanced around the small space, and no one else in the waiting room appeared to be panicking.

My mom was totally enthralled in her newest nail-biter read, California Bear , by her favorite author, Duane Swierczynski. She loved thrillers and anything that had to do with serial killers, much to my dad's chagrin. After a career in law enforcement, the last thing he ever wanted to do was watch, read, or listen to True Crime. He preferred spending his time watching and listening to sports podcasts, but when he did watch programs on TV, or watch movies, or read, he enjoyed westerns, comedies, and science fiction. When he wasn't indulging in those genres, he played video games on his phone. Which is what was keeping him occupied now. He sat beside my mom with his glasses on, playing Candy Crush.

Kane and Ruby were huddled in the corner, being newlyweds. And Witty, who I'd picked up on my way to the hospital this morning, had dozed off next to me. Milo was on duty today; otherwise, he'd be here.

I had a list of people who wanted me to text them once I heard any news. The only problem with that was that everyone assumed I'd forget, so they kept checking in. It wasn't helping. Each time one of their messages came through, it only added to my anxiety because I had nothing to tell them.

I felt like I was coming out of my skin. I didn't care that it was a ‘routine procedure' or that he was a ‘healthy man in his prime' so there should be ‘no complications.' I didn't care about any of the buzzwords that Taylor had used to try and reassure me.

Whenever someone went under the knife, anything could happen. Anesthesia wasn't an exact science. Or at least, I didn't think it was. Some people were resistant to it. Some people had allergic reactions to it. And some people never woke up from it.

I glanced down at my phone again and saw that only two minutes had passed since the last time I'd checked. I was going to give it five more minutes, and then I was calling Taylor. She was on duty down in the E.R., so I was trying not to bother her, but I needed answers. She might not have them, but she had the access to get them for me.

I was counting down the seconds with my thumb hovering over Taylor's name when Dr. Mathis walked into the waiting area. The last time I'd seen him was when he'd gone on a date with my cousin. It hadn't worked out for them because she'd already hooked up with Remi. Taylor had been in denial about her feelings for Remi because he was Kane's best friend and Kane's new wife's brother. She felt it was a little too close for comfort. But it seemed he managed to convince her otherwise.

My rearend flew off that chair like it was spring-loaded. "Is he okay? Is everything okay?"

Kane and Ruby stood as well, but in a much more calm, controlled manner.

"Everything went great. It was textbook. No complications. He's in recovery now, and he's asking for you."

"For me?" I placed my hand on my chest and glanced back at Witty.

I was sure his grandpa should be the first person to see him. Witty winked, giving me a silent blessing to go back and see Sam first.

Dr. Mathis stayed and spoke to Kane and Witty, answering their questions and concerns about his recovery as I followed a nurse who introduced herself as Mary Beth down a long corridor to see Sam. With each step I took, my legs felt like noodles. I think it was the crash of coming down from all the stress I'd felt. Or maybe it was because I hadn't been able to sleep last night, knowing Sam was going to go under the knife today.

The nurse walked into a small, sterile-smelling room that had soft ambient lighting. I was right behind her. As soon as I saw Sam lying on the bed, tears pooled in my eyes as relief washed over me. Even though Dr. Mathis had said everything was fine, seeing the proof that he was alive overwhelmed me.

Sam wore a hospital gown; he had an oxygen tube wrapped under his nose and an IV in his arm. And all I could think was, wow, he looks sexy . It wasn't fair, really. If there were ever a time that I thought my hormones would give it a rest, this would be it. But apparently, they had no plans to give me a reprieve.

"He's still pretty out of it," Mary Beth explained after checking the bags of his IV. "We usually hold off on visitors until a patient is settled back in their rooms, but this guy was so insistent, we thought we'd make an exception."

I nodded as she exited the room and turned back to Sam. He just looked like he was sleeping. I lowered down into a chair beside him and pulled my phone out to send out a very large group text, letting everyone know he was okay.

Mid-typing, I heard Sam make a moaning noise. I looked up to see his head moving back and forth as if he were telling someone no. "Kenna, Kenna."

"I'm here." I reached out and touched his hand. "Sam, I'm here."

His eyes fluttered several times before his lids finally opened, and he turned his head toward me.

"Hi." I smiled when his eyes met mine.

His lips curled at the edges, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle in an incredibly sexy way. "Hi."

"Everything went great,' I assured him. "Dr. Mathis said it was a textbook procedure. No complications."

"Textbook," Sam repeated groggily.

"Yep." I nodded, and my eyes began to water once again.

For some reason, all the feelings of that fateful night six months ago, when I'd heard there'd been an officer-involved shooting and couldn't get anyone to tell me if Sam was okay, flooded back to me.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, reaching up and touching my face.

His finger grazed my cheek as several tears fell down it.

"I'm not." I sniffed away my emotion.

His forefinger swiped across my damp cheek, then he put his finger in his mouth and sucked. "It tastes like you are."

"Stop." I pulled his hand from his mouth. "Don't do that; it's gross."

He shook his head. "It's not gross to taste your tears."

"Yes, it is. Stop."

"No, it's not." He shook his head, and his lips curled up in a bad-boy half-grin. "I want to taste more of your bodily fluids."

That sentence out of most people's mouths would sound like a serial killer or deranged, but somehow Sam pulled it off.

"I want to taste your sweat. I want to taste your saliva. I want to taste your come ."

My hand flew over his mouth. "Stop!" I warned as my face flushed.

Even though I knew it was the drugs he was on talking, and not how he actually felt, hearing that he wanted to taste my sweat, my saliva, and my come had caused all of those things to take notice. My mouth was watering. A tiny bead of sweat had broken out on the back of my neck. And there was a definite tingling between my legs.

I knew that he was only saying those things because he was under the influence of pain medication. If any guy could flirt while he was high as a kite, it was Sam Whitlock.

"No. I don't want to stop." He pushed my hand away, and his expression turned from flirty to frustrated. His brow furrowed, and he took in a shallow breath. "I want to tell you the things I never tell you because I can't tell you them."

Thanks to the hundreds of hours I'd spent watching and rewatching Grey's Anatomy , I knew that he was becoming belligerent because of the medication; it was a side effect. I didn't want to do anything to upset him because that could cause his blood pressure to shoot up. Thankfully, I remembered that the best course of action was just to go along with whatever the patient said.

"You can tell me anything."

"No." He kept shaking his head. "No. I can't."

When I saw a tear fall down his cheek, I looked over my shoulder to see if there was a nurse around because I knew he must be in a lot of pain. Sam didn't cry. Ever. He didn't even cry at his mom or dad's funerals. I didn't see anyone, so I started to stand to go and get someone, but was stopped when he reached out and grabbed my hand.

"Where are you going? Don't leave me."

"I'm just going to get someone to see if you can have more medicine for your pain."

"I'm not in pain. I don't need any medicine. I just need you. Don't leave." His big brown eyes stared up at me, and I lowered back down into my chair.

No sooner had I lowered back down that his eyes began to drift shut. "You're my person. Do you know that?"

"Yes," I assured him. "I know. I'm your best friend."

Even when we were kids and the twins and other boys at school would give him shit for having a girl as a best friend, he never cared.

"No." He shook his head. "You're not."

"Okay." I wasn't sure why he was saying that, but I wasn't going to argue with him. "I'm not your best friend."

"No! You are my best friend, but you're also my person. You're my family. I love you."

"I love you, too, Sam."

His eyes were shut as he shook his head. "No."

"Yes, I do."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean, I love you."

"I love you, too," I repeated.

Without warning, his eyes flew open. The intensity of his stare caused my breath to hitch. "No, I mean, I'm in love with you, Kenna."

I stared down at him, not sure how to respond. I'd waited my entire life to hear him say those words, and now that I had, they didn't mean anything. They were empty. They were just the ramblings of someone on morphine.

He was either satisfied I'd received the message or the medication took over again, because he closed his eyes and was out like a light. I sat beside him, staring down at his chest as it rose up and down in a steady rhythm.

It wasn't real , I told myself as the words, I'm in love with you, Kenna , played on repeat over and over again in my head.

Tomorrow, Sam wouldn't even remember this conversation. But I would, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.