Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Declan

I woke in stages from a deep sleep filled with weirdly vivid dreams where I'd been alternately frozen solid or filled with fire, burning from the inside out. My limbs were heavy, practically melted into the mattress. The lure of more sleep was too sweet to pass up, so I would almost wake, only to fall back to sleep, grateful my always-hated alarm had yet to intrude on dreamland. On and on, I drifted in and out of sleep. For a while, I had a vague sense of needing to pee, but that passed, and I dozed on. Something beeped, but it wasn't my alarm, so not my problem.

My dreams shifted to an idyllic countryside, a little village I'd never visited yet seemed intimately familiar. I was riding a bicycle, like actually pedaling through the tiny town with an overfilled handlebar basket. Somehow, I knew I was dreaming, but it was too pleasant a place to leave.

Eventually, more consciousness returned in the form of an awareness that I was cold and stiff. I needed to stretch but couldn't. Frustration drove sleep further away.

"And then the vicar made his way out of the garden, heading home for teatime." Teatime? The heck? Had I landed in England? But the voice speaking was distinctly American male, warm and rich with a slight hint of west like Colorado or Wyoming. "The striped cat followed behind the vicar, prowling proudly."

"I don't like cats," I mumbled, mouth all cottony and dry. My eyes weren't much better, crusty and bleary as I blinked them open. I went to rub them but couldn't. Something sharp pinched my arm. "Ouch."

I looked down. An IV needle was taped in place in my right arm. I was no stranger to those. I groaned, which hurt more than my arm.

"Fuck. I'm in the hospital." Becoming more awake, I took in my surroundings. Yep, I was in a hospital bed. Should have guessed because I was sleeping on my back, not my stomach like normal. I was hooked up to a ton of machines, all whirring and beeping. The room seemed hazy, like maybe the lights were too dim. And next to me sat a vaguely familiar gentle giant of a dude. Maybe late thirties or so. Soft-looking hair. Beard. Kind eyes. His thoughtful expression bloomed into a slow smile.

"You're awake. And noted on cats." Ah. This was the source of the soothing voice, which fit the man's vibe.

"Who are you?" I asked, voice rusty.

"I'm Jonas. A friend of your dad's, and I'm texting him now." Jonas held up his phone as he typed fast. "He's going to be thrilled."

"He's here?" Fuck. I had to be in rough shape if they'd sent for Dad.

"Yep. Denver too." Jonas's gaze turned cautious like I might object to that news. "Everyone's been worried sick for you."

"How…? How bad is it?"

Jonas sucked in a breath, hesitating.

"Give it to me straight." I narrowed my eyes. This Jonas seemed like the honest type, less likely to sugarcoat the situation.

"You had a crash while racing. Do you remember that?"

"Not really, but it sounds likely. Was I winning?" I wasn't so far gone that I'd forgotten who I was. Declan. Declan. My ears rang with a memory of the crowd roaring. I managed a pained laugh. It wasn't my first rodeo with cracked ribs, but Jonas's solemn expression said there was more wrong.

"Yeah, you were winning." Jonas's smile turned almost tender, laced with a sadness that made my very empty stomach clench. "And then you crashed off a jump. They had to airlift you from the track to the medical complex here in Salt Lake. Broken ankle. Broken tibia. Sprained wrist. Some cracked ribs. Lots of bruising."

"Nothing that won't heal by spring," I scoffed, already calculating the start of the next racing series. Jonas didn't join my attempt at laughter. "What else?"

"You have a TBI. It's a brain injury, like a bad concussion."

"Oh. Like football players get." I quirked my lips, considering whether or not to be alarmed. "I've had my bell rung a time or two before."

"I'm sure." Jonas's voice turned dry, not nearly as impressed as some would be. "But this time, you had a brain bleed. You needed surgery."

"Surgery?" I reached toward my head only for the arm with the IV, my side, and my shoulder to protest before I could connect with my head. "Ow. Fuck."

"Don't try to reach." Jonas reached over to gently tuck my arm back by my side, like that might keep me. He glanced down at my IV port with more than passing interest. Ah. Yeah, if he was a friend of Dad's, he was likely some flavor of first responder. "Honestly, I'm absolutely shocked at how well you're speaking. Time will show if all your other faculties are intact."

"Faculties?" I narrowed my eyes, which hurt. "Ow. Thinking hurts." Speaking wasn't a problem, but my head felt like someone had kicked the video game up to hard mode without telling me or like my brain had less power than usual. "Faculty? Like teachers?"

"No, like walking, moving your hands, fine motor skills, vision. Speaking of, is the light in here too bright? You keep blinking and squinting." Jonas reached over, doing something to the lights, which made things worse, not better. The fuzzy film at the edges of my peripheral vision grew wider in the dimmer light, but my growing headache receded a little.

"Bright? Nah. I could do without the weird hazy air in here and how dry my fucking eyes are…" I trailed off as it hit me that the problem wasn't the lighting. "Fuck. My vision's wonky. Hell. Always been twenty-twenty. Better not need glasses."

"Don't get too worked up." Jonas patted my hand, carefully placing his larger hand below my IV site. He had a warm, sturdy touch. "The vision changes might be temporary. These sorts of injuries take time."

"I don't have time."

"You're going to have to if you want to heal." Oh. Dude could do stern when he wanted, complete with a glare.

In the hall, voices sounded like a group of nurses chattering, the noise getting closer.

"Don't tell about my vision shit," I ordered Jonas.

"Doesn't work like that with me." Jonas didn't appear cowed in the slightest. "I'm an ER nursing supervisor when I'm not road-tripping to Salt Lake with your dad and Denver. I can't let you hide something important from the medical staff."

"Fuck." I groaned, shifting in the bed, which fucking hurt from my slightly numb ass to my arm and shoulder to my right foot, which felt weirdly weighty. I pushed those thoughts aside in favor of glowering right back at Jonas. "If the tour folks get wind of me having a little headache and some vision shit, they're not gonna let me back on the bike till I clear concussion protocol and crap."

"Declan." Jonas leaned forward, forehead creasing. "Did you understand what I said? You've had a traumatic brain injury. Worse than a concussion. You're not getting on a bike for a good long while, and that's not accounting for your leg injury."

Suddenly, my head felt too crowded, like a swimming pool on a hot July day. Jonas's earlier explanation of my injuries seemed to float away, mingling with scraps of my dreams. I took a deep breath, not liking how hard it was to think.

"Was there a cat here?" For a second, I wondered if this whole conversation was another dream, but Jonas's hand on mine was solid. I moved a finger over a rough spot on his thumb. Real. At least he was real, but my brain remained frustratingly foggy.

"No, it was a book I was reading to you." If Jonas was surprised by my question, he didn't show it, voice staying patient and calm. "A cozy murder mystery."

"A book." My back and shoulders sank back against the thin mattress. I should have known that. Should be able to find my way back to what we'd really been talking about, but I couldn't. "Oh. Fuck it. My brain's all jumbled."

"It's okay. Some confusion is normal." Jonas patted my hand again as a dark-haired nurse bustled in. She was middle-aged with a loud accent better suited to Chicago than Utah.

"Declan! Awake, I see." Her voice was way too loud and grating. "How are we feeling?"

"Crappy." I couldn't even fake it. My throat was still dry as sandpaper. "Water?"

"Ice chips for now," she chirped, still operating at top volume. "I'll go get you some. The doctor is on his way." She smiled at Jonas, some message passing between them. "And so is your dad."

"Great." I slumped as Nurse Megaphone exited the room.

"Doing okay?" Jonas peered down, concern evident in his hazel eyes. "You can close your eyes if you need to."

"I'm afraid I might not open them if I do that." I couldn't believe I'd confessed that to a near stranger, but maybe that was precisely why I'd admitted the truth. The vision disturbances and fuzzy thinking had shaken me. I didn't want to fall asleep and wake up worse. I was a doer. I wanted to fix the situation and fast. However, I'd been around enough medical shit to know how unlikely that was. I groaned. I needed a distraction from my gloomy thoughts. "Read to me some more?"

"You want that?" For the first time, Jonas seemed genuinely surprised, but he was already thumbing open his phone.

"Gotta see what's for teatime," I mumbled right as my dad appeared in the doorway. His eyes were red, his hair all messy, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in days. Oh hell. I really had almost bought the farm. My stomach roiled, acid rising in the back of my throat.

"Declan." Dad said my name with so much emotion—happiness, pride, frustration, worry, and other things I couldn't name—that my own eyes started to burn.

No. I wasn't a crier. Not about to start. I blinked hard as Jonas dropped my hand. I wanted to yank his back but didn't.

"We'll pick it up again later," he said in a low voice before standing so my dad could have the chair.

Strangely, I wanted Jonas to stay. I barely knew the guy, but I liked his calming presence, the way he quieted the noise in my rattled brain, the way none of this seemed too awful with him nearby. But Jonas was already backing out of the room, and Dad looked ready to bawl, lecture me, or both. I'd simply have to hope I hadn't seen the last of Jonas.