She’s hurt and it’s his fault. Again.
Griff sits in a hard hospital chair across from Luke and Sal Kincaid. All three of them wait for news on Alabama, but no one speaks.
Griff’s falling apart. Why the hell won’t anyone tell him what’s going on? The next person who comes through that door without word on Alabama better be ready for a swinging fist. It’s been two hours, and all he’s done is sit here, helpless as fuck, letting the hours tick by, letting every phone call go ignored. Most of them from Freddie. But the tour’s the least of his fucking worries.
All he can think about is Alabama.
His mind won’t stop running circles around him with guilt. From going to every single what-if in the damn book. What if he treated Nikki better? What if he never put Alabama on that bus? And worse, the one that hits the hardest: what if she doesn’t make it?
Leaning forward, he buries his face in his hands.
Jesus, please let her be okay. His life won’t mean anything without her.
At the thought, he shudders. Fuck, he’s a fool. A goddamn idiot. For not telling her he loved her. For ever letting her go in the first place.
Sure, he’s been a shitty person, a failure of a man, but Christ, please don’t let him deserve this. Let lightning strike him down, let him never sing another song again, but not this. Not his Alabama.
She’s hurt and it’s his fault. Again.
“You know what they’re going to do, don’t you?” a soft voice says and Griff raises his head.
Sal’s curled up against Luke, his arm wrapped tight around her waist. Her clothes are covered in dried blood, her face pale, but her green eyes bright. She looks exhausted but still kicking. “They’re going to clean it out, stitch her up and send her home in a day or so.” She nods, her smile encouraging. “I know there was a lot of blood, but ... Alabama’s tough. She’ll make it.”
“She saved my life,” he says, his voice rough with tears. His throat knots and he closes his eyes briefly. “If she ain’t okay ...”
He breaks off, the memory of the sound the bullet made as it slammed into Alabama too awful for words. He’d heard the gunshot, so sharp it sounded like lightning. He saw Alabama, a blur of movement as she flew across the space between them. And then he felt her, slamming herself into him to take both of them to the ground.
At first, his conscious brain couldn’t understand what was happening. It was only seconds later when he felt warm blood, felt Alabama shuddering and going limp against his chest that he realized what she had done.
What had possessed her to do that?
She had taken his bullet. Had shielded his body with her own.
He swipes a hand across his face, tears stinging the back of his eyes. Once, he might have tried to hide his emotions, to beat back the tears, but he can’t. The wall he’s built is down. Only Alabama could get him on his knees. Make him crumble.
Luke winces in sympathy. “I’ve been there, man. You gotta hang in the best you can.” His eyes brush to Sal and he pulls her in closer.
“Mr. Greyson?”
Griff stiffens at the sight of the doctor stepping into the waiting room. Poker-faced, eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses, he approaches Griff, a tablet in his hands.
Fear grabs Griff by the jugular.
He launches to his feet, barely able to hear over the roaring in his head. “Tell me,” he croaks, and he barely recognizes his voice. “Tell me good news, doc. Tell me my whole world ain’t over.”
“You want good news, you got it.”
The doctor smiles and Griff has to reach out and hold the wall to stay standing. “The bullet entered the shoulder and punched through clean. Frankly, she’s lucky. No arteries were hit, which is a miracle in itself. She lost a lot of blood, and she’ll need physical therapy for that arm, but she’ll make a full recovery.”
Griff closes his eyes, a sudden rush of relief sweeping him up. “Thank God.”
“We’ve cauterized the bleeding, stitched it up and are treating her with antibiotics and IV fluids,” the doctor says. “We’ll want to keep her here under twenty-four-hour observation, but then she’ll be fine to go home. She’ll be in a sling for a while, so best to limit any strenuous activity.”
Griff meets the doctor’s eyes, a surge of emotion welling up in him. “Thank you,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand. “Thank you so damn much.”
The doctor nods. “She’s sleeping right now, but you can see her whenever you’re ready.”
With that, the doctor exits the waiting room and ducks into another patient’s room.