55
Samantha Wayland
He had no fucking idea what she was talking about. But he knew who. He tried to keep his voice calm, even if he wanted to yell so badly his throat hurt with the effort to restrain himself.
Something had happened to Brandon.
Careful to be gentle, he ran a soothing hand down Destiny"s back. “Honey, you need to tell me what happened. Is Bran okay?”
“I don"t know! He"s at Mass General, in the ER.”
Oh, Jesus. Screw gentle. He pushed Destiny far enough away to look down into her face. “We have to go. Are you okay to drive or do you want me to?” She smiled weakly. “No, I have to. Brandon made them call me because he wanted me to drive. No way am I showing up in your car.” He smiled back at her. He was scared witless, but he took comfort in knowing Brandon was able-bodied enough to give specific instructions about who to call and why. Grabbing his wallet and house keys, he pushed Destiny out the door and locked it behind them.
They arrived at Mass General in record time. The streets were relatively quiet at that hour on a Sunday night and Destiny drove her flashy little BMW like the true Bostonian she was—with an absolute disregard for laws, signage and other drivers.
Since he and Brandon had taught her how to drive, Patrick couldn"t have been prouder.
As soon as the car stopped moving, they were out and running for the brightly lit doors of the ER. Pulling out his wallet and shamelessly flashing his badge, he cut through the red tape and visitor regulations with impunity, forcing his and Destiny"s way to Brandon"s door within minutes.
Once they got through it, though, they both came to a grinding halt.
Destiny thought her heart would shatter as she stood in the door with Patrick, staring at Brandon. Tears welled up and spilled over.
Brandon, fortunately, slept. He would have hated her tears. He wasn"t as freaked out by them as Patrick tended to be, but he"d do about anything to make them stop, nonetheless. Instead he lay still, quiet, his breathing deep and even. It was warm in his room and he"d kicked his blankets to the floor, leaving his lovely body covered only by a pair of boxer briefs and acres of stark white bandages. His face was bruised, one eye swollen and his forehead discolored around the gash someone had carefully taped closed.
What in the hell had happened?
Patrick looked at her and while his eyes were dry, his expression was bleak. They moved together to the bed, dragging over a chair, which Patrick sat in with her on his lap, one of her hands pressed between his. When they"d both pulled themselves together, she reached out to take Brandon"s hand as well.
He immediately opened his unblackened eye.
56
Destiny Calls
“Hi.” His voice sounded rough.
She forced back the tears, forced her throat to relax so she could speak. “Honey, what happened?”
“I was attacked,” he said quietly, sighing. He winced when he let the air out of his lungs too quickly. She could tell by his long, slow blinks that he was in pain. She looked at Patrick. He sat frighteningly still and rigid behind her, his eyes the only part of him moving as he scanned Brandon"s body, lingering on the bandages. His need for answers was etched into every line of his face.
He hardly looked up when two men walked into the room and stopped. Just as she and Patrick had, they stood quietly and surveyed the damage.
She recognized their faces from various police events she"d attended, but didn"t know their names. No one seemed inclined to make introductions until she pinched the back of Patrick"s hand.
He pulled his eyes from Brandon long enough to say, “Carter, McGuire, this is Destiny Matthews, an old friend of mine and Brandon"s.” She waved at their nod.
“You pull this case?” Brandon asked, as if he weren"t talking about his own assault.
“Yeah, man,” Carter responded. “I"m sorry about this. You okay to talk now?”
“Sure,” Brandon said, “let"s get it over with.”
With an uncharacteristically quiet voice, he began to recount what had happened.
He"d gotten no further than describing how his head had hit the pavement when Patrick was up out of the chair, spilling her onto the seat before he took up pacing the tiny room, forcing the detectives against the door to take their notes. Brandon tried to watch Patrick as he moved back and forth, but Destiny could see how the effort cost him. Squeezing his hand, she drew his attention to her and spoke softly.
“Let him be.”
Brandon"s smile was feeble at best. “He"s had a rough day.” Patrick stopped pacing and spun to face the bed. As soon as he opened his mouth, she stopped him with a look.
Brandon raised his eyebrows. “Someday, can you show me how to do that?” Destiny laughed, his smile warming her heart. “Sure. I have to warn you, though, it doesn"t always work.”
“I just bet it doesn"t,” Brandon mused, starting to laugh. He immediately stopped and she winced with him. Patrick started pacing again.
“Are they broken?” she asked.
“My ribs? Miraculously, no. I was sure these ones on the side,” he said, pointing to the area in question, “would be dust after that first kick.” Patrick abruptly stopped pacing again and stood staring at the only blank wall in the tight space. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the tension in his neck 57
Samantha Wayland
cording the muscles, his fingers curled into fists at his side. He was trying to rein in his temper and barely succeeding. She noticed that Detective Carter was also watching him closely.
Eventually, Brandon returned to the details of his attack. His voice was clear but quiet as he remembered specifics that might help Patrick or
