I hear Wyatt before I’m even at the mouth of his tent. A deep wheezing comes from inside, followed by a deep, rattling cough that almost sways the tattered canvas, and a gurgling sound that scares me.
Dakota stops when she hears it and meets my gaze, her eyes wide.
“Umm—is he okay?”
Fuck, I hope so.
I tap on the tent with my fingers, “knocking” the best I can.
“Wyatt? You good in there?” I call, pushing the front of the flap aside.
He doesn’t even leave it zipped, assuming the zipper itself isn’t broken.
A pale, rough face pops out before I get a good look inside. I jump back as Wyatt sticks his head out and spits.
Christ.
I hook my arm around Dakota’s waist, tugging her back just in time to miss a thick loogie that lands near her feet. I hope being a Poe means she isn’t grossed out easily.
My attention flicks back to my friend as he stumbles out of the tent a second later, trying to clear what sounds like wet cement in his chest.
“I’m fine, Burns. Who you got here?” His eyes peer through the darkness, trying to focus.
“A friend,” I say generously. “Her name’s Dakota. She’s a copywriter at the office and she’s also filling in for my assistant while she’s out on maternity leave.” I look at Dakota and motion to Wyatt. “This is Wyatt Emory. We served together years ago. We’re war buddies, you might say.”
“Hell of a place to make friends,” Wyatt says, shaking his head with a lopsided smile. “I came out looking better than this guy, didn’t I?”
I’m expecting pure awkwardness. All tension, unease, and subtle revulsion showing even if she’s too nice to insult him.
Instead, Dakota laughs.
The same easy laugh I always hear when she’s dealing with my shit—at least the kind that doesn’t leave her wanting to wrap her hands around my neck.
“You sure did! Bet you’re a better runner, too. I can’t imagine Lincoln jogging,” she says.
I fold my arms, hiding a smile.
Her words are so sincere I don’t know whether to be touched at how empathetic she is or pissed that she implies I’m in worse shape than Wyatt. I take off my jacket and drop to the ground beside him, spreading the jacket out for cover before I motion.
“Do you want to sit?” I glance up at her.
Her puckered face says not really, but she wordlessly smooths out her dress and sits on my jacket, sweeping her long legs to the side.
As usual, they’re a delicious torture for my eyes. Too bad I didn’t come here to ogle this raven-stamped girl who drives me to the edge of madness.
“I brought you something,” I tell Wyatt once she’s settled.
“Aw, fuck. Not necessary. I can feed myself,” Wyatt says with a coughing fit I hate at the end.
“Not just the rolls. You’ll be happy when you see it, trust me.” I open the prosthetic box and pull out the contents.
For a second, he’s speechless. Frozen. His eyes bulge like marbles, glinting in the faint light.
“You’re shitting me, right? That’s too damn expensive even for you, Lincoln. I could’ve got one from the VA anytime and waited,” he says coldly.
Easier said than done without a mailing address, I think bitterly.
This is what drives me up the fucking wall with Wyatt, his uncompromising pride. It’s the best part of who he is and it also makes him his own worst enemy.
“The VA can take up to a year. It’s nothing,” I say sharply.
“Bull. I would’ve waited.”
“A year is a long-ass time to wait for a leg, Wyatt,” I remind him. Especially when he’d still have his real leg instead of this engineered metal if he hadn’t gone and saved my sorry ass.
“He makes like a gazillion bucks a day. He can afford an arm and a leg here and there,” Dakota says lightly, trying to be funny.
I give her a wry smile.
She’s trying to help, dammit, but I wish she wouldn’t. Wyatt’s moods can be unpredictable, and if he gets pissed or unruly, he could chuck the prosthetic into Elliot Bay for all I know.
My worries are unfounded, though.
Because Wyatt chuckles loudly until he runs into another hacking fit that has him doubled over, choking up phlegm.
I suddenly regret bringing him the new leg because it doesn’t go nearly far enough. He needs treatment, professional help beyond anything I can offer. At least a bottle of medicine and a chest X-ray for that nasty infection.
I’m about to grab him when he straightens up, holding out a hand.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he tells Dakota before meeting my eyes. “She gives you hell. I like her already.”
“How do you know she gives me hell? You’ve barely met,” I say with a snort.
“I can tell. Good pick, Burns. You need a chick who keeps you honest.”
“Don’t go getting too attached,” I mutter under my breath, hoping she can’t hear. “She just works for me. That’s it.”