Ruckus (Sinners of Saint 2)

I loitered around the waiting room because there was nothing they could do to stop me from staying. Called Vicious, Millie, and Rosie every two minutes. Kicked the vending machine a few times when my mind strangled me with guilt. Pulled at my hair. Made promises to Rosie that she couldn’t hear. Broke those promises. Thought about creative ways to sneak into her room. Remembered I didn’t even know what her room number was. Cursed some more. Generally acted like a fucking madman.

I was losing it, and it wasn’t pretty.

Vicious came out of the elevator a few hours later and strolled over to me, not even half-surprised to see me there. He clasped the back of my neck, just about ready to pull me into an embrace. Fuck no. This wasn’t a daytime soap opera. Though I did find out that his beloved hero, Eli Cole, was actually a manwhore, fucking douchebag of the worst variety.

“You look like shit.” His lips barely moved.

“Fucking coincidence, you ain’t Victoria’s Secret material yourself.” I cocked a brow.

He laughed.

The fucker actually laughed in my face. Rosie was fighting for her life, and he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Well,” his mirth died abruptly, “you acted like a little shit, too.”

“How is she?” I rubbed my eyes, feeling like I hadn’t slept in years.

“Not good,” he admitted. “Stable, though. She sleeps a lot. And she makes that rattley sound when she breathes. Like her lungs are full of rusty needles.”

Kill. Me. Now.

He knew. He knew by just looking at me that there was no point giving me grief for everything that had happened. I was already in the gutters of life, trying to claw my way out and back into Rosie’s universe with bleeding fingers.

“What happened?” Vicious started walking toward the Starbucks across the road, and I fell in step with him. As much as I hated to be the underdog around Vicious, I had to recruit him to my side. That, in itself, felt impossible. We always went head-to-head. I think that was what had kept our friendship alive. The constant battle.

“The mother of all shitstorms.” I ran a hand through my hair and punched the nearest wall. Fuck, I was going to tell him. Because I had to. Because of Rosie. “In bullets: I’m adopted. Up until now I thought that my parents adopted me from my slutty aunt who got knocked up by a no-show piece of shit. Turns out the no-show piece of shit is actually hot-shot lawyer Eli Cole. He slept with his wife’s sister while they were already married and decided to keep it from me for thirty years. Just, you know, in a fucking nutshell.”

“Fuck,” Vicious hissed, stopping to look me in the eye, making sure it wasn’t all a big, fat, sad joke. After that, we took our coffees and sat down by the window overlooking the hospital. The thought that she was so physically close yet mentally far messed with my mind. It felt like the end of everything. The world. Us. Her. “That’s some heavy mess. I had no idea Eli was capable of out-dicking us,” Vicious said, probably referring to the fact he dipped his dick in his wife’s sister.

“It’s in the genes, I guess.” I stroked my chin thoughtfully, taking a sip of my cup of Joe. “Who fucking cares, Vic? Seriously. She needed me, and I stood her up. She needed me, and she stood in the rain waiting on me. I should burn in hell. In fact, I bet you’d be happy to light the fucking match.”

Vicious offered me an uncommitted shrug, moving his teeth across his lower lip.

“What?” I elbowed him.

“I mean, honestly? Who hasn’t fucked up? I fucked up with Emilia so many times. I did things that were far worse. But she wasn’t sick. That’s the only difference. She was there to accept me when I finally pulled my head out of my ass and started groveling.”

“And you think Rosie is not going to make it?” I cleared my throat so I wouldn’t choke, and there was not enough air in the fucking room as I waited for his answer.

He looked down. “I’m not a doctor, but I’d be lying if I said her prognosis is good.”

“I have to speak to her.” I angled my body to face him, clasping both his shoulders and forcing him to look at me—look at my grief. “You need to help me, Vic. I can’t not see her right now. You realize that, right?”

He measured me, silent and cunning. His lips were pressed together. He was thinking.

“What do you want?” I scrubbed my face. “Name your price.”

Holy fuck, we were doing this again. This. Negotiating each other’s happiness. Fine. Whatever. Everything had a price tag. Especially in Vicious’s world.