Without our interference, they could say: Where’s Jane and Moffy? Are Rose and Lily neglecting their children? Why aren’t they seen anywhere?
It doesn’t always work, but that’s why this is a test. “I’ll protect my balls. Don’t worry, darling.” I wink.
He laughs, more lighthearted. We exit the elevator and walk down the hallway, already signed-in. I find his room quickly, and when I swing open the door, we catch Ryke in a compromising position.
“Bro!” Lo shouts, pushing ahead of me.
Ryke is on the concrete floor doing push-ups, his bare ass peeking out of his flimsy, blue hospital gown. “Fuck off,” Ryke grunts as he lowers his body weight, his arms flexed as he raises himself back up.
“Frankly, I’m not surprised,” I chime in. “I thought we would’ve had to check the pound on day two. Mooning the room isn’t even that bad.”
Ryke shoots me a glare on his next rep, his IV stand wheeled beside him. “Remember that time you were cuffed beside the canned fruit and hamburger buns?”
I almost wear my irritation. “It’s amusing you mention buns.” I glance once at his ass for reference.
Ryke doesn’t give a shit. In fact, he does a one-handed push-up and flashes me the middle finger with the other.
He continues to do whatever he wants to do. Per the usual.
I walk deeper into the hospital room and sit on the stiff chair beside the bed. The privacy curtains shroud the second empty bed. The other patient, a gallbladder removal, left yesterday afternoon—so he’s not subjecting someone else to his nude workout.
Lo squats in front of his brother and waves the Lucky’s bag. “I’m going to toss this out of the goddamn window if you don’t stop.”
Ryke instantly snatches the bag as he stands to his feet.
Lo pats his brother on the shoulder. “Cute socks.”
I laugh into a grin. Ryke has to wear white compression stockings to help with blood flow, but I’m sure his constant trips out of bed help his circulation enough.
“Fuck you,” Ryke says lightly. He sits on the edge of his bed, already scouring the bag’s contents.
Lo takes a seat next to him. “Really though, were you coherent when the doctor said you could damage your spleen and need a second operation?”
Ryke pops a fry in his mouth. “I was coherent, and I also heard him tell me that they didn’t damage any of my fucking organs during surgery.” He pulls out a wad of napkins from the bag. “I can’t hurt my spleen on my own. The surgeons would’ve had to majorly fuck up three days ago, and they didn’t.”
I lean back. “An infection is still entirely possible.”
Lo nods a couple times.
Ryke glares once at me before eating another fry. “I’m fucking fine. I should be out of here tonight—”
“No,” Lo cuts him off with a darkened look. “You’re supposed to be in here for at least six days.” They’ve never been in this role reversal: Ryke being the invalid. Loren being the healthy one. Both aren’t doing well by the switch.
To alleviate the tension (what I do best) I say, “There is a pair of communal handcuffs floating around our house somewhere. I’d be happy to pay it forward and cuff you to your bed.”
Ryke unwraps his Philly cheese steak. “How about—fuck off.”
Well I tried. He’s never been cooperative when subjects circumnavigate around him. He’s just used to dealing with his personal life in private and his weaknesses by himself. I can understand that, but he has people that care about him now.
He’s not alone anymore.
Lo scratches the back of his neck. “You haven’t been running, have you?”
Ryke eats his sandwich, staying quiet.
Lo stares faraway at the ground, shaking his head a few times and cracking his knuckles. Ryke meets my gaze once and I raise my brows at him like you have to talk about it. He can’t shut Lo out, not after all of the strides they’ve made in their relationship.
Ryke takes a swig from his water bottle. “I tried to run once, and the nurses stopped me.”
“Good,” Lo snaps.
Ryke digs deeper in the Lucky’s bag. “Did you forget the mustard?”
Lo turns to me with an expression that I read as what were you saying back in that elevator? Oh wait, you were wrong.
I pass over the mustard inaccuracy. “How exactly did the nurses stop you?” I wonder, trying to picture this act.
“They said stop and I fucking stopped.”
“Did they pat your head and say good boy too?”
Lo laughs.
Ryke glowers.
“What kind of treat did they give you? A belly rub?”
Lo chimes in, “Did that feel good, bro?”
Ryke throws a greasy fry covered in chili at me and then at Loren. It stains my navy sweater. I’m not necessarily happy about it, but I knew it was the risk of teasing him. Ryke is fond of projectiles and food lies in his vicinity.
He checks the closed door over his shoulder, his body tensing in seriousness. “How has Daisy been sleeping at night? I’ve asked her a few times, but she just tells me not to worry.”
Lo looks to me, unsure of how to answer. Daisy has trouble sleeping alone from her PTSD, and the first night, Rose checked on her at three in the morning. All the lights were on in Daisy’s bedroom down in the basement. Rose said that she was wide-awake, alarmed by the smallest noises, so Rose has been sleeping in her bed to keep her company.
Last night, both Lo and I rushed in at two in the morning to her terrified screams. Rose struggled to calm her little sister down, and Daisy was adamant that a man was peering through her window.
We checked, and no one was outside.
“Rose said that Daisy tosses and turns a lot,” I offer this information, wary to give the rest. I think Daisy is part of the reason he wants to leave by tonight. “They’re on their way here, so you’ll see her.”
Ryke looks sick to his stomach. He actually stops eating, his sandwich on his lap. “Could Rose tell how long she slept?”
“Maybe four hours.” Or less. “The more she sees Frederick, the better he’ll be able to discern what type of medication she needs to sleep.”
Ryke nods a couple times, and someone knocks before the door blows open. I expect the girls, but it’s actually two nurses dressed in white scrubs: an older woman with glasses around her neck and a younger, blonde girl—possibly a nursing student.
“What’s all of this now?” the older woman asks, scrutinizing the assortment of greasy food.
“Sustenance,” Lo says with a dry half-smile.
“Right,” the older nurse snorts, still trying to determine whether she should collect the food as contraband.
The young nurse focuses solely on Ryke with a curious gaze that I’ve seen often from fans. She plucks his chart off the end of the bed and flips through the papers. “His digestion has been doing well, no problems with his intestines, so the extra food should be fine.”
“No shit,” Lo jokes to his brother. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this combination gives you the runs.” He gestures to the chili and the cheese steak. Ryke shoves his brother’s arm playfully.
I’m waiting for the older nurse to yell at the student, about confidentiality and not being allowed to share his condition in front of visitors. The older nurse never says a word, pumping up Ryke’s pain meds through the IV.