That turned out to be the right answer because at that hour, it was also the only hospital entrance that was open.
The ER was quiet when he got there, and he hovered at the desk, waiting for someone to appear.
He was tired, he was anxious, and he really had no idea what he was supposed to do. He’d obsessed over it on the drive down. Food hadn’t helped. Half a gallon of black coffee hadn’t helped. He’d convinced himself that he just needed to get there and he’d know.
He was wrong. He still didn’t know how to feel, so he tried to not to feel anything.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist sounded as tired as he felt, which was pretty fucking tired.
“I…yes, please. Um. I’m Skyler Paulson’s…uh, I’m his husband.” Jesus, he was stuttering. It had been a while since he’d told anyone that.
She frowned and looked down at her computer, typing away. “One minute.”
He sighed, remembering a time when Sky’s name was recognized by non-rodeo people. He grabbed his phone and dialed Parker, who answered after two rings.
“Where are you, man?”
“At the ER desk. The very kind nurse is looking things up. Come get me.”
“Coming.” The line went dead as she looked up. “He’s up in intensive care. Do you need an escort?”
“No. A fr…someone is coming to get me.” He paced away from the desk, heading for the elevators.
He punched the button and the door opened, and he slammed right into the motherfucker who’d destroyed his marriage. Parker Stephens.Asshole.
“Good. You’re here. Come on.” Parker grabbed his hand and tugged him into the elevator.
He yanked his hand back and put some space between them, his fingers defensively curling into a fist. He’d had a hell of a night, and Parker was way too convenient to take it out on.
“We’re not friends, Parker. Don’t touch me.”
“Fuck off. You’re goddamn right. I should have let him die without telling you. Prick.”
He took a step toward Parker. “Whydidyou call me, asshole? Do you feel a little guilty?”
“Jesus, still? Are you still harping on this imaginary affair? I called you because…” Parker stopped short, lips twisting. “I called. And you’d better hit me hard enough to put me down. I’ve still got his blood on my jeans.”
“He wouldn’t be bleeding if it weren’t for you.” He was seriously weighing his options when the elevator stopped and the doors opened. He gave Parker a long, hard look and then stormed into the hall.
He stopped at the nurses’ station and checked in, got a gown and a mask, and washed up with the caustic soap, feeling like he was in a whirlwind, like he was being pushed forward when he didn’t want to be.
Then he was standing in front of Skyler’s bed, his husband unrecognizable under the sheets and bandages and tubes.
He stared, frozen in place. Skyler—what he could see of Skyler—looked even smaller than usual. The machines were blipping and beeping, and Beckett didn’t understand what any of it meant. He needed to know what was going on. He needed to, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He looked at Sky’s nurse.
Breathe.
He tried, but he couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice. “What…what is all this? Do you know what happened? Will he…does he have a chance?”
“He got stomped.” That wasn’t the nurse. Not at all. He spun, squinting at the vaguely familiar, craggy face. He wasn’t even sure of the man’s name. Sky always called him Doc. “He’s broke—femur, hip, shoulder, jaw, orbital bone. We gave him three pints of blood before we found the bleed. He’s in a coma to stop the damage.”
“Christ.” He could barely get the word out above a rough whisper. “Parker said you don’t think he’s going to make it.” He turned back to look at Sky. He was mad, he was hurt…he’d wanted Sky to come home, but he’d never have wished anything like this on Skyler. This was horrific.
“The surgeons don’t, no. I’m not giving up. I’ve known him since he was seventeen. He’s not a quitter.”
Not a quitter.Guess it depends on what he’s quitting.