Page 40 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby

T his time, I woke slowly—not jolted by pain or dragged out of a nightmare, but because something had shifted.

It was subtle, barely enough to register, but just off enough to stir me.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, and when I turned toward the chair beside my bed, I found it empty.

I shifted my eyes to the side and saw Ira was halfway out the door. For a man who joked about his age and carried Werther’s in every pocket, he was moving quietly. Too quietly. Like he didn’t want to be noticed. I watched him slip into the hallway—quick, nimble, and purposeful.

I tried to sit up, but the pain hit me the moment I moved—a sharp, overwhelming wave that radiated from my ribs, head, wrist, and leg all at once.

My body felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it and then tried to stitch me back together with fishing line and duct tape. But the adrenaline overrode all of it.

Something was happening.

“Ira—” I rasped, but he was gone.

I tried to move again, forcing my uncooperative body into motion. My IV tugged, and monitors beeped as I managed to twist to the side and get one leg partway over the edge of the bed before a voice stopped me.

“You need to lie back.”

A nurse stepped into the room—mid-forties, with neatly pressed scrubs and hair pinned back so tightly it looked like it could deflect bullets.

She wasn’t exactly rude, but there was no warmth in her tone, no unnecessary small talk.

Without a word, she moved to the monitor, pressed a few buttons, and then gave me a quick once-over, all business.

Obviously, she'd never heard the expression about laughter being the best medicine.

“Where did he go?” I asked, breath catching as I fought the urge to collapse back onto the pillows.

She didn’t even blink. “Technically, you’re not supposed to have visitors in the ICU outside of certain hours.

But we made an exception for your grandad because Gladys is one of our biggest donors.

” She said it with the kind of resigned professionalism that told me she’d lost more than a few battles to that woman’s influence.

“Do you want some pain meds?” she added, already checking the chart.

“Just Tylenol and ibuprofen.”

That made her look up. “You sure? I can get you something stronger.”

I shook my head. “I need my brain clear.”

She gave me a long, searching look, then nodded. “If you're sure, I’ll go and get it.”

Once she was gone, I sank back against the pillows, trying not to wince. A minute later, Ira returned—just as quiet, slipping into the room like he’d never left. His face was calm, but I could see something restless in his eyes.

He waited until the nurse left again before crossing to the side of the bed and pulling his phone from his pocket.

He held it out like it was a cursed object. “Everyone keeps talking about what happened with Gladys and Colin. Said it’s all over the internet. I don’t know how to find it, but if you can…”

I took the phone from him, the ache in my arms flaring with the movement as I tapped at the screen. It didn’t take long—just a few quick searches. The video was already everywhere, clipped, shared, and hash tagged into oblivion.

And there she was—Gladys, storming into the courthouse with all the fury of a woman on a mission. She marched straight up to her son, grabbed him by the ear like he was five years old, and dragged him out as if they were leaving Sunday school because he’d just cursed at the pastor.

She pulled him off the pew, past reporters and cops, and shoved him toward the sheriff while rattling off charges, threats, and her phone passcode like she dared the world to stop her.

Ira leaned in beside me as we watched, and I could hear the smile in his voice even before he spoke.

“What a woman,” he murmured. “Isn’t she amazing?”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread slowly across my face, even with the tightness in my skull. “Yeah, she really is. You’re a lucky man.”

He nodded solemnly. “I know it.” We watched in silence for another beat, and then he added, “That nice fella outside—Edward—he said they’re on the lookout for Maddox’s friend, Clayton Barris.”

I tensed at the name.

Ira’s voice dropped slightly. “Apparently, he’s not a good guy. And I finally understand why Gladys didn’t want Colin hanging around with him.”

“That’s an understatement. He’s the one I’m worried about.” I paused, then shifted my gaze to him. “I need your help.”

He looked at me, his eyes sharp. “What kind of help?”

I hesitated, carefully measuring my words before I spoke. “The kind of secret you don’t share with anyone—not Eddie, not Webb, not even Gladys.”

He blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t argue.

I leaned in closer, dropping my voice. “If Barris is organized enough to keep track of his men, then the fact they’ve gone missing will tell him something. Maybe not exactly where I am—but it’ll narrow it down. If I do this right…I can use that.”

Ira stared at me, and for a second, I thought he might push back. But then he gave me a small, grim nod.

I reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “First thing in the morning…”

And he leaned closer, voice low and steady. “I’m with you, kid.”

If I hadn’t been in blinding pain, I might have appreciated the absurdity of what we were doing.

As it stood, I was doing my best not to groan audibly with every movement, my ribs feeling like cracked ceramic and my head pulsing with a dull, persistent throb that reminded me my skull had not, in fact, healed overnight.

Ira had managed to find two sets of scrubs—who knew from where—and tossed one at me, along with a silk scarf that smelled like Gladys’s perfume. “She must’ve left it when she went to deal with that menace of a son of hers,” he explained with a shrug.

The perfume it smelled of was soft and floral and slightly overpowering, but I wrapped it around my bandaged head anyway and pulled on the oversized scrub top. He threw on his own pair and looked just left of official—somewhere between “retired volunteer” and “runaway orderly.”

“Right,” he said, patting the side of the gurney he’d wheeled in from God knows where. “Lie down and play dead.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “You heard me. We’re going out the back like two ghosts, and I’ve got a cover story if someone stops us. But it’ll work better if you don’t move.”

I sighed and eased myself onto the gurney.

Every inch of me protested—my casted leg throbbed, my ribs screamed, and my head was its own symphony of misery.

But I lay down, and Ira covered me with a sheet like he’d done this before, which was probably a conversation for another time.

Once I was settled, he wheeled me into the hallway without hesitation.

I couldn’t see much from beneath the sheet, but I could hear everything—nurses chatting behind their desks, the squeak of sneakers on tile floors, the occasional beep of a monitor, and the soft, steady paging over the intercom.

No one stopped us. Not a single person questioned the elderly man confidently pushing a gurney through the ICU wing as if he were on his way to Bingo night.

It was unreal.

Eventually, we reached a quieter section of the hospital and came to a stop. I peeked from beneath the sheet to see Ira peering both ways before veering sharply to the right.

“This way,” he whispered. "Now, play dead."

He parked the gurney beside a side door and ducked into the adjacent alcove. A moment later, he reappeared with a stolen wheelchair—scuffed but functional—and grinned like a teenager skipping school.

“All right, up we go. Slowly, though. The last thing I need is Webb kicking my tuchus because I got you hurt."

It took some careful maneuvering—i.e., an excruciating eternity—but eventually, I was eased into the chair, biting down on a whimper when my stomach protested too sharply. Then Ira wheeled me out into the night like we were just two night-shift regulars going for a post-shift break.

I blinked up at the truck parked in the far corner of the lot. “You drive a lifted F-150?”

“Of course! It’s got the good shocks and a nice radio. And Glady's car's never going to move again after the accident, so you'll like it.”

I wanted to laugh, but breathing hurt too much.

Getting into that beast of a truck felt like scaling a cliff face with no harness. Ira helped as gently as he could, but it was still slow, awkward, and painful. By the time I was in the seat and the door closed behind me, I was sweating through the scrubs.

He climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and gave me a quick glance. “We clear?”

I looked around warily. “Looks like it.”

“Good. You owe me a peach cobbler because the nurse was going to bring me one tomorrow, by the way.”

I turned my head carefully. “Wait, what nurse?”

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Kaitlyn. She’s the granddaughter of my friend Leonard.

I gave her two thousand dollars and swore on my collection of Civil War canteens that I wouldn’t mention her name if we got caught.

She gave me your meds and some tips on how to make it through the first two days without killing you by accident. ”

My heart squeezed.

“That’s a lot to ask of her.”

“I know, but it’s not about her. It’s about you, and you need to be alive.”

I stayed quiet for a long while after that, saying nothing as I stared out the window. The streetlights blurred past, one after another, casting fleeting glows across my face. Pain kept me grounded, a constant throb beneath the surface, while adrenaline pushed me forward, refusing to let me stop.

Eventually, he asked, “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Mississippi,” I sighed, my head against the window. “I need to go back to the bayou cabin. I know some raccoons who’ll be thrilled to see me.”

He chuckled. “Raccoons, huh?”