Page 41 of Wild Card

“Great.” He melts back into the pale-blue pillows with a grateful smile on his face. Then he asks, “Now that we’re allied,will you bring me a burger? With bacon? And french fries! They’re starving me in he?—”

“Clyde, for fuck’s sake, you already know you can’t have fast food.” A voice filters from the door. And before I even see its owner, I know who it is.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere, and a wave of relief hits me when I hear it.He lived. I already knew he had, but seeing him in the flesh adds a layer of relief.

Since that night standing on the beach, I’ve been worried about Bash. We didn’t talk much after he let my hand go, and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d gone too far. Stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. But he told me to stay. So I did.

Bash walks into the room but stops short when his gaze lands on me. He doesn’t look entirely thrilled about my presence. I wince and offer a small wave.

I get why he stays away from me, but that doesn’t stop me from hating it. There are times when everything between us feels so perfectly natural. And other times, it’s like a comedy of errors, where we’re avoiding one another but keep crashing together anyway. I hate how awkward things are with us in those moments. It’s like the ultimate missed connection topped off with a huge amount of baggage. And longing. And…regret.

So much regret. Should have, could have, would have.

Why didn’t I take his number?

Why didn’t I try to find him?

Why did I automatically assume I wasn’t good enough for him to stay interested?

I wish they didn’t, but those questions keep me up at night. And just like when I’m lying awake, the hospital room is quiet. Too fucking quiet. I squirm under Bash’s stare, not sure where we stand right now. Sure, we shared a nice moment on the beach, but it doesn’t change everything else that’s happened.

I half expect him to pretend I’m not here at all, but he acknowledges me with a stiff nod and a terse-sounding “Gwen.”

Like I said,awkward. But then, I grew up tiptoeing around my dad’s moods, hoping to fly under the radar, so fading into the background is old hat. I can go unnoticed with the best of them.

Bash turns his attention to Clyde, moving closer. I look him over, wanting to ask how he’s recovering, but other than the light hitch in his step, he appears mostly fine.

“I’m discharged, but you need to stay for a bit still for monitoring and occupational therapy,” Bash starts in, while I do my best to pretend I’m not here.

My gaze snags on the front of his sweatpants as he props his hands on his hips and talks. The gray sweats. The ones that leave almost nothing to the imagination.

“They agreed with me that your house is too far from the hospital to be safe or to conduct proper follow-up care. So in about ten days when you get discharged, you’ll stay with me—like we talked about—and we’ll have to hire a live-in aide. They can take the spare room upstairs since you’ll be on the main floor.”

My attention moves from Bash’s big dick to the words he just said. My head turns slowly in Clyde’s direction as I piece it together.

He stays focused on Bash, like a puppy who’s done something naughty and is avoiding eye contact. “Oh, thank you, Bash. That’s perfect.”

My jaw unhinges as I watch Clyde…play him. His voice is all soft, his shoulders just slightly hunched. “I actually hired someone already.”

A beleaguered sigh slips from Bash’s lips. It’s like he expects Clyde’s going to say he’s hired a dancing penguin or something.

Little does he know, it’s so much worse.

Fingers woven together in my lap, I can’t help but twist and wring them as the silence stretches on. Bash just stares back at the older man, like he’s waiting to be enlightened.

His dark eyes slip to the motion in my lap, and I stop immediately.

The fidgeting is an easy tell, and based on the way his brow furrows, he knows it.

“Clyde, who did you hire?” he asks slowly, with intention.

In response, Clyde’s eyes go comically wide and innocent. And with one shy tip of his head, he says, “Gwen, of course.”

Bash tilts his head back, big hands propped on his hips as he looks up at the ceiling like he might find an extra dose of patience tucked behind one of the terribly unflattering lights. He heaves in a sigh so deep that I can see his chest expand beneath the soft fabric of his white T-shirt, filling his lungs to the brim. Based on what little I know of him, it’s probably a great exercise for calming his nervous system. Except he doesn’t let the air out slowly.

“Clyde.” He sighs the man’s name, sounding exasperated.

I try not to take it personally. Rising above is second nature by now, which is made easier by the fact that Bash avoids me like the plague. Most times, the man gives me little more than a glance. He clearly can’t get past me dating Tripp, and while it used to bother me, I’ve let it go. I can’t change the past. I can only control my own feelings, and unfortunately for me, those haven’t changed either.