Gray's Girl (17 page)

Turning his head, he searched frantically for Frankie. She was in a small heap next to him, out of her seat belt and so still his heart stopped.

“No…nononono!”

Pain forgotten, he snatched at his seat belt, releasing it and falling the short distance to the glass below. Fear and adrenaline surged through his system as he flipped, reaching out to touch the woman he loved. She couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t told her that he loved her.

“God, Frankie, don’t leave me,” he begged, crawling to her. “You can’t leave me. I didn’t get to tell you…we’re gonna get married. I want to marry you.”

Tears streaked down his face as he pressed fingers to her throat. His world stopped when he didn’t find anything. Shit. No. This couldn’t be happening. Taking a breath to control the panic surging through him, he moved his fingers. Tried again.

A pulse. Weak but there.

Everything surged back at once. The sound of cars, people screaming. Sirens getting closer. Ignoring it, he looped an arm around the small woman and started to wriggle backward, out of the smashed driver’s window. Sweat beaded, poured from his body as his injured leg and side protested. He kept going. The smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air, catching at his lungs. If they stayed here, one stray spark would be all it would take.

“Not…happening…” he growled as he made it out the window, dragging her with him. He had no idea what injuries she had, but didn’t care. If they stayed in the car, waiting for the emergency services to come and get them, they were going to die. He knew it as surely as he needed air to breathe.

The growl became a groan of pain as he crawled to his knees. He forced it back to a growl as he gathered her into his arms, the sound becoming a bellow as he stood, damaged body protesting every step of the way. Fixing on a painted line on the tarmac, he started forward.

In his mind, Leighton Gray ran in the most important game in his life. His world morphed, became a surreal juxtaposition of reality and every game he’d ever played. The screams became the roar of the crowd, the sirens the bellowed orders from his captain and the coaches, the lights blinding him became the flash from press photographers. Frankie, a warm, solid weight in his arms, became the ball, to be protected at all costs. Taken to safety, beyond the line.

Ignore the pain, ignore the ref. Keep playing. Keep walking. Gotta score the try.

His feet shuffled against the tarmac as he put distance between them and the crashed cars. Swaying on his feet, he slid past tackles, gaze fixed on the white line ahead of him. The line. Had to reach the line. Ignore the pain and reach the line.

Score the try.

He held his breath, gritted his teeth as the line approached. Used every trick in the book to get the woman he loved to safety. Finally, he reached it, collapsing to his knees as his body gave out and dumped them both on the unforgiving surface. A weak cry issued from his lips as he turned at the last minute, cushioning her with his own body.

Bang!

Fire lit the air behind them, and heat blossomed along his side. With nothing left in him, Gray turned his head on the concrete to see the remains of his car go up in flames. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his face as he held Frankie closer.

“Sir, we got her. Please, you can let her go now.”

Reassuring voices surrounded him as Frankie was lifted away, and he struggled to focus on them. He got a brief glimpse of bright jackets, green uniforms before the darkness prowling at the edges of his vision pounced, and he felt himself slipping. His game was over, but satisfaction filled him.

He’d scored the try.

He’d gotten Frankie to safety.

Nothing else mattered.

Chapter Eleven

“She’s waking up. Nurse…nurse! She’s waking up.”

The sound of her brother’s voice and hurried footsteps broke through the darkness surrounding Frankie. It was all encompassing, like a warm blanket. Comforting. She wanted to stay wrapped in its embrace. Safe. Where nothing could hurt her.

She couldn’t. She knew that. Even now bad things tugged at the edges of her mind, trying to get her attention like a puppy wanting to play. Ignoring it didn’t help. The blanket was slowly pulled away, slipping from between her fingers before she could get a good grip on it.

“Frankie, can you hear me?”

Damon’s voice sounded again, deep and rasping, the way he sounded when he’d shouted himself hoarse, or been crying. Instinct, and the thickness in his words, told her it was the latter. Why had he been crying? What had happened? The questions rolled around in her head, but she couldn’t raise any enthusiasm to pursue them as something warm wrapped around her hand. It took her sluggish brain a few seconds to recognize the pressure as her brother’s fingers pressing against hers.

“Please, angel cake…please wake up.”

The endearment from her childhood, last heard on their mother’s lips, made her smile. Drew her out of the darkness surer than the tow rope they’d often had to tie around the hitch on Damon’s beat-up little car to get it to start.

“That’s it, good girl.”

Her eyelids felt like lead as she forced them open, each millimeter a battle that left her breathless. She winced as light stabbed into her eyes, hot needles trying to burrow through to her brain. Her breath caught sharply as pain after pain followed each other like maniacal dancers doing the conga. Her body hurt, every bone and cell aching with separate and distinct pains that came together in a discordant harmony. Sound intruded, the muted bleeps of medical-type machinery backing up the smell of disinfectant to tell her she had to be in hospital.

The crash. Screams. Blackness.

“Fuck. Oops, language, sorry…but can’t you give her something for the pain?”

“No…”

Frankie shook her head, clutching at Damon’s hand. Memory returned, a delayed reaction like live pause on a satellite TV—life continuing with her a few seconds behind it. She didn’t want painkillers.

She remembered pain. Pain and blood. Remembered coming to with moans spilling from her lips because it hurt so much in a room with blinding white walls and lights so bright they burned her eyes. People in green scrubs decorated with patterns of scarlet. Patterns her brain refused to recognize as blood. There had been so much of it, too much, but all she could think of was a saying her grandmother had been fond of. Red and green should never be seen.

Then she’d turned her head and her nightmare had become reality. Leighton lay off to the left, on the table next to her. But there were no people around him. The machines around him were dark and his blond hair was stained with blood.

Terrible screams of grief and agony welled up, throbbed on the air, startling her. Who else was in here? Who else had lost the most important thing in their lives?

“Shit, someone get her under!” The medical staff around her stopped and she realized the awful sound was coming from her. They surged around her, the prick of a needle in her hand warning her a few seconds before the numbing darkness enveloped her again.

She came back to the present with a gasp, grabbing hard onto Damon’s hand.

“Leighton… I-is he—” She couldn’t even bring herself to say it, afraid the very act of speaking the words would make the terrible dream a reality. She had to believe it was a dream, nothing more, or her hold on the panic welling up inside her would crack and it would drag her into the abyss below.

Damon paused, his features still and wary. Just for a moment before he plastered a careful smile on his face. Frankie’s heart stopped. Leighton was dead and Damon was trying to figure out how to break it to her.

Pain ripped through her as her eyelids swept down. In a fraction of a second she saw what their life would have been like, the life she wanted to live—by his side. Their wedding, Leighton handsome in his suit through to having children, a large house filled with love and laughter, then fast-forward to grandkids and growing old together. A lifetime encapsulated within the blink of an eye and leaving her with a longing so profound she knew she’d never be the same again.

A trembling sigh escaped her lips as tears prickled at the back of her eyes. She hadn’t told him that she loved him. Too concerned with protecting herself, he’d died without knowing how she felt. Without knowing how much she loved him.

“He’s okay. Frankie, he’s okay. I promise.”

“Oh, thank God.” Relief slammed into her at Damon’s soft words, so hard that it actually felt like a physical blow. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was alive; Leighton was alive. But not okay. The odd note in her brother’s voice registered as she struggled to sit up, narrowing her eyes. “You aren’t telling me something…what happened? I remember the car… Is he okay?”

“You were involved in a car accident, Frankie. Leigh was badly injured…he nearly bled out. They have him in surgery now.”

Stress etched deep lines into Damon’s face as he looked down at their hands for a moment, then back up to look directly into her eyes. He’d never been able to hide anything from her, even now that they were adults.

“Franks, they said the damage might be too great. He might never walk properly again…”

Tears filled her eyes as a wave of love and protectiveness washed over her. If he couldn’t walk, he wouldn’t be able to play. And not being able to play again would kill him.

“But it doesn’t matter. You’re both alive and that’s all that counts.” Tears to match hers filled Damon’s eyes as he held onto her hand more tightly. “He got you out, Frankie. Pulled you both clear before the car exploded. We nearly lost you both. Whatever he needs, it’ll be there. I’ll make sure of it, I promise.”

She nodded, her heart aching. He’d pulled her free, even though he was injured. He’d saved her life and nearly lost his doing it.

“I love him,” she said suddenly, and struggled to sit up. There were needles in her arm, the stinging pull warning her against moving too much. Nausea rose up just at the sight of them. She hated needles. Beseechingly, she looked at Damon. “I love him and I didn’t get to tell him. I need to be there when he comes out. When he wakes up.”

Damon nodded, patting her hand before standing up, determination written on his face as he caught the attention of a passing nurse.

“You will. Leave it to me. I’ll make sure it happens.”

* * *

Damon was as good as his word. A few hours later he’d managed to get her moved to the room Leighton was recovering in, wheelchair, drip, and all. He hadn’t managed it with the charm that Leighton could muster, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was being here when Leighton woke.

The room was quiet, a private one off the main ward, filled with the muted bleeps of the medical equipment and the sound of soft breathing from the man lying on the bed. With gentle fingers, she stroked his hair back from his face. She was glad they hadn’t cut it. Otherwise she was sure he’d have been like Samson, shorn of all his strength along with his hair.

Cuts and scrapes surrounded his eye and trailed down his cheek, and there was a cut by the corner of his lip. Stitched and taped, it was deep enough to leave a scar. She didn’t care. His skin was covered in them, each one a permanent reminder of the violence and brutality of his chosen career. All she cared about was that he was here. He was still with her.

Pulling her fingers gently through the long blond locks, she patted it smooth and reached for his hand. The IV in the back of hers pulled but she ignored it to lace her fingers through his. He looked so peaceful lying there. Like a hero sleeping, his big body powerful even with the medical gown and tent over his leg.

Her gaze flirted with it, the construct protecting and keeping even the lightest weight off the damaged limb within. The doctors said the surgery had gone well, better than expected. Her lips curved gently at their astonishment at what he’d done.

“With the damage, we literally don’t know how he managed to walk, much less carry you clear, Ms. Cross. To all intents and purposes his leg was nonfunctional,” the surgeon had explained, his dark eyes open and honest as he’d sat down to explain exactly what had happened.

He’d looked tired, the deep lines etched into his face and the chance comments of the nurses who’d been looking after Leighton when she’d arrived testament to how hard he’d worked to mend the man she loved. Hours in surgery, trying to fix the damage. Far longer than was normal.

Shrugging, he’d offered a small smile. “But history is littered with accounts of little old ladies lifting cars off of their grandchildren, soldiers who don’t let little things like mortal wounds stand in the way of making that last charge to defeat the enemy. It’s amazing what the human mind can do, even if the body shouldn’t be capable of it.”

He’d gone on to outline a likely recovery plan, warning her that they had a long, hard road ahead and there was no guarantee that Leighton would walk properly after it. Neither of them mentioned rugby, but the fact that he might never play again hung in the room like a specter waiting to join the party.

It didn’t matter to her if he didn’t. Didn’t matter if he always had a limp and had to walk with a cane as the doctor warned. Her gut clenched at the thought of how different it could have turned out. How a random turn of events could have stolen their future together. But it hadn’t. He was here. Her hero had made it through and he was safe. Alive. With her.

Exhaustion and the medication they had her on pulled at her body, her eyelids drifting down as she gently stroked the back of his hand. They’d said it would be a while before he woke, but she didn’t want to leave him in case. With a sigh, she leaned over the bed, resting her forehead on the covers next to his hand. Just a few minutes’ nap and she’d be good.

The movement of her hand over his slowed as she relaxed, dropping into that comfortable fuzzy feeling that signaled oncoming sleep. The scent of the flower arrangement on the cupboard opposite wafted over to her, covering the more medical smells of the room. If she ignored the soft bleeps of the monitors, she could almost believe that they were at home, curled up in bed.