Guarding January (17 page)

He pushed two more kids out of the way and grabbed hold of Jeff’s leg, climbing Jeff’s body hand over hand until he had one arm around the slender waist. He wasn’t fucking letting go.

Jeff was still in the harness, knocked out cold. People were pulling at him—tugging and tearing at his clothes, his jewelry, his hair.

Fucking animals.

There was a sound louder than the rest from the back of the stage, sparks flying. Jesus, the whole fucking stage was exploding. Didn’t these kids have any sense of self-preservation? Tapping his ear piece, he tried in vain to communicate with his team.

Rye tugged and pushed, finally getting Jeff out of the harness and into his arms. He shouldered a couple people out of the way, looking around wildly for the best egress. The stage area was in flames, which meant backstage was out.

He turned again, suddenly coming face-to-face with Jude, one of the guys who usually stood in front of the stage and kept the kids off it. Jude pointed to the left, mimed pushing through, and Rye nodded, ready to follow in Jude’s wake.

“My band,” Jeff moaned, then screamed as someone tore at his hair.

Rye kicked out with his foot, hard, and the offender shouted and let go of Jeff’s hair. Rye shifted Jeff, using his shoulder to protect Jeff’s head.

Jude kept moving, slowly but surely, and Rye had to believe the man was leading them to a clear exit where he could get Jeff to safety.

Then he’d go back, get the others.

Lightning flashed, hitting the stage, and everything stopped for a second—his senses frozen, trapped in light and the scent of ozone.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The screaming increased, the fans finally hitting self-preservation and pushing this way and that, scrambling to find a way out of the open-air arena.

Thank fucking God he was as big as he was or he would have fallen, and they both would have been trampled. He still had Jude, though, and he could see now where they were headed; the crowd was starting to thin out as everyone scrambled for safety. He pushed through, his muscles screaming even as the first responders pushed toward the stage.

All of a sudden, the crowd opened up like the venue had spewed them all out into the parking lot.

Jude turned back around. “Bus?”

Rye nodded. If they could get there, get Jeff into the SUV, they could get him to the hospital while he figured out where the rest of the band was. He tapped his Bluetooth a couple of times, amazed it was still attached to his ear. “Sit rep!” He repeated his demand for a situation report a few times, trusting that Jude was taking them to the SUV as quickly as possible. He could see the flashing lights coming from the east, so at least fucking emergency services was here.

“Boss, we got injured, man. Hardcore. Someone stabbed Roach, Brandy’s burned. We need help!” The words were shouted through his earpiece.

“God damn it. Where are you?”

“Back of the stage. The fucking civilians are everywhere. I got a young teenager, girl. Broken leg. I got a couple guys down. Lots of blood.”

“I’m on my way.” He turned to Jude. “Get LJ to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And keep me up-to-date on his condition.” Rye settled Jeff in the back of the SUV. “Baby? Jude’s taking you to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

“Get the others. Help them.”

“I will. And I’ll be there soon. Jude will be with you.” He gave Jeff a kiss, not caring who saw, then closed the door and turned back to Jude again. “Do not leave his side until I get there. No press, no fans, nobody but the doctors and nurses. Okay. Go. Go.”

“You got it, boss. Be careful.”

He nodded and took one last look at Jeff, who was a hell of a lot better than stabbed or burned. Then he turned back into the fray. God fucking damn it. This was insane. Nobody should have to live through this just to make a few bucks.

He found an EMT and made sure the guy followed him out back; he had at least three people in need of the man’s services. And he imagined that was just for starters.

“I
WANT
to know what the fuck is going on!”

Jeff was two seconds from total meltdown. His leg was in a cast, his head was stitched up in four different places, and he had three broken bones in his hand where he’d been stepped on. They had him in a room, drugged up and fucking restrained to the bed, just because he’d hit a doctor. The man had hurt him.

He knew everyone was busy, he knew this was crazy, but it was nearly five in the morning and no one knew anything about Rye, about the band, hell, about the other acts that had gone before or the roadies.

“I know it’s not fucking visiting hours! I’ve just spent eight hours pulling people out of a fucking disaster! So don’t tell me to calm down!”

“
Rye! Rye!
” Jeff bellowed, fighting the restraints.

“Jeff!”

Seconds later, Rye came bursting through the door. “Oh thank God.”

Rye came right up, relieved face turning furious, and Rye turned on the nurse who’d followed him in. “Why the fuck is he restrained?”

“He attacked a physician.”

“Let me go. I was freaked out. I’m okay. Please.”

“Can we undo these, please? Wait a minute.” Rye looked in his eyes. “Jesus Christ, did you people drug him?” Rye leaned their foreheads together. “It’s going to be okay, Jeff, I promise. We’ll get this sorted. I’m going to get you out of here.” Then Rye turned back to the nurse. “Well?”

“I…. Just keep him in the bed, okay?”

Rye nodded. “He’ll be fine. And no more drugs. He’s been clean over a year.” Rye started undoing his bindings. “Jesus. I should have come with you. I should have.” Rye looked tired and dirty, and he had cuts on his face, his hands. And there was an alarming amount of blood on his shirt.

“You… you hurt?” Jeff relaxed as the restraints were removed, even though his broken hand started throbbing.

“No. The blood isn’t mine.” Rye tugged a chair over and sat, holding on to Jeff’s good hand. “You weren’t so lucky.”

“They shaved big parts of my head.”

“Yeah.” Rye touched his scalp carefully, hands warm, even through the bandages. “The rest of the tour is going to be cancelled.”

Rye met his eyes.

“Brandy got burned. She’s going to be okay, but she’s going to be out of commission a couple months. But Roach… he got stabbed. When they got him on the gurney and cut off his shirt, they found a stent in his chest. Baby, he’s got cancer.”

“What? He has…. Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“Not at five in the morning, baby. I’ll find out how he’s doing after the shift change and take you to him at the start of visiting hours if he’s up to it, okay?”

Cancer?

Roach?

Rye stroked Jeff’s cheek. “So you’ve got a broken leg and a broken hand? And what did they do to your head?”

“Tore my scalp. They ripped my hair out.”

Roach had cancer.

“I’m sorry, baby. I should have gotten to you sooner.”

“You came. The… the stage fell. I….” He looked at Rye. “The stage fell.”

“I know. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“How could Roach have cancer? Roach is my friend.”

“I know, baby. And I’m so sorry.”

“I….” The morphine made his eyes cross.

“Baby? Damn it, that’s the drugs, isn’t it?” Rye stroked his cheek. “Fuck.”

“Morphine. I was freaked out and hurting.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I hope the withdrawal isn’t going to be a bitch. I’ll help you through it, though, you know that.”

“I just… I want to see Roach, Brandy. How about the others?”

“They’re okay. Nobody died, but there were a lot of injuries. The organizers got lucky.” Rye squeezed his hand. “You can’t see anyone until at least ten—visiting hours. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“Stay with me? I mean, I know you have to clean up, but… please?”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I promise.”

“Thank you. I’m dizzy.” And scared. And hurting.

And the reporters were everywhere. They always were. He thought they were the worst part of it all.

“All you have to do is lie there. Just close your eyes and sleep. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” The words were ones Rye had said to him before, his giant always there for him.

Jeff held on, his heart thrumming in his chest so hard it felt like it wanted to break.

R
YE
DOZED
for a couple of hours at Jeff’s bedside before going out to find a nurse and get some information on Roach and Brandy. Neither of them was in intensive care, and they could go see them once visiting hours started. They’d leave Jeff in his bed, and she would arrange for an orderly to help move him.

Then he arranged for a twenty-four/seven guard on Jeff’s door, Jude finally getting relieved. Rye was very clear: Nobody but doctors and nurses, with appropriate ID badges, were allowed in Jeff’s room. The press was going insane, but he wasn’t letting any of them near Jeff. Harassing everyone in the lobby was bad enough.

Finally, he returned to Jeff’s side, pleased that Jeff was still sleeping. His baby needed the rest. Hell,
he
needed the rest; he was utterly exhausted.

Taking Jeff’s good hand in his again, he let his eyes drift shut once more.

“I
NEED
to go pee. No! I am not going in a bedpan!” Jeff’s voice was hysterical. “Please!”

The big male nurse was trying to keep him calm. “I can catheterize you now, if you’d like. It’ll have to happen before they do surgery on your leg.”

“Surgery? No. No, I need….”

Rye jerked out of his light doze, growling. “What’s going on here?”

“Mr. January needs to urinate, but he’s uncomfortable using a urine bottle, and he’s not allowed up on that leg.” One huge dark hand was held out to him. “Miguel Cervantes. I’m the day nurse.”

“Hi, Miguel. I’m Rye. Let me talk to him, see if I can’t help with the urine bottle. Someone’s supposed to be coming this morning to take us down to see the other members of the band.”

“You’re scheduled for surgery at one. Dr. Patek is amazing.”

“I spoke to a different nurse—she didn’t say anything about surgery. Please, he needs to see Roach and Brandy.” Rye had hold of Jeff’s hand again, trying to keep him calm.

“Let me see what I can find out, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.” Rye focused back on Jeff. “Hey, you want me to help you with the urine bottle thing?”

“Just… carry me to the bathroom?”

“What have you got against the urine bottle?” He was not carrying Jeff anywhere; that poor leg didn’t need any more jostling. “It’s a bedpan.”

Jeff looked at him like he was insane. “Yeah….”

Rye grabbed it. “It’s not that bad, and then you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to.” Jeff was looking panicked.

“Why not, baby?” There had to be a reason.

Jeff shook his head and looked at his casted hand. “I can’t hold it.”

He grabbed the urine bottle and pulled back the covers, carefully lifting Jeff and putting the bottle into position.

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut, but nature couldn’t be denied, and the nurse came in as he was finishing taking care of it.

“Okay, we’re going to get you a wheelchair for your visit. I have to warn you: your friend, Mr. Roach, he’s lost consciousness.”

“LJ still wants to see him.” Rye knew Jeff, knew his lover would fuss until he saw Roach for himself.

“I’ll have an orderly come with a chair. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Then he turned his attention back to Jeff. “It’s not going to be easy, seeing him.”

Jeff wasn’t in there, not totally, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

They were going to have to walk a tight balance between enough pills for the pain and feeding Jeff’s addiction. It was a fucking good thing the rest of the tour was cancelled: this recovery was going to be a bitch. For the ones who recovered….

There was a soft knock on the door. “Boss? It’s Willie.”

“Come on in.” He gave a smile to one of his best men who’d come on the tour with them, another retired cop.

“I brought the clothes you wanted. Stuff for you, stuff for LJ.”

“You bring his sunglasses?”

“Yep. He’ll be able to travel the halls incognito.” Willie handed over the bag. “How is he?”

“He’s going to recover.”

Willie gave Jeff a long look and nodded. “Rumor has it the tour’s done.”

“Yeah. LJ’s about to go into surgery for his leg, and he’ll be recovering for a while. Then there’s the rest of the band….” He shook his head. Hearing that Roach was unconscious now—and clearly not just sleeping—Rye wasn’t sure Roach would ever leave the hospital. “They’re making the announcement later today. Do me a favor: I want you and the boys to hang around for a couple days. I want someone with Roach and someone with Brandy while they’re here, someone outside LJ’s door too.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Thanks.”

Willie clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and headed back out, cell phone already in his hand.

“Rye.” The voice surprised him, although it shouldn’t have, Donna hurrying over, looking like nothing more than a harried grandma. “I’m here to help.”

Rye started offering her his hand, then changed his mind and went in for a hug.

He didn’t linger, but he gave her a good squeeze, then stepped back from the bed a bit to give her room. “Hey, LJ. Look who’s here.” He hated not being able to just call Jeff, Jeff.

“Donna.” Jeff stared. “Everything’s fucked up.”

Rye clenched his hands into fists to keep himself from wrapping them around Jeff.

“I know, kiddo, but we’ve got it under control, huh? And you’re high as a kite.”

“Uh-huh. I hurt.”

“I know. I know. I’m here for the duration. Rye’s here.”

The orderly came in with the wheelchair.

“I’ll lift you into it,” Rye suggested before going to wash his hands with the gel soap by the door. He didn’t want Jeff hurting any more than he needed to.

“You want some help?”