Wicked Secret Page 7

  My dad utters a low growl. “I’m being rational, something you’re not. Going off all hot headed to Vegas to find August when it was so dangerous—”

  Cutting him off with a wave of my hand, I hiss. “I went to save my son’s life. I’d do it all again.”

  “You destroyed this family,” my dad condemns me.

  I can feel the blood drain from my face as I whisper, “That’s harsh.”

  My dad’s face crumples, and I swear he ages ten years right before my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that, Leighton. It’s just… We had a good life here together. We had time to see if a donor could be found through the registry. But you went off and did this, and it wasn’t the right time.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but I couldn’t sit back and wait. It’s not within me… not where Sam’s concerned. Not as a mother. I needed to find a solution, and I had to do it fast.”

  “I can’t leave,” my father says quietly. “And I feel like I’m being cut out of Sam’s life. He’s my grandson—probably the only one I’ll ever have—and I helped you raise him. And now he’s being taken away from me.”

  The voice that comes from behind my father is ice cold. “Now you know how it feels.”

  August stalks into the kitchen, pausing by the end of the counter to glare at my father. My dad sighs and turns warily toward him, but I can see by the hard lock of his jaw that he’s willing to continue this argument.

  I immediately step in. “No fighting,” I say with a stern glare. “We don’t want Sam to hear this. He has enough burden on him already.”

  No one says a thing, hopefully because they are too afraid to cross me on this. But then August clears his throat, gesturing at my dad. “You can come to Vegas with us, Mike.”

  My dad snorts his disbelief. “Leave the protection of WITSEC? Are you crazy? I’d be a dead man.”

  August shrugs. “Maybe not.”

  Again, my father scoffs. “What could you possibly know?”

  August moves toward my dad, who steps out of his way. It’s only for show since August merely opens the refrigerator door to pull out a beer for himself. He shuts it, twists the cap off, and says, “I know far more than you do.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, August educates us on his background, his job, and the incredible pull that his boss has in the federal government. I’m beyond shocked to find out the sway goes as high up as the president of the United States.

  August informs us that while there is still a threat—and the confidential information garnered from informants is that my dad still has a hit on him—no one has any clue where he is. In fact, chatter about my dad and his incredible betrayal of the mob family he worked for is almost never mentioned in regular conversation among those he turned on anymore. Usually only at social gatherings, birthdays, and big celebratory events. Apparently after they get drunk, the men will start to lament about never having taken out Rich Glendale for his treasonous behavior.

  “So even though they would kill your father if they ever found him,” August says, “they would literally have to run into him on the streets to find him. They have no clue about his new identity or where he lives.”

  I raise an eyebrow at my father. “You could come with us. We still would keep our heads down, keep social interaction to a minimum, and hide out in plain view in Vegas just the way we have here in Denver. You could be there for Sam’s treatment.”

  My dad returns a hard look, stubborn to the core. “But then we no longer have the government’s protection.”

  While I don’t expect this from August, I am settled by his proclamation. “No one will ever harm a hair on Sam’s head as long as I’m alive. And if you and Leighton happened to be in his proximity, I will protect you as well. Bottom line… Mike, I don’t think you are in any more danger in Vegas than you would be in Denver. You’ll have better protection than what you have with WITSEC with me looking over your shoulder.”

  My dad is not ready to accept August’s olive branch though. He gives a mirthless laugh. “This is all easy for you. Your life isn’t being disrupted. You’re not being asked to walk away from the only support you’ve ever known.”

  August leans in toward my dad, keeping his voice low so it won’t carry to the bedrooms. “How can you have such loyalty to this program you’re supposedly hiding in when you didn’t even know what the current threat level was? Your handler should have informed you.”

  My dad scrambles to justify. “We talk to our handler often. We’ve basically been told everything is okay as long as we keep our head down—they’ll report if something is amiss. Most importantly, they’ll move us to safety with new identities if they need to. Can you do the same for us?”

  August doesn’t address dad’s question, instead focusing on trying to get him to see things his way. “And that lackadaisical attitude toward your own safety is why I’ve been without my son all these years,” August accuses.

  Turning, he shoots me an angry glare. He holds me as much responsible as he does my father.

  My gaze falls to the floor. I can’t even look August in the eyes when his condemnation is so warranted. I deserve every bit of his enmity and none of his offers for help.

  “But again,” August says in a gruff voice. “I’m offering for you to come with us. I honestly believe the danger is low if you stay with me, Sam, and Leighton until you get settled, find a job and your own place. I’ll help Leighton do the same.”

  My head pops up, and my eyes lock with his. “Why? You owe us nothing.”

  “I’m Sam’s father, so I owe him everything,” August says quietly. “And I want him to be happy. He’s not going to be if his family is not around him when he’s getting his treatment.”

  CHAPTER 11

  August

  I move through the maze of floors at Children’s Hospital, having finished the last injection I needed to build up my white blood cell count in preparation for the transplant. It’s been my routine for the past five days. I come in, flirt with the nurse, and get my injection.

  After, I stop at the small café on the second floor and grab a black coffee for myself and a latte for Leighton. I then move up to the seventh floor where Sam was admitted six days ago.

  Sam’s on the oncology floor, and it’s utterly depressing walking the halls. I can’t help but look into the open room doors at the small children, bald from their treatments and with their eyes sunken in. It’s torture coming in here every day knowing some of these kids will not survive.

  It’s torture knowing Sam could be one of these kids.

  As per my usual routine, I stop outside of his room and take a few moments to collect myself. While doing so, I don the required isolation gown, cap, mask, and booties anyone who enters must wear. I try to think of happy thoughts, envisioning a life where Sam is cancer free and we can play football together, go fishing, and I can take him to Disney World. I have to get my head on fucking straight before I walk into that room, because it’s not a pretty sight. Sam probably doesn’t know how bad he looks, so I never want him to see it on my face.

  I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders, and plaster a smile on my face, even though I’m wearing a mask. I once heard people can hear a smile in your voice. A nurse smiles sympathetically as she passes. I move into his room, bracing to see my sick child.

  I’m never quite prepared to see Sam laying there, his skin ashen and misery on his face. Leighton sits by his bed, the yellow paper gown and cap in no way diminishing her beauty. Not even sure the last time she’s had a decent shower, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Regardless, she sits patiently and bravely by Sam’s bed, and has been the one to help Sam through the worst of his treatment. For those reasons alone, she has never looked more beautiful.

  Leighton has not left the hospital since Sam was admitted six days ago. I’ve tried to get her to go out and get some fresh air. Tried to take her to my house one morning to get a good shower and some sleep. I’ve even tried to get her to go down to the cafeteria for a
meal she could eat while actually sitting at a table. She’s refused it all.

  Instead, she eats in the room with Sam, sleeps in the reclining chair by his bed, and showers in his small bathroom.

  I’ve spent a lot of time in this room as well, but nowhere near as much as Leighton. I’m still working, but Kynan has generously put me on desk duty and told me to come and go as I please. He even offered for me to take whatever time off I wanted, but I didn’t accept for a few reasons. First, I want to take time off when Sam comes home from the hospital. Second, I figure Sam and Leighton are fairly safe within the walls of this building. There’s no indication any member of the mob family even knows about them, and I had a long talk with the security office about our situation. They have admitted Sam under a different identity as a double layer of protection, and no one is allowed in his room without security clearance.

  The one person who is noticeably absent is Mike. He did not accept my offer to come to Vegas. For a moment, it seemed like Leighton and I had talked him into it. He grudgingly accepted I might be able to provide him with adequate protection. More than anything, he wanted to be here for Sam. Unfortunately, the fucktard made the mistake of talking to his handler. He felt like he owed the government the courtesy of letting them know he was going to be leaving for Vegas. I had told him that was a bad idea, advising him not to say a damn thing. It was likely he could come for the transplant and return with them being none the wiser. These days, all he had to do was check in via phone with his handler, and they never drop in on him unannounced.

  Ultimately, I think Mike was bothered by the amount of information I handed him, and he was pissed he didn’t know about it from his own handler. He wanted to confront him and demand the truth. More importantly, he wanted to know if what I told him was accurate and could be trusted. I found this amusing… that he has a hard time trusting me.

  Of course, the handler did confirm my information, after much blustering there should be no way in hell Mike should have that information. According to Leighton, there was a very heated argument whereby Mike was pissed the information was kept from them and the handler insisted he was on a need-to-know basis and didn’t need to know anything unless he was in danger.

  Based on that, it seemed like Mike wouldn’t have any issues leaving the program, but that wasn’t the case. His handler talked him into staying by pointing out that should the danger level increase to him, the program would provide him with a new identity and a new place to live.

  Ultimately, it was the love of his own life that took priority over wanting to be there for Sam during the transplant.

  God, it fucking pissed me off. I don’t understand how there’s any choice. There’s no way any threat would ever keep me away from my kid.

  It’s also one of the reasons why I have a deep respect for Leighton despite still being so angry with her for keeping Sam from me. Her own safety simply didn’t matter when she chose to seek me out. She puts Sam first, which is the way it should be.

  Sam sees me enter the room. I make my grin extra big and cheesy, causing my eyes to narrow and crinkle at the edges so he knows I’m smiling. “Hey, little man… looking pretty good.”

  He attempts a halfhearted smile as I hand the latte to Leighton. She mumbles a low thank you but sets it on the bedside table without even a taste. I’m not going to lie… I’m a little worried about her, though I would never admit it.

  I simply say, “You should drink that while it’s hot.”

  She only nods before turning her attention to Sam. Her hand goes to his forehead, a move she makes several times an hour to see if he’s running a fever. One of the biggest risks of the chemotherapy he has been getting every day since his admission is an increased risk of infection. So far, he’s been good.

  He may have avoided infection, but it doesn’t mean there haven’t been other side effects. Nausea, vomiting, and a proliferation of sores within Sam’s mouth are making him miserable. He has bouts of diarrhea where he’ll just sit on the toilet—if he’s lucky enough to make it into the bathroom—and just sob. It makes me want to fucking cry, too.

  Not Leighton, though. She’s always got that soft smile of empathy for Sam, even as she whispers for him to stay tough. I can’t imagine what it costs her to put on such a brave front when I know she is shredded up on the inside.

  I move around the bed, to the chair I normally occupy when I visit. After I sit, Sam rolls slightly my way, tucking his hand under his cheek.

  “Rough day?” I ask.

  Giving me a half smile, he shrugs. “Not so bad.”

  Just like his mom. Putting on a brave face.

  “Little liar,” I chastise with a grin as I reach out to touch his face. Not to check for a fever but to provide a soft touch. I’ve never had to care for someone who’s sick. While this is new to me, I know there can be healing power in affection. I witness it continually between Leighton and Sam, and while I’ll never have his mother’s touch—she’s just too good at what she does—I want to have a presence.

  Sam is trying to be brave for Leighton and me. I admire him for it, but I also want to tell him it’s okay if he wants to cry. I don’t, though, because I’m not sure if it’s contradictory to the way Leighton’s been advising him on how to handle things. Even though I want to be the type of man who can give sound guidance to my son, I want to be the type of parent who would never contradict his son’s mother. I owe that to Leighton at least, since she’s done an incredible job raising him. I make a note to ask her later about the best way to provide him comfort and reassurance.

  “Today’s the big day,” I say. “Last day of chemo.”

  “Tomorrow’s a bigger day,” he says with a truly genuine smile. “Transplant day.”

  I hold my fist out, and he bumps his lightly against mine. “Going to rock it. Then we’re going to spring you from this joint and get you home.”

  I glance across the bed at Leighton, who’s staring at Sam with glazed eyes. She looks so exhausted. If I blew a hard gust of breath at her, she’d probably topple over.

  I address Sam, trying to be sneaky. “I wish we could talk your mom into getting out of this room for a little bit—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Leighton says, steel laced in her words. It proves she’s paying more attention than I’d thought. Maybe she’s not so exhausted after all. I bet if I tried to drag her out of here, she would put up a hell of a fight.

  My gaze returns to Sam, and he shrugs again. I return the gesture. A silent male communication as if to say, “We have no clue what to do with this woman.”

  I stay with Sam for the next couple of hours. We watch TV, and he dozes. When he wakes up, he vomits. I go down to the café to grab food for Leighton, but she barely touches it. Sam and I work a children’s crossword puzzle together. He ends up having a bout of uncontrollable diarrhea that soils the bed. Leighton takes him into the bathroom to assist him with a shower while I help a nurse’s assistant change the bed linens so it’s all fresh by the time he returns.

  Lunch comes for Sam… warm broth and ice cream. He valiantly tries both, but they irritate the sores in his mouth. I step out of the room to ask the nurse about his inability to eat. It concerns me tremendously, and I can’t ask Leighton about it in front of Sam, because I don’t want to worry him. The nurse patiently explains he’s getting enough nutrition and hydration intravenously and even if he doesn’t eat for a few days, it’s not something to worry about.

  When I leave, Leighton averts her eyes. Sam is actually in a decent mood, which makes my departure all the harder. But I do have to leave for the office to clear a few things from my desk, because tomorrow is indeed a big day… transplant day.

  It’s the day my son’s life is going to be saved.

  CHAPTER 12

  Leighton

  “What did the left eye say to the right eye?” August asks Sam, his tone mischievous and sly.

  Our son sits up in bed, still gray in the face but more animated than I’ve see
n him this past week. He grins at his dad. “What?”

  August leans in, looking left and then right before whispering conspiratorially. “Between us, something smells.”

  Sam tips his head back, laughing so hard he has to hold his stomach to contain the ache. August steals a glance, and I roll my eyes. Those two have been trading stupid jokes for the last half hour. While I’ve reached my limit, they could probably go on for hours.

  It’s okay, though, because Sam is happy and laughing, which is far better than being sick and crying. I don’t have a single laugh in me because I’m bone tired. I’m having a tough time finding anything to be funny.

  There is light at the end of the tunnel, though.

  Today is transplant day. In just a couple of hours, they’re going to wheel Sam down into a surgical room for the procedure.

  It sounds quite easy, though. They’ve already taken August’s blood, which has been boosted with his daily injections, and performed some twisty magic on it to remove his stem cells. They’ll inject that right into Sam’s blood via a transplant catheter, which has to be done in a sterile environment. It will take about an hour for the transplant to be complete.

  That’s the easy part.

  The hard part will be the next several weeks as we wait to see what happens. The doctors said Sam would have to stay in the hospital anywhere from thirty to a hundred days.

  Thirty if all goes well, meaning no infections or other complications. We’ve chosen to stay optimistic. Our hope is we’ll be out of here at the earliest possible time.

  Sam lobs a silly joke at August. “Two pickles fell out of a jar onto the floor. What did one pickle say to the other?”

  “What?” August asks with enthusiasm, as if he hasn’t heard two dozen corny jokes already.

  “Dill with it,” Sam exclaims, and they both chortle.

  I don’t have it in me to laugh, but I do share a faint smile with them. I’ll truly be able to relax when Sam is out of the woods and back home.