Page 20 of Sweet T

“OK. For now. You need rest. We’ll talk about it more later.”

Juanita tapped on the door and then entered to remove Evan’s food tray. “The doctor should make rounds soon.”

“Will they release me today?” Evan asked.

“Not sure. Maybe. You have a mild concussion and a fractured rib. They could keep you for further observation, but those two things are pretty minor regardless of how your head feels right now. I don’t imagine you’ll be here long.”

“So, you did X-rays?” Evan asked.

“Yes, sir,” Juanita said, turning with the tray and heading back toward the door. “That’s what we do here... to make people better. You sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Evan laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, his brown curls looking darker against the starched white cotton.

“What’s wrong?” Tucker asked.

“I’ve been in a hospital... overnight. They’ve done x-rays and God knows what else. I can’t afford this, Tucker. I don’t have insurance.”

“You don’t have any cash?”

“Just what I was taking to Atlanta. Three thousand dollars. All my savings. It was in my bag.”

Tucker’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Evan looked at him, hopeful.

“Shelly says there’s no bag or phone, inside or outside the tavern.”

Evan’s face twisted, eyes welling red.

“There, there,” Tucker said, forgetting his frustration. It broke his heart to see that beautiful face crack like that. He sat down on the bed next to him and placed his hand on Evan’s leg. “It’s gonna be all right. I promise.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve been saving that money to get by on. I might not get a job or audition right away. I was going to live on it. Now it’s gone. And what about the hospital bill? How am I going to pay for that? I’m not calling my parents. If I have to, I’ll just sneak out.”

“No, you’re not. Besides, they already have your information off of your ID. I had to give it to them.”

“What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to relax. Heal. Let me worry about the hospital. You can stay at my place until you’re better. You can’t go anywhere in this condition. OK with that?”

Tucker looked at him, awaiting an answer. Evan was struck by Tucker’s rugged good looks, the ghost of his dimples still present, though he was no longer smiling. He was a big man. He would have been imposing if not for the kindness in his eyes.

“Yes. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“Let’s just get you better. Having that worry off of my plate is thanks enough for now.”

Four

Tucker had tried not to stare at Evan as best he could. But with the petite young man now sitting before him fully conscious, his good looks distracted Tucker even more. It was an unconventional beauty, his Daddy P would have said—not purely handsome, but something bright, radiating from within and amplifying it all.

He was built, muscular, but unlike Tucker’s massive frame—an attribute he’d inherited from his father—there was no bulk. It was lean muscle, proportioned to his size. Also contradicting his boyish appearance was that he was hairy, with tattoos everywhere. He was wearing very little when Tucker had first seen him—only shorts and a t-shirt—and, though he was now covered by hospital linens, Tucker remembered well those hairy legs and the sparse tattoos on his rounded calves and thighs. He had them on his chest, too. Tucker had glimpsed them when he’d taken a brief peek to assess the injuries beneath his shirt the night before. So brief, in fact, that Tucker couldn’t remember any of the words or pictures, only that Evan had indulged in the art form often and that it enhanced his entire ensemble.

He also had large, soulful eyes—the lightest, bluest eyes Tucker had ever seen—and funny ears. They stuck out a little like a kid’s ears, or more like a kid’s toy’s ears—a puppet, maybe.

Now that Tucker had spoken with him, there were even more anomalies. By appearances alone, Evan was an adult, and strong by the looks of it. That explained how he’d fared well with such a beating—now up, and soon to be out of the hospital in less than twenty-four hours. He looked like a petite athlete—one of those gymnasts you’d see in the Olympics, on the bars, or rings, or whatever, slapping his hands and emitting chalk dust. Or a maybe circus performer, one of those sexy men in tights, up on the trapeze.

Why are you thinking of such things? He’s just a kid.

No. Not true.