In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(27)

“Yes.” Angel shuddered for effect. “I think I’ll hear that bone-rattling thud in my dreams tonight.”

The doctor cringed in sympathy. “Yes, well, when I first examined his shoulder, Mr. Smith explained how he’s had a rotator cuff tear that has gone untreated for years. Unfortunately, this latest injury makes the option of forgoing treatment impossible. He’ll require surgery once he’s back stateside.”

“Mmm,” Angel shook his head, “he won’t be too happy to hear that.”

Um, yeah. That might be putting things a tad mildly since, as Billy liked to say, Frank was a 100 percent tear-off-your-head-and-shit-down-your-throat warrior. Being out of commission for whatever length of time it was going to take to rehabilitate himself was going to make him mad as hell.

The doctor escorted them the final feet to Frank’s bedside, and Becky had to lace her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out to touch him.

“Mr. Smith?” The doctor gently shook Frank’s uninjured shoulder. “I need you to wake up for me. Can you do that?”

Frank’s eyes instantly snapped open, but they were dull and glassy, unfocused.

“Mr. Smith,” the doctor began but was cut off when Frank lazily glanced over at her.

“So beautiful,” he murmured dreamily. “Beautiful Rebecca Reichert.”

Alarm slammed through her like a sledgehammer blow. “What’s wrong with him? Is it the concussion?” Because Frank didn’t say things like that to her. Ever.

“No, no” the doctor assured her. “He’s had an…um, unexpected reaction to the pain meds. I used the correct dosage for a man of his size, but he’s been flying high as a kite ever since. It happens sometimes. Has something to do with a quirk in a person’s metabolic rate, but he’ll come down soon enough.”

“Ooohhh,” Frank pursed his lips, making a pouty face that astounded her as much as it disconcerted her, “that poor, poor li’l cheek.” He raised a big, calloused hand toward her cheek. “Come lemme kiss it better.”

She laughed uncomfortably—after all, the man was supposed to be a total stranger, and he was talking about kissing her—but a little part of her heart broke off. She’d waited years for him to make a move, and now that he had, it didn’t count—considering he was blitzed out of his gourd on happy pills. He’d probably be just as excited to kiss a potato.

That was confirmed when the doctor cleared his throat. “Please don’t pay him any attention, Miss Reichert. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Mr. Smith?” Frank slowly turned his head on the pillow, lowering his hand and blinking owlishly as if trying to bring the doctor into focus. “Do you know where you are?”

“Navy Destroyer USS Patton,” Frank replied, dragging the final s out like a hissing snake.

“Good.” The doctor nodded. “And do you know why you’re here?”

“To save the girl and win the day.” Frank giggled, actually giggled. Becky didn’t know whether to giggle right along with him or fall down dead from a heart attack.

“Yes,” the doctor assured him, “that’s right. But you needn’t worry about that now. As you can see, Miss Reichert is safe and sound. She’s come down here to meet you.”

With an awkward swivel of his neck that made his head look like it weighed about ten thousand pounds, Frank turned back to her. “Hello, Rebecca,” he murmured warmly, his expression certainly not that of a man meeting a complete stranger.

Heat flooded up her neck into her face, making her injured cheek pound like a second heartbeat.

“Hello, Mr. Smith,” she whispered, hoping the look on her face wasn’t all but screaming her fear that Frank was about to let slip something he shouldn’t.

“Mr. Smith,” the doctor said again, and Frank growled in inebriated annoyance, once more turning his head on the pillow, this time to glare at the doctor. “Do you remember how you got hurt?”

Becky held her breath, which caused Angel to surreptitiously pinch her elbow. She realized then that her eyes were wide as pie plates, and she was disgusted to discover she was actually wringing her hands. Calling herself ten kinds of stupid, she fisted her hands at her sides and pasted on what she hoped was a look of mild indifference.

Frank’s broad forehead wrinkled as he considered the doctor’s question. Then he ran his tongue over his lips as if they were numb, which, considering how blasted he was, was probably true. “Weight was too much,” he said, only the last word sounded more like mush. “The shoulder went.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The doctor marked something in his chart, and Becky covertly blew out a relieved breath. Turning from his patient, the doctor addressed Angel. “His cognitive abilities appear to be fine. It’s the pain meds making him loopy, not the concussion. I’ll continue to wake him every hour, but I’m confident he’ll—”

“M’feet’r’cold,” Frank mumbled, causing all of them to glance down at the size sixteens protruding off the end of the bed.

“We didn’t have booties big enough to fit him.” The doctor frowned. “I’ll get another blanket.”

“He needs socks,” Becky declared, then bit her tongue when she realized how inappropriate it was for her—a supposed stranger—to make any sort of suggestion about Frank’s well-being.