by Ophelia Bell
“Oh god, Mason. You’re going to make me come.”
“That’s the idea. Come for me, baby.”
I pump my hips up into her harder, aware that something feels off, though I can’t pinpoint what. The sensations are dulled, like I’m wearing a condom even though we never bothered with the things. Still, the mere sight of her coming apart at the seams, her hands at her breasts and her head flying back, is enough to send me over when she hits her peak.
Her muscles continue milking me for several seconds, and I keep lightly stroking her clit until she twitches and sighs, grabbing my hand and twining her fingers through mine. She slides off me, and my flaccid cock smacks against my pelvis, spent, though every cell in my body feels alive with the desire to make love to her again. To never stop.
But when she curls up at my side with her cheek pressed to one pec, I decide I want nothing more than to hold her like this because the hours we have together are numbered now.
I move to curl around her, but my body protests, so I sigh and just tighten my hold on her while remaining flat on my back. Having her arm and leg draped over me is heaven in itself, and I drift off in contentment with her nestled against me.
32
Callie
I’m not sure if it’s a dream I’m having, or some external stimuli that first triggers my sense that something isn’t right. In my years as a resident, I’ve developed a pretty keen sense of impending crisis, and my gut has never steered me wrong. So when Mason’s voice reaches past the layers of delta waves, I’m awake and sitting up in what feels like an instant.
“What’s wrong?” I’m already turning on the light as I ask, and when I turn back to him, his face is ghostly pale and his eyes wide and terrified.
“Callie . . .” his voice cracks and he grips the blanket in one fist, yanking it off his body and staring down. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Instinct and years of training kick in as I run down the list of questions. Is he in pain? Did he have any other symptoms? Any warning signs? He got into two altercations yesterday, but I only witnessed one. Was that tussle with Barnaby enough to damage his spine?
I can’t draw a concrete conclusion without seeing an MRI, but knowing his history, it isn’t a stretch to assume his old injury is the culprit.
The last thing I do after my litany of questions is lean over him and cup him by the jaw with both hands, looking into his eyes. “Everything will be okay, I promise. Look at it this way: at least you didn’t wet the bed.”
He barks a laugh, but otherwise doesn’t look all that amused. His eyes follow me as pick up my phone and dial 911 before swiftly getting dressed. Deep inside is a tiny little ball of panic telling me I should have known something was wrong hours ago. But he’s safe and comfortable right where he is, in no pain, and rushing things isn’t likely to help matters. The best thing I can do for him is keep him calm, which means putting on a solid front of calm myself.
While we wait for the paramedics to arrive, I take time to give him a brief sponge bath so he’s not coated in the remnants of our lovemaking when they get here. He emits a pitiful groan as he watches me wipe down his groin, and I glance up at him.
“Any sensation at all?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“What the fuck am I going to do if this is permanent?”
I set my jaw and look him straight in the eyes. “You keep going. You have family who love you, who need you, no matter what state your body is in. And between my mother and me, we’ll figure out a way to get your daughter home. But don’t jump to any conclusions yet, okay? You have an old injury. This could be nothing.”
“Do you think that’s all it is?” he asks.
“You said you felt a few twinges, that your legs felt unusually fatigued. Your sensory reactions are diminished from the nipples down. It’s consistent with the prior damage. We’ll do some tests to be sure. I know this is no help, but try not to worry.”
We arrive at St. Joseph’s less than fifteen minutes later, and their neuro attending is there to meet us. He listens intently as I give him the rundown of Mason’s symptoms and his history, all the while keeping my hand solidly twined with my patient. The surgeon sees this and frowns, then looks at me again.
“You know the case well. Can you request his records from the original case? Any imaging reports will be helpful.”
I start to nod when I remember those old records were incomplete. They say Mason died. Instead I just say, “I can try. If nothing else, I can reach out to the original surgeon.” If Dr. Yao is really as good as I’ve always believed, he has those old records, even if they never made it into the chart of J.J. Santos.
It’s the middle of the night, but I dial my attending anyway, feeling more than justified in waking him up.
“Nicolo?” he answers in a groggy voice. “Aren’t you on vacation?”
“J.J. Santos didn’t die,” I blurt. “And I hope to fuck you kept records of his recovery, because I need them. Tonight.”
Silence stretches on the other end of the call, lasting so long I have to pause and look at my screen to make sure I’m still connected. Finally he says, “I think I might need you to elaborate just a little. Where are you, and why do you believe this is the case?”
“I know about Flores,” I say, then sigh. “Listen, there isn’t really time. Mason Black is the patient’s name. He’s at St. Joseph Hospital in Denver right now. You don’t need to know how or why I’m with him—none of that is relevant. Only that I am and I only have half the information they need to help him. Whatever you can share.”
Dr. Yao sighs. “Give me the email address where I can send it. But you and I need to have a long talk when you get back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Shit, I’m supposed to be back at work Monday night.
“Ah, about that . . .”
Another sigh. “Right. You know you’re lucky you’re my star resident, Nicolo. Take whatever time you need, but keep me posted. I have to answer to you-know-who. It’s bad enough the old man is on me about Mrs. Santos every day. If he gets wind of Black and I’m not prepared with an answer, my ass is on the line.”
“I will. How is Mrs. Santos doing, anyway? Mason could use some good news.”
“She’s improving a little every day. We should be able to bring her out of the coma by the end of the week, if her progress continues.”
That is amazing news, and I’m in a much better frame of mind after ending the call than I was when I started.
After delivering the records, I manage to talk my way into accompanying Mason through every test, but run into resistance when I try to insinuate myself into the operating room when they determine he needs surgery. One of the screws holding his damaged vertebra together has worked itself loose. It hasn’t impeded on his spinal cord itself, but the resulting swelling has, and it won’t fully abate until the screw is taken care of.
My relief must be apparent because he visibly relaxes as they wheel him in, and even gives me a wink and a cocky smile as the door closes behind him. I’m allowed into the gallery at least, though it’s all I can do to avoid falling apart, now that I have a moment to myself with nothing to do but watch. I text Nina, hoping like hell she’s awake, even though visiting hours are over at the hospital and I doubt she’s still here.
Surprisingly she messages back within seconds, and when I tell her where I am, she arrives less than five minutes later.
“I’m not sure I want to know how you talked your way in here,” I say after hugging her.
“I know people,” she says with a shrug. As a shrink immersed in the medical community in Denver, Nina’s skills at talking her way into places like this are legendary. If I ever had wanted to move back to Denver, she’d have made better introductions than Barnaby to land me a good position here.
She redirects her attention beyond the glass that separates us from the OR where Mason is currently face-down with a surgeon poking around his spine. “Talk to me, sweetie. What the hell happened?”
I know she isn’t asking for a literal rundown of my evening, but that’s what I start with anyway, explaining Mason’s crisis of conscience over his violent tendencies and everything that followed.
“This has got to be a pretty big wake-up-call for him,” she says when I finish. “Not that he deserves the suffering, but he probably believes he does. So be prepared for a declawed version of your man once he recovers.”
“I never saw him as violent, though,” I argue. “Is that crazy? There were signs. He showed up with a black eye and bruised knuckles when I first saw him again last week. God, has it only been a week?”
“The important detail is that it matters so much to him that he changed his name. That’s no small thing, Callie.” She goes silent as she watches me, and my neck starts to prickle a little under her scrutiny.
“What?”
She slowly shakes her head. “I’m just thinking about how your respective relationships with your fathers have affected you each so differently. Adrian Nicolo’s attention is all you’ve ever wanted, but the man routinely abandons you. Yet you chose to take his name rather than keep your hyphenated version, or even just use your mom’s. And Mason . . .”
“He hates his dad so much he’s been running from that name for three years,” I finish. “Do you think it means we’re wrong for each other?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Not at all. I think you two can learn a lot from each other. It’s a strange and kind of perfect parallel, to be honest. Besides, I know you with men. Me saying I think he’s wrong for you isn’t going to make a difference if you’ve already made up your mind about how you feel.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want your opinion, you know. So lay it on me.”
“Fine,” she says, twisting in her seat to face me, her eyes narrowing. “First, just tell me one thing: tell me how you really feel about him.”
“As if it isn’t obvious?” I ask, gesturing toward the OR and the fact that I’m even here in the middle of the night. I’d be in there doing the surgery myself if I could, even though I know it’s outrageous to want that.
“Say it out loud, or I’m getting up and walking out that door and going home like I should’ve done three hours ago when Wyatt fell asleep.”
Her look challenges me to equivocate, but I know better. And it isn’t as if the answer is difficult anyway.
“I’m in love with him, Nina. This isn’t a feeling I’ve ever had before, and it kind of scares the ever-loving shit out of me.”
To my surprise her eyes go glassy and she reaches out a hand to me. “Then I think you already have your answer. Welcome to the club, sweetie. Welcome to the club.”
I grab hold of her hand, and we sit like that without another word for the rest of the surgery.
33
Mason
I come to in a haze of sedated bliss. I’m in a dimly lit room, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor letting me know I’m still alive. I’ve barely cracked my lids when the face I most want to see hovers above me slightly out of focus. I can’t help but grin, unable to contain how happy I am to see her.
“Hey, Doc. We’ve got to quit meeting like this.”
Callie smiles, then laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound I think I’ve ever heard. Even better is when she clasps my hand in hers and squeezes.
“You have to know there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d leave your side. Knowing my luck, you’d go and fake-die on me again.”
“I’m not done with this life yet. You and I have too much unfinished business.”
My throat goes raspy with a tickle and I cough, wincing at the band of pain that tightens around my chest. When I open my eyes again, she’s placing a straw to my mouth, and I greedily suck down the ice-water and swallow. Then she moves to my feet, lifting the sheet to uncover my lower legs. She rakes the point of one fingernail along the length of my sole and I twitch.
“Do you feel that?”
“Yeah. You weren’t supposed to find out I’m ticklish.”
She chuckles, then repeats the process with my other foot. I curse as I involuntarily jerk my foot away from the assault.
“Careful,” she says. “Looks like everything’s working, but you need to take it easy for a couple days. Long enough for the swelling to abate. Then we can see how you’re doing.”
“How bad was it?”
She takes a deep breath and settles down in the chair at my side, leaning forward to look into my eyes. “It wasn’t bad, all things considered. One of the pins from your original surgery worked itself loose and caused some swelling. They removed it, along with the other pin that was used to repair the original break, and filled the cavities with cement. Your vertebrae were healed enough to no longer need the pins as it is, so no sense keeping them in. It wasn’t something that required my input as a neurosurgeon, at least, which was a good thing. Orthopedic issues are a lot more straightforward.”
“How soon until I can travel?” I ask, bracing myself for objections.
She just shakes her head and sighs. “Can we worry about that challenge when it becomes a necessity? You really should stay in bed for at least forty-eight hours.”
“And how long have I been out so far?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You just woke up from surgery. It’s been an hour since you had your back sliced open. I’m not counting that hour, either.” She lifts her hand and glances at her watch. “Ask me at 10AM on Wednesday morning.”
That means it’s Monday morning still. It’s my turn to give her a hard stare. “Shouldn’t you be at the airport waiting to board a flight to LA right about now?”
“Mason . . .” She huffs out a breath and shakes her head, her gaze going all gooey as she takes my hand again. “I’m not leaving you lying in a hospital bed. I’ll stay until you’re on your feet at least. You were my patient when you got this injury three years ago. I didn’t get a chance to see it through the first time around, so I’m doing that now.”
Something gets caught in my throat again and my eyesight goes hazy, but not from the drugs. I squeeze her hand hard and she squeezes back.
“I fucking love you.” The words emerge from my throat as a barely intelligible croak, but she hears me just fine. She stands and bends over me, face close to mine, her blue eyes bright with a mix of worry and happiness.
“I fucking love you too,” she says, and then she kisses me.
I decide not to question my good fortune that she’s still by my side when I wake up hours later. Even better, she’s crawled onto my bed and curled up beside me, and is sleeping peacefully when I rouse again with a painful twinge flaring in the center of my back. I find the plunger for the epidural catheter that sends pain meds straight into my spine and sigh when the drugs soak in. But the sensation of her snuggled tight against me does more for my frame of mind than any drug, and I drift off again without a thought beyond absolute gratitude that the universe managed to put us back together.
I drift in and out of a drugged haze after that, vaguely aware of the passage of time as the daylight fades, then returns again. I hear voices sometimes, including hers, but I can’t be sure whether I’m dreaming or hearing real conversations.
The next time I wake up enough for coherent thought, she’s gone, and I grope for the controller for the bed and jab the button until I’m sitting up.
“Hey,” comes a raspy voice from the bathroom door. “How’re you feeling?”
Worry I didn’t know was tying me in knots disappears when she steps back into the room and settles at the foot of the bed, one hand resting on my leg. That I can still feel it is some comfort, but I’m antsy now, not to mention starving.
“Like I should be doing something besides lying here.”
“Well, are you up for another visitor or two? Maybe we can help.” She pulls out her phone and taps a message.
“Tell them to bring food, whoever it is,” I say.
Callie smirks and nods. “Your wish is my command.” When she puts her phone
away, she gives me a troubled look.
“Doc, is something wrong? Don’t tell me there’s a problem with my back.”
Her eyes widen and she blinks. “No. I mean, if you’re feeling okay, there’s no indication that you won’t have a full and fast recovery. You can still feel your legs, right?” She squeezes my thigh.
“I feel that, yeah. Maybe you ought to check a little higher to be sure, though.”
That elicits a laugh and she smacks me lightly on the leg. “No strenuous activity for at least a week. That includes sex.”
“Who says I don’t plan to just lie here and enjoy myself?” I slip my hands behind my head and grin, even though I think she knows I’m all talk at the moment. But her cheeks turn pink and her tongue darts out to lick her lower lip, and that’s all it takes for my blood to start rushing south.
“See what you do to me, Doc?” I say when the covers over my groin twitch on their own.
She shakes her head. “Mason, I mean it. You can’t so much as lift anything heavier than ten pounds until you’re healed. Walking is it, okay? Don’t fuck around.”
“Is that shitbird causing trouble already?” comes a deep, familiar voice that makes me jerk my head up in surprise.
Lo and behold, my older brother Maddox comes walking through the door, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. He drops his bag, then sets the bouquet on the table and grins at me. I reach out and grab his outstretched hand, then yank him in for a hug.
“Jesus, Mad. You’re the last person I expected to see here.”
