by Pat White
The camera’s round lens widened as the paramedic opened the door and helped her into the ambulance. She shifted onto the padded bench next to Jack’s lifeless body, afraid to touch him, horrified at what she’d done. The door slammed shut and she glanced up, catching sight of the camera’s black lens peering through the window.
She looked at Black Jack. Really looked. A goose egg the size of a baseball swelled above his left eye and his forehead was beading with sweat.
“He’s dying, isn’t he?”
“Doubtful.” The paramedic checked his vitals. “Probably a concussion. Won’t know how bad until he wakes up.” Gray foam blocks framed the Black Jack’s head, which was held steady by a white strap.
She caressed Jack’s cheek with her fingertips. “You’ll be okay,” she whispered. His skin felt so warm, so damp. “Are you sure he’s not in a coma?”
“I’m not sure of anything, ma’am,” he said.
She stroked his eyebrow with the pad of her thumb. A moan rumbled from deep in his chest, and he turned his head toward her touch.
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s bringing him around,” the paramedic said.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” She placed her palm against his cheek.
Black Jack’s eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
“Come on, wake up,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.
“Mmmm,” he moaned, turning his lips into her palm.
“Then again, maybe he’s having a good dream.” The paramedic smirked.
The ambulance hit a pothole and she lurched forward, her breasts smothering Jack’s face.
“Now I know he’s having a good dream.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the paramedic.
Jack mumbled something about fur and duct tape.
“Wake up, Black Jack. Everything’s okay,” she assured him.
“Everything…okay,” he repeated, opening his dark eyes.
He blinked twice, spotted Frankie and the blood drained from his face. “Stop the ambulance!”
Chapter Three
“Calm down, Mr. Hudson,” the paramedic said.
“Calm down? I’m here because of her. She clubbed me, knocked me out. I’m lucky I know my own name. Jack, right? My name’s Jack Hudson?”
Tiger Lady reached out, sympathy coloring her bright blue eyes. He ripped the restraint from his head and tumbled off the stretcher, landing on the bench beside the paramedic.
“Mr. Hudson, please lie down.”
“I don’t need to lie down. I’m fine except for this damn headache. Judas Priest, what did you hit me with, a brick?”
She jutted out her chin. “It was a wrench, and I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“The hell you didn’t.”
“Sir, you need to get back onto the stretcher.”
“I’m fine as long as she doesn’t come near me.” Not only had the little tiger wench taken him out but he’d also lost the match thanks to her.
Lost the match. Anger exploded in his chest.
“You cost me the belt!”
He lunged and the paramedic caught his arm. “Sir, this is unacceptable.”
“No kidding!”
“You have to lie down so I can do my job.”
“With her in the ambulance? Are you crazy?”
She hugged her knees to her chest and looked at him with frightened blue eyes. Right, like she was that fragile.
“I can’t believe you cost me the belt. I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll...” He hadn’t a clue what he’d do, but he had some pretty good ideas. “I’ll stuff you and put you above my mantel!”
He lunged across the stretcher to squeeze her pretty little neck, but the paramedic grabbed his shoulders.
“That’s it. Ed, stop the ambulance,” the paramedic called out.
“But we’re almost there.”
“I said stop!”
The ambulance screeched to a halt. Tiger Lady shrieked as she flew forward, although not close enough for Jack to get a hold of her.
“Out!” the paramedic ordered her.
“What?” Her eyes widened with disbelief.
“I need to stabilize the patient before we get to the hospital. That obviously isn’t going to happen with you here.”
She ceremoniously slipped on her gloves and smoothed her red-streaked hair that sprouted from that ridiculous mask.
“I’m sorry you misunderstood my intentions, Mr. Black Jack. I was only trying to help.”
With a snap of her wrist, she opened the door and stumbled onto the pavement. It was comical, the sight of her dressed in that furry bikini and black mask, standing in the middle of a moonlit street.
“Here.” Jack tossed her a thin, white blanket. “Cover your-self up before you get arrested.”
She glared at him.
“Hospital’s three blocks north.” The paramedic pulled the doors closed.
Frankie stood there, watching as a relaxed Black Jack climbed back onto the stretcher.
The ambulance sped away, leaving Frankie alone on River Road. She unfolded the white cotton wrap. Why not? Togas were all the rage…in Ancient Rome. Walking along the curb, she analyzed the bed linen to consider her fashion options. Truth be told, she was a bit chilled.
And angry.
And hurt.
“Where on earth did that come from?” she muttered, adjusting the sheet around her body. “I don’t care what that jerk thinks of me. I certainly don’t care if he hates me.”
Reality stopped her mid-step. Not good to have WHAK’s biggest superstar come to the negotiating table hating the chief negotiator. Her job was to persuade him to stay with the company, not drive him into an early retirement.
She swung the tail end of the blanket over her shoulder and stumbled up the curb, still mastering her balance on the spiked heels. She was quite the sight. Hopefully a police officer wouldn’t happen by. She hated to think how she’d explain her way out of this one.
“Uncle Joe, when I get my hands on you…”
She should have known she’d end up like this, or worse. You never knew what would happen when Uncle Joe waltzed into your life. Like the time he crashed Thanksgiving dinner with Maxine and four wrestlers in tow. Frankie was only nine, but she’d never forget the horrified look on her mother’s face.
Uncle Joe’s line of work was not something Emma McGee approved of, to say the least. It was violent and barbaric and none of it was real. Nothing like the stable and homey atmosphere her mother struggled to provide to make up for Frankie’s deadbeat father’s absence.
She ambled down the sidewalk stabbing a hamburger wrapper with her heel. Her mother had taught her strength and determination. Emma didn’t let her husband’s irresponsible behavior ruin her life. She carried on, accepted his failures and raised her daughter to be a proud and classy woman.
Frankie jerked the corner of the blanket out of a puddle. “Real classy.”
If his outburst were any indication, Black Jack would recover. Whatever pain he suffered certainly wasn’t preventing him from getting all worked up. Okay, so she’d miscalculated when she’d swung the wrench. It would have helped if she’d kept her eyes open. But mistakes happen, even to someone as careful and meticulous as Frankie.
The image of his swollen face tangled her insides with regret. She felt truly bad about bashing the man’s skull. And yet he seemed more upset about losing the make-believe championship than suffering from a serious head injury.
“I’ll never make sense of this,” she said, slipping the mask off her head. Nor should she have to. Her job was to swoop in, perform a financial miracle, and disappear back to her calm, sensible life. Oh, how she yearned for Bradley’s broad shoulders to lean on as they sat together on his couch and watched the stock market numbers float across the television screen.
She missed the scent of Bradley’s “Manly Man” aftershave and the feel of his starched white shirt as she rubbed her cheek against his chest. She missed
her two-bedroom condo, her imported hot cocoa, and Herb Alpert CDs. She even missed that horrible coffee Stella made every morning at the Smith and Barnes office.
Frankie missed her normal life.
An ambulance whizzed by, pulling up beneath the blue emergency-room awning. She slowed her step and collapsed on a metal bench some thirty feet from the hospital entrance.
Why had she even headed in this direction? She’d only make matters worse. If Black Jack caught sight of her he’d probably rip the IV out of his arm and run screaming from the hospital. Still, she felt responsible, and unlike her dad, Frankie McGee faced her responsibilities.
She slapped the mask on the bench beside her and cradled her chin in an upturned palm. This was a challenge like any other. She would identify the goal, meet her objective, and finish the job. Whatever it took. That was her motto. And it had served her well.
So consumed by her thoughts, she barely noticed a pair of black, crepe-soled shoes hesitate in front of her. Then she heard a “clink.” Someone tossed pocket change into her mask. She glanced up into the concerned face of a mid-twenties, blond paramedic.
“Do you want me to call someone?” he offered.
She considered Bradley’s horrified expression if he found out she’d been moonlighting as a half-naked, ferocious feline, and her mother’s disappointed scowl at Frankie’s involvement with “Silly Sully.”
“Um, no, thank you.” She attempted a smile.
He nodded and climbed back into his ambulance.
“A bag lady. He thinks I’m a bag lady,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands.
The sound of screeching tires echoed off the pavement, followed by the slam of a door, then another. Certainly was a busy night at the emergency room.
“Frankie!”
She recognized Uncle Joe’s voice but didn’t look up. Time for him to taste a little guilt.
“You were marvelous!” He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Princess, you’ve made your uncle proud.”
“Proud?” She glared at him. “Proud? I made a fool of myself and nearly killed the superstar, the guy you need to save your stupid company. I tried to apologize and you know what he did?”
He grinned and shook his head.
“He kicked me out of the ambulance and threatened to have me stuffed.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re my special princess, you know that?”
She jumped up and paced five steps away, suddenly balancing very well on the stilettos.
“I’m going home. I don’t belong in this, this lunacy. I looked so pathetic that someone threw spare change at me.”
“It’s not that bad.” He got up, put his arm around her shoulder and guided her back to the bench. “I’m sure if we explain things to Jack he’ll understand.”
“He wants to mount my head above his mantel.”
Uncle Joe giggled.
“It’s not funny.”
“No, but it’s the answer to our prayers.”
“I’m an atheist.”
“No, you’re not. Now, hear me out.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and stared beyond him at the Methodist church across the street.
“Tonight was explosive, emotional, high stakes drama! You did it, Frankie. You got the fans more worked up than I’ve seen them in months. I guarantee we’ll draw an even bigger crowd at tomorrow night’s show. By the time the Rompin’ Stompin’ tour starts next month we’ll be selling tickets like hot cakes!”
“This was a one-time special, remember?”
“And you did a fabulous job.” He winked. “Let’s go talk to Jack.”
“He’ll strangle me on sight.”
“He’ll strangle Tatianna, not Francine McGee, my niece and WHAK contract negotiator.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not looking a lot like myself these days.” She flipped the corner of the white blanket over a bare shoulder.
He snapped his fingers and Bill Billings rushed forward with a garment bag.
“We thought you might need your clothes,” Uncle Joe said with an apologetic smile.
She snatched the bag from Bill’s hand. “I can’t do this tonight.”
“Strike while the iron’s hot, my dear.” Uncle Joe led her into the hospital and down the hall to the bathroom. “Hudson needs money and we need Hudson. It’s a match made in Heaven.”
“More like Hell.”
“Think positive, Frankie, positive.”
“I’m positively never going to forgive you.”
“Of course not. Now go change before you get arrested for exposing yourself.”
She swung the bathroom door open and dropped the bag on the counter. Ripping open the zipper, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Black mascara smudged her eyes, and her red-streaked hair stuck out in twenty-five different directions.
With her usual efficiency, she went to work washing the war paint off her face and rinsing the temporary color from her hair. She wound her wet, shoulder-length hair into a conservative bun, brushed her eyelashes with a quick stroke of mascara, and drew a thin line of “Perfect Peach” gloss across her lips. Uncle Joe brought the navy suit she’d worn earlier, along with her half-inch pumps and tortoiseshell glasses. This felt better, much better. A crisp cotton blouse, wool-blend suit and practical pumps would make everything right. She removed the uncomfortable contact lenses and placed the glasses on the bridge of her nose. Everything was almost back to normal.
Almost.
She shoved all evidence of tonight’s fiasco into the garment bag and zipped it shut. Glancing into the mirror, she studied her pale but passable reflection. She might not be ready for a boardroom, but she looked good enough to negotiate with a barbaric wrestler. She flung the door open and spotted Uncle Joe hovering a few feet away.
“Afraid I’d sneak off?” She shoved the bag at him. “Burn it.”
With a brisk business stride, she aimed for the admitting clerk’s desk. “Black Jack Hudson, please.”
The middle-aged woman eyed Frankie over her reading glasses. “Black who?”
“Jack Hudson. He was just brought in.”
The clerk leafed through a stack of papers. “Here we go. Jack Hudson. Head trauma. He was unconscious when they brought him in.”
“Unconscious?” Her stomach flipped.
The door to the examining area swung open and the paramedic who’d attended Jack walked out.
“Excuse me. Weren’t you the one that treated Jack Hudson?” Frankie asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” He eyed her with suspicion, not recognizing her as the feline femme fatale he’d kicked out of the ambulance.
“He’s okay, right?” she asked.
“Doctors are with him now.”
“But it’s not serious, is it?”
“Can’t say, ma’am. One minute he was lucid, ranting about a crazy woman who tried to smash his skull. The next he was out cold.”
The paramedic brushed past her, leaving her stunned. She stared at the door to the examining area. No, she couldn’t have hurt him that badly. She wasn’t that strong or willful or malicious.
“Guess you hit him harder than you thought,” Uncle Joe said.
A nurse swung open the door and Frankie seized the opportunity to prove them all wrong and ease her conscience. With a deep breath she slipped into the examining area unnoticed. The door clicked shut behind her and she aimed for the nurse’s station.
“Jack Hudson?” she said, her voice sounding not at all like her own.
“And you are?” The nurse glanced up from a chart.
“His wife.” Great, first assault and battery, and now she was impersonating a wife. She was sure to burn in Hell.
“Number four.” The nurse motioned toward a row of examining areas sectioned off by curtains.
Inhaling the scent of rubbing alcohol, she ambled across the examining area and touched the coarse white fabric, listening for sound of a doctor performing an exam. When she hear
d nothing, she pushed the curtain aside and her breath caught in her throat.
The overbearing giant who’d scared the wits out of her at first sight lay motionless on the bed. One arm was folded across his stomach, an IV needle embedded in his hand. He was so still, so helpless. The goose egg on his forehead had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, nearly closing his left eye. A little lower and she could have blinded the man.
Her legs wobbled, and she collapsed into a padded gray chair reserved for loved ones. Nibbling her thumbnail, she sat there and watched him breathe. In and out. Slow and steady. She still couldn’t believe such a powerful creature could look so vulnerable, so broken.
Long strands of dark hair feathered across the institutional white pillow. His lips moved slightly as if he were dreaming.
A nightmare more like it. Probably hallucinating about Tiger Lady.
She didn’t realize she’d gotten so close until she was standing over him brushing a strand of hair off his cheek. Confusion knotted her insides as she ran her fingertips across a deep scar on his forehead. She wondered how it got there.
She shouldn’t care. He was a commodity, nothing more, a commodity that would help save Uncle Joe’s company.
“Sir, you can’t go in there!” a woman’s voice ordered.
The curtain scraped open on metal rings and Frankie jerked her hand away. Uncle Joe stepped into the examining area with Billings right beside him.
“Sir!” a young nurse protested. “One visitor at a time. And his wife is with him now.”
“His wife?” Uncle Joe quirked an eyebrow at Frankie.
“Don’t give me that look.”
A doctor side-stepped Uncle Joe and approached Jack. “Everyone needs to leave.”
She touched the starched sleeve of the doctor’s lab coat. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”
The doctor glanced at the nurse.
“Wife,” she said.
Uncle Joe spit out a hysterical giggle. Oh, he was pleased with himself tonight.
The doctor ignored them and went to work, checking Jack’s vitals.
It was coming. She could feel it. She’d caused a brain hemorrhage, a blood clot, permanent damage that would prevent Black Jack from stepping into the ring ever again. Uncle Joe could kiss WHAK goodbye. She’d ruined two lives in one night. Make that three. Bradley would be disappointed that their five-year engagement plan would have to be scrapped since Frankie would probably get eight and a third to twenty for attempted manslaughter.
