by Whitley Gray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Loose Id Titles by Whitley Gray
Whitley Gray
CRASH PAD
Whitley Gray
www.loose-id.com
Crash Pad
Copyright © October 2014 by Whitley Gray
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eISBN 9781623005474
Editor: Venessa Giunta
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Published in the United States of America
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Chapter One
What the hell had he been thinking?
Jamie tottered along on the rollerblades, arms windmilling, wobbling like a man on a three-day drinking spree. A beautiful morning: sky a serene blue, sunlight dappling the lawns with green and gold, the fresh scent of newly mowed grass. All the things he loved about the park on his daily forays. Now all his attention was focused on surviving this excursion into bad judgment.
The hot-as-Hades helmet and safety gear looked ridiculous.
Cute Rollerblade Guy didn’t wear all this crap. On the other hand, Cute Rollerblade Guy could skate. That coppery ponytail and beard… Mmm, mmm. Too bad the guy wasn’t a runner like Jamie. It would have been easier to meet him—safer, for sure. A shirtless runner, in shorts. Yeah…
A girl yelled, “Look out, Mister,” and whizzed by on his right.
Jamie stuttered on his skates and then got his equilibrium.
The broad path stretched before him like a concrete snake, a thousand times as long and just as dangerous. Kids half his size zoomed past on their wheels, perfect balance, full of confidence and laughter. He wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. God, he felt like an inept giant. Might as well be ten and at the roller rink with his sister. Why did adults think this was fun? And why did he feel the need to risk his neck at age twenty-eight?
Because you want to meet Cute Rollerblade Guy.
He coasted forward a few feet—too fast, too fast—and grabbed on to a light pole. Yeah, this would impress the man. Two miles an hour, gyrating like a weathervane in a wind storm. Can anyone say idiot? There had to be a better way.
His truck was at least half a mile away in the east lot. Okay, he had a choice: take off the blades and walk in his stocking feet to the parking area or suck it up and blade there. Wouldn’t take that long, just a few minutes. Or hours. Or days. He blew out a breath. Cute Rollerblade Guy hadn’t showed yet. Maybe he’d skate past before Jamie either reached the parking lot or sustained a grievous injury. A glance to the right, and he cautiously re-entered the foot, bike, and blade traffic.
* * * *
Two miles to go.
Remy’s running shoes slapped on the asphalt path through the park. As he passed the mile marker, he glanced at his watch. Seven minutes for the last mile. To be competitive in next month’s marathon, he’d need to get it down to six and a half. He hit the Reset button and picked up the pace. A little crowded on the path, but otherwise a perfect day to add a couple of miles onto his usual six. They’d had snow last year at this time. Old Man Winter had blessed them with one last blizzard on Memorial Day before going into hibernation.
This afternoon, people packed the recreation areas around the lake. Screeches and laughter came from the playground. The fragrance of grilled steak wafted over from the picnic area, and his stomach growled. Remy shook out his hands. On pace for six and a half minutes. Good.
By the time he got home, he’d need to rush through his shower to get ready for tonight. The guy Brett planned to introduce him to better be worth the trouble. A double date/blind date for dinner wasn’t Remy’s idea of a good time. Of course, alone at home wasn’t any better. If the guy turned out to be a dud, Remy could claim a headache and leave early. As he turned the corner, the sun flashed in his eyes. He ducked his head, squinted at his watch, and kept running.
Thwack.
Remy landed on his back in the grass; the impact knocked the wind out of him. For a moment, he stared up at the sky. What’d he hit? His side of the path had been clear a second ago, so where had the roadblock come from? A hand rested on his groin. A strange hand. A man’s hand.
What the hell? Remy scrambled backward.
Lying prone on the turf next to him, in a tangle of arms, legs, and rollerblades, was a helmeted man. Remy scowled. One of those damn skater boys, always clogging the path and expecting everyone to get out of their way. God, they were a hazard.
Remy’s face heated. Except his time, he’d been the hazard. The rollerblader groaned. The sound of hurt. Remy’s medical training kicked in, and he scrambled to his knees and bent over the man.
“Hey. You okay?”
“My…ankle.” Lips pulled back in a grimace, revealing enough teeth to suggest agony. The man’s helmet angled over both eyes as he tugged at the buckle. “Stupid thing.”
“Here.” Remy got the chinstrap unfastened. “Does your neck hurt?”
“No.” The skater took a deep breath and rolled to his back. “Sheezus.”
Remy pushed the headgear up far enough to reveal the skater’s eyes, but they remained shut. The brain bucket gave good protection, but a concussion wasn’t out of the question. “Can you open your eyes?”
Golden lashes lifted to reveal eyes the blue of a first-place ribbon. The guy reached up and yanked the helmet off, and for a moment Remy couldn’t move. The injured man had blond curls, plastered down into hat hair. A straight nose and full lips. Gorgeous. Wow. Just…wow.
“Argh,” moaned Gorgeous.
Nice doctor you are, ogling the injured patient. Shoving the improper thoughts away, Remy got back to work with his assessment. “Anything else hurt?”
“Knee,” the man muttered, lids closing over the world’s most gorgeous eyes. “Frickin’ ankle inside the skate.”
Fracture? With the skates, Remy couldn’t see a thing. Removing them would help, but the boot would keep a frac
ture splinted until they could get X-rays. The guy could move all four extremities. Other than a scrape on the left shin, everything seemed to be in working order. Remy pushed on the man’s hipbones, checking for pelvic fracture.
The man grabbed Remy’s wrists. “You should buy me dinner first, don’t you think?”
Remy winced. Nice move, dummy. This isn’t the ER. The sun had apparently addled his wits. “Sorry. What’s your name?”
“Jamie.” He bent his knee and another grimace twisted his features. “Hurts.”
“I’m Remy Marshall.” He gripped Jamie’s long-fingered hand. “Well, Jamie, I think an ER visit is in your future.”
A woman crouched beside Remy. “Does he need an ambulance?”
“No ambulance.” Jamie’s tone was a mix of pain and irritation.
Remy glanced at the woman. “It could be a fracture. My car’s in the west lot. If we can get him there, I’ll take him.”
Jamie pushed him away. “I don’t know you.”
Remy sighed, pulled his hospital ID card out of his wallet, and held it over Jamie’s face, giving him a few seconds to check it out. “I’m a doctor.”
THIS COULDN’T BE happening.
It just didn’t get more humiliating than this. In the park, on a cloudless day, being carried to a stranger’s car—no, to Dr. Marshall’s car—by the doctor and a female Good Samaritan. And he still had on the damn rollerblades because the MD suspected a fracture. Jamie had to admit, the intense throbbing in his left ankle tended to make him agree. At least going by private car was cheaper than an ambulance. Another group of kids, all giving him unabashed stares. Jamie closed his eyes. Nightmare.
“Almost there, Jamie.” Dr. Marshall spoke next to Jamie’s ear. At least he was cute. Jamie opened his eyes.
Oh no. Cupid, thy name is cruelty. Wending toward them, body moving sinuously in time with the music on his MP3 player, was the object of Jamie’s worship from afar: Cute Rollerblade Guy, fiery ponytail gleaming in the sun.
Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Skate right on by—
Cutie halted next to Dr. Marshall. “Hey. Need some help?”
Jamie’s rescue team paused, and he tried to sit up straighter. Hanging between two people, parked on the seat formed by their forearms—dignity really wasn’t possible. He smiled through clenched teeth.
“We got it,” said the woman. Her tone dared the guy to challenge her capability to haul injured men through the park.
“Big oops, huh?” Cutie pointed at Jamie’s scraped leg and throbbing ankle. “Looks bad.”
“Rollerblading injury,” Dr. Marshall snapped. No mistaking the disapproval in those words.
“Did you fall?” Cutie leaned forward, hands on knees. Tawny eyes met Jamie’s.
The man had dreamy peepers. “N-no, more of a collision.”
“You ran into someone?”
“Sh—sheesh, no. Someone ran into me.”
Dr. Marshall cleared his throat and looked away. “We’ve got to get going, get him to the ER for X-rays.”
The rescuers bounced Jamie up, resettling him in the two-person carry, and resumed their shuffling progress toward the parking lot.
Cutie tagged along, rolling next to the rescue team. “Hope you’ll be okay.”
Jamie tried, but an authentic grin wasn’t possible. “Sure.”
Flashing another stunning smile, Cutie executed a one-eighty and bladed off. Jamie attempted to enjoy the view of Cutie’s spandex-clad ass, but pain got in the way. He closed his eyes. Well, now he’d met Cute Rollerblade Guy. Only had to sacrifice an ankle to do it.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter Two
At the ER, Remy resigned himself to being at work. He pulled up under the awning. “I’ll be right back.” He opened his door and climbed out.
Jamie rolled his head and gazed at him, face pale and sweating. “Where…?”
“Getting a wheelchair and some help.”
Struggling up in the seat, Jamie groaned. “I can hop.”
“No way. Stay put, and I’ll be back in ten seconds with a wheelchair.” Remy stalked through the automatic doors of the Emergency Room, freed a wheelchair from the snarl of transports in the foyer, and rolled it to the passenger side of the car. Jamie had the door open and one foot on the pavement. Stubborn idiot. Did he want to break something else?
“Hold up.” Remy set the brakes on the wheelchair. “You’ll make it worse if you fall.”
Jamie grimaced, damp golden curls stuck to his forehead. “I’m holding.”
“Right.” God, Jamie was model-handsome. Remy could go for him, if they’d met another way. And if the guy wasn’t a patient. And wasn’t the victim of Remy’s carelessness in the park. “Let’s get you into the chair.”
“’Kay.”
Squeezing between the car door and Jamie, Remy bent and wrapped an arm around Jamie’s side. Warm body, firm muscles. Sweaty but a lingering trace of clove. Distracting. Very distracting. “Put your arm over my shoulders, then use your right leg to stand. Okay?”
Jamie nodded, lips pressed together.
“Here we go.” Remy straightened, pulling the other man upright.
“Son of a nutcracker,” Jamie said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Maybe the guy did have a head injury. “Now pivot and drop into the wheelchair.”
Jamie did as instructed. He white-knuckled the armrests and leaned his head back.
“I’m going to lift your feet onto the footrests now.” With care, Remy settled each skate-bearing foot on the metal platforms. The skates clattered and slid.
Jamie gasped. “Can’t you take the rollerblades off?”
“Not till we’re ready for X-rays. It keeps the swelling down.”
“It doesn’t keep the pain down.”
“I’ll get that taken care of shortly.” Remy stood and moved behind the wheelchair. In his capacity as an ER doctor, Remy had dealt with a fair number of sports injuries, including rollerblade mishaps. “Trust me, I’m—”
“A doctor, I know.” Face pale and sweaty, Jamie tilted his head back and looked at Remy upside down.
Those eyes. Arresting blue and full of pain. Remy resisted the urge to smooth Jamie’s hair off his forehead. Mind on business, Marshall.
Remy freed the brakes and backed the chair away from the car, then closed the door. Carefully he swung the wheelchair around and steered toward the ER. The glass doors slid open, and a puff of rubbing alcohol and floor cleaner met them in the foyer. Work. He’d know that smell anywhere. And to think he’d planned to avoid it for ten days.
“Hello, Dr. Marshall.” A receptionist grinned at him from her cubicle. “Out drumming up business?”
They’d never let him hear the end of this.
“Not intentionally.” Remy pointed at the locked entrance to the examination rooms. “Can you hit the button, Shelly?”
“Sure.” The door swung out. “I’ll send someone back to get his information.”
“Talk to me first,” Remy told her. Since this had been Remy’s fault, no way he’d expect Jamie to cover the copay and deductible for the visit.
Jamie muttered something unintelligible.
Bending over Jamie’s shoulder, Remy asked, “What?”
“No insurance.”
“No worries. You’ve got a friends and family discount coming.”
* * * *
This was taking forever.
Pain medication had eased the wait, but still… Jamie raised his head and looked at the foot of the gurney. His left ankle had inflated. Leaving the rollerblade on had worked fine. As soon as the pain medicine had kicked in, Dr. Marshall had eased off the skate and sent Jamie to X-ray. In its gratitude to be free, the joint blew up like a helium balloon. A faint violet hue had overtaken the side of the ankle.
He dropped his head back on the pillow. How was he ever going to pay for this? Maybe he could borrow the money from his sister. Or get an a
dvance at work? Vince? No. Jamie would work three jobs if necessary. Never again would he rely on that sadistic prick. Never.
The striped curtain whooshed back. Dr. Marshall strode in, carrying a set of X-rays. The doctor had changed into a pair of green scrubs, which made his eyes look more gray than blue. With his short sandy hair and wiry build, he had nothing of Vince’s swarthy “The Rock” look. The guy was cute, in a take-charge sort of way.
He’s a doctor, like Vince. Watch it.
Dr. Marshall snapped the X-rays up on the viewer. “You’ve got a chip fracture of the lateral malleolus of the fibula. In other words, the outside of your ankle is broken.”
Broken? Crap.
“The good news is it won’t need surgery to fix. A splint will do it.”
“Yay.” Jamie tried to sit up; his head felt floaty. “Can I go home now?”
Over the clipboard, Dr. Marshall shot him a quizzical look. “Feeling pretty good on the Demerol, huh?”
“Better than sucking up the pain, sure.”
“I’ve called Orthopedics. They’ll take a look at the ankle, and then—”
“Orthopedics?” Had Dr. Marshall called Vince? Nooo. But this was a different town. Jamie shivered and clutched the blanket.
“You’ll like Dr. Jenter. She’s small but mighty.”
She. Thank God. His shoulders drooped. “Then I can walk out of here?”
“Not exactly. Crutches. And your concussion panel shows you did thump your melon, even with the helmet.”
“It’s the Demerol screwing up your pop quiz.”
“No, I did the test before the Demerol.”
“Oh. Right.” Dr. Marshall had administered the Twenty-Questions-touch-your-nose-and-say-Peter-Piper test during Jamie’s nine out of ten pain level.
“You shouldn’t stay alone for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” The doctor jotted a note on the clipboard. “Someone needs to check on you, make sure you can wake up and answer questions.”
“I’m not staying in the hospital.” Christ, that’d cost a fortune. Jamie crossed his arms. Hopefully he looked fierce and assertive in his petit-floral-patterned hospital gown.
