by Whitley Gray
Grinning, Dr. Marshall set the clipboard on a metal table. “Easy there, gladiator. I wasn’t planning to admit you. Who can we call to come get you?”
“No one. I can get myself home.” Why did men always want to tell him what to do? He could take care of himself. You are a strong, independent man. You are the key to your own happiness… How did the rest go? It took too much effort to fight the medication. Jamie yawned. Those were some good drugs.
Dr. Marshall shook his head. “You still need someone to stay with you.”
“I’ll call someone when I get home.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Displeasure narrowed the doctor’s eyes, and his sand-colored brows drew together.
“I want to leave.” Struggling upright, Jamie grabbed the rail of the gurney.
Dr. Marshall huffed out a breath. “Look. I can’t discharge you without someone to be responsible for you, even AMA. You’ve had a strong pain med, and you have a mild concussion. Right now, you’re not competent.”
“Competent?” Jamie glared. He didn’t have to stay here. He hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place. This guy was as bad as Vince. “You saying I can’t make my own decisions?”
“I’m saying the drugs can affect your ability to decide what’s best for you. It’s a matter of safety.” Dr. Marshall stepped forward and covered Jamie’s hand with his, gave him a gentle squeeze.
No mastery or show of superior strength in that touch, not like Vince. Not clinical either. Warmth and reassurance and something like friendship. Jamie relaxed. “I guess I can call my sister.”
“I’ll bring you the phone.”
The smile on the doctor’s face melted the last of Jamie’s resistance like beeswax in sunlight.
* * * *
Almost done. Pacing outside Jamie’s cubicle, Remy glanced at the clock.
Ankle splinted, script filled, physician instructions given. With luck, someone could be here to get the patient within the hour. Remy could run home, shower, and still meet Brett and the mystery man for dinner. Better call.
“Hello, sweetness,” Brett cooed. “Ready to rumba?”
“Not exactly. Something came up and I’m going to be late.”
“Don’t tell me you’re at work.” Brett’s snippy tone implied personal affront. “I happen to know you have this week off to train for your race.”
“I ran into this guy in the park—”
“So you’re blowing off a prearranged date in favor of someone you just met? Hmph.”
God. Brett could be such a bitch sometimes. “No. I literally ran into him. I wasn’t looking where I was going and slammed into the guy. He fractured his ankle. At minimum, I had to drive him to the ER.”
After sulking in silence for a few moments, Brett said, “Okay. I can push the reservation back to seven. Can you make it by then?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Because this guy really wants to meet you.”
Remy rolled his eyes. More than likely the guy really wanted to meet a doctor and the doctor’s checkbook. “See you at seven.”
He took another loop around the ER and stopped outside Jamie’s cubicle. All was silent within. He leaned toward the curtain. “Jamie?”
“Come in.”
Pulling back the curtain, Remy swallowed. Hard. A zing of attraction shot through him. Jamie had slid off the hospital gown, revealing a muscular but slender frame. Pale skin, with a dusting of golden hair turning into a trail that disappeared under the waistband of his cargo shorts.
Remy dragged his gaze up to Jamie’s. “Any luck?”
Jamie took a deep breath, whooshed it out. “My sister can come. But not until Wednesday.”
Wednesday. Four days from now. “Someone else, maybe? A friend? Neighbor?”
Jamie shook his head and stared at the wall. “I just moved here a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know anyone in the area.”
Great. Remy had managed to disable a lone man with no social resources. The dinner date looked more and more impossible by the moment. Guilt pressed on his shoulders. Maybe he should get a social worker involved. “You can’t stay alone.”
“So you said.”
“Anyone else you can call?”
“One other possibility.”
Chapter Three
Jamie couldn’t believe he was going to do this. He’d only met the guy in the next motel efficiency a couple of times. Simon had seemed like an okay guy, just down on his luck. A legal separation from his wife had led him to move into the Western Inn. Everyone there was in transition from one stage of life to another, one residence to another. One relationship to another. It was an eclectic community. Simon had sounded happy to help “a fellow wayfarer” out.
Dr. Marshall swung into the motel driveway and halted near the office. “Okay. You want to give this guy Simon a call? I’d like to brief him.”
“That’s not necessary, Dr. Marshall.”
“Remy. I’d like to make sure you’re set before I go.”
“Okay…Remy.” Jamie wasn’t at all sure he wanted Remy sharing medical information with Simon, but it wasn’t like any big secrets would be revealed. With luck, Jamie’d be out of here within the month, in a real apartment of his own, meeting people his own age. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Hello?” The Doors’ classic “Riders on the Storm” played in the background.
“Uh, Simon? It’s Jamie.”
“Hey, neighbor.” Simon gave a high-pitched giggle. The music dropped off. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”
“Yeah.” Jamie shifted in his seat. For a typically quiet guy, Simon seemed a little wired.
“Be right down.”
Remy got out of the car and strolled around to the passenger side. Jamie lowered the window and said, “He’s coming down. From the third floor.”
“Okay. Where’s the elevator?”
“There is no elevator.”
Frowning, Remy gripped the door frame, peering down at him. “So how did you plan to manage the steps?”
“I can do it.” Crutching up and down the stairs would be a great upper body workout, assuming Simon didn’t murder him in his sleep. Jamie pulled the door handle, and Remy stepped back.
Beyond him, Simon came into view. “Hell-o, neighbor!”
Holy Healthcare, Batman. The sedate accountant had undergone a transition. On a couple of occasions Jamie had wondered if Simon was a closet case, but this was weird. Simon wore tight running shorts and a T-shirt that read, Accountants do it by the numbers. The shirt ran out of fabric before it covered Simon’s rotund gut. Was that a wad of lint in his belly button? Jamie winced. Some things you just didn’t want to see.
“Simon Larimer, this is Dr. Marshall. Remy, this—”
“I’ll take it from here, doc.” Simon shuffled Remy aside.
The distinct odor of alcohol perfumed Simon’s ensemble. Jamie wrinkled his nose. Intoxication wasn’t an attractive look on Simon. In fact, it was downright disturbing. “Uh, Simon? We don’t really know each other, and I don’t want to upset your routine—”
“It’s fine. You’re fine. What’re neighbors for? I was just kicking back. Just don’t throw up.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Maybe? No maybe about it.
“Sure it is.” Simon leaned in, onion breath tickling Jamie’s ear. “We can get better acquainted.”
The earth screeched to a halt on its axis. Was he serious? Jamie gulped.
Simon waggled his eyebrows.
Oh, God. Abort! Abort!
“Mr. Larimer.” Remy’s hand appeared around Simon’s elbow and tugged him back. “Mr. Sutton needs very particular care, and he’s not feeling well.”
Jamie tilted his head and caught Remy’s gaze. I’m not?
Remy’s eyebrows shot up, and he nodded.
Except for the ankle, he didn’t feel bad. Oh. “Right. I’m not feeling too hot.”
“That’s what I’m here for, friend.”
Simon squirmed—like a toad—in Remy’s grip. Simon’s brain appeared to be squirming as well.
“Jamie’s stomach is worse than I thought,” Remy said, staring at Jamie.
Mustering every bit of skill, Jamie mimicked dry heaves. “Urk, urk, gonna…blow…”
Simon jumped back. “I don’t do vomit.”
“I think I better get Mr. Sutton back to a medical facility.” Remy swung the passenger door shut. He walked around to the driver’s side and spoke over the roof of the car. “Thanks for your offer, Mr. Larimer.”
Shuffling backward onto the sidewalk, Simon nodded, palm plastered to his mouth.
Remy slid into the driver’s seat, reversed, and steered into traffic.
Jamie leaned back, resting his head. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.” Remy shook his head and gave Jamie a wry grin. “Interesting neighbor. Have you known him long?”
“No. But he seemed so…ordinary before today.” Jamie closed his eyes. “So back to the hospital?”
“Nope. I’m taking you to a private medical facility.”
No way could he afford some hoity-toity recovery facility. Place. Nursing home. Whatever it was. “Not in the cards. I’ll figure something out.”
Maybe he could take a bus to his sister’s. Sixty miles—a ticket wouldn’t be that expensive. He could share a room with his nephews. As long as they didn’t put their pet snake in Jamie’s bed, he’d be golden.
Remy shook his head. “Naw. I got it.”
“So where are we going?”
“My place.”
* * * *
“Don’t say it.” Brett’s voice poured through the phone and jarred Remy’s ear. In the background, the notes of a piano mixed with the low hum of conversation and flatware clinking on china.
Remy could almost smell the grilled steaks and seafood, and his stomach rumbled. “It’s not like I planned this.”
“I don’t want to hear any more excuses.” Ice clinked against glass. “How can you take in a perfect stranger?”
“He’s not a perfect stranger.” Remy stopped by the refrigerator and glanced out the doorway to the living room. Eyes closed, Jamie slumped on the couch, splint-encased foot propped up on the ottoman and draped with an ice pack. The guy looked exhausted. Despite the trials of the afternoon, Jamie still appealed to him.
“What do you know about him, other than he rollerblades? And not very well.”
“More than you’d guess.” After today, Remy had a pretty good idea of who he was dealing with. New to town, new job, no insurance, no local support system. Crazy, intoxicated neighbor. And unless his gaydar had gone on the fritz, Jamie played for Remy’s team.
Those gorgeous eyes.
“Look, Brett. It’s my fault he’s in this predicament.”
“Why is it your fault?”
“I smacked into him, not the other way around.” He ran a hand over his hair. Dried sweat had left it unkempt. After the events of the afternoon, a shower sounded good. “His sister will be here on Wednesday to help him.”
“That’s four days from now. Are you going to sacrifice your vacation for him?”
“I’m not sacrificing—for God’s sake, Brett. The guy needs a safe place to stay for a few days. And it’s not like he’s any threat.”
“Is he hot?”
“What?”
“You heard me. He must be, for you to blow off dinner. Because we both know you haven’t gotten laid in ages.”
Heat suffused Remy’s face. “I need to go. Say hello to George, and give my regrets to the date.”
“His name is David.” The snippy attitude came through loud and clear.
“Whatever. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
* * * *
Someone had parked a car on his foot. And it hurt.
Jamie awoke, drifting on the remnants of a dream as he surfaced from a deep sleep. Unfamiliar environment; a place with an übercomfortable couch and the fragrance of something spicy cooking. He rubbed his eyes. Not the motel, not Vince’s place. Not a car on his foot—a splint. He’d gone off-roading on rollerblades at the park. Blown his ankle and met a doctor named Remy.
This was Remy’s house.
He yawned and ran through a checklist of the damage. Sore neck. A low-grade headache. Dry mouth with a metallic taste, like medication. Stiff knee. A dull throb combined with numbness in his left ankle. He stared at his foot. Pale toes stuck out beyond the black Velcro at the end of the splint. His toes.
Through the living room window, the fading pinks and grays of a summer sunset outlined the irregular borders of the trees. Lights shone in windows across the street. A neighborhood.
“Hey.”
Jamie jumped. Remy stood in what looked like the doorway to the kitchen, wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt.
“Hey.” Jamie pushed up on the couch. “What time is it?”
“Close to eight. I was about to wake you. Need to do your concussion check. How’re you doing?”
“Not too bad, I think.” Not bad at all, considering. Relieved to be warm and secure and not waking up to Simon and his tipsy caregiver act.
“Thanks for what you did today.” Jamie leaned forward and slid his foot off the ottoman, and it gave him a warning twang. Jamie grabbed the ice pack.
“Keep your foot elevated.” Remy strolled over and gently lifted Jamie’s leg onto the footstool. As Remy reached for the ice pack, their fingers connected. Clearing his throat, Remy stepped back and headed for the kitchen. “Be right back.”
Jamie inspected the part of his foot visible beyond the end of the splint. Despite the ice, the skin had turned shades of indigo, and a peculiar numbness overlaid the rhythmic throb below the surface.
“Can I take a look at that?” Holding a new ice pack, Remy sat down next to him on the couch. “Then we’ll do the questions.”
“Okay.” Jamie leaned back, relaxed. At least the guy asked. Vince would have done what he pleased with no warning and no concern for Jamie’s comfort.
Dropping to one knee by the ottoman, Remy squinted at the injury. Gentle fingertips ran over the splint covering Jamie’s bulging ankle, settled on the top of his foot over the pulse point, and moved on to his toes. Remy pushed on a couple of Jamie’s toenails and seemed satisfied when the pink returned as soon as Remy let up the pressure. He coasted his palms up the sides of Jamie’s calf but stopped below the knee and tucked a finger under the top of the splint. “Does it feel too tight?”
“Nope. What’s the verdict?”
“You’ll live, but it’s going to take time to heal.”
“When will I be able to stand on it?”
A muscle jumped in Remy’s jaw. “Not for a while. Three weeks, probably.”
Jamie sighed. He’d have to call work tomorrow, let his new boss know he’d be out of commission as far as giving massages. Maybe they’d have something available at the front desk, like scheduling. Under his breath, he said, “I’m never rollerblading again.”
“Sounds like a good plan. I see a lot of rollerblading injuries.”
“I’ll bet. I usually run. It was just an experiment.” A failed one, for sure.
“Mmm. I think you’ll be safer without wheels on the bottoms of your feet.” Remy grinned. “Ready for ten easy questions?”
“Sounds like a game.” Jamie managed a smile.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Chapter Four
“So is your name French?” Jamie shifted the foot propped on a kitchen chair.
Remy held back a groan. Anything but the name. He continued to chop peppers for the salad. “Not French, no. Just a nickname.” He gave the rice a stir and clamped the lid on the pot. Done. The curried chicken was ready to go. “Sure you don’t want to eat in the living room?”
“Nope. The kitchen is great. Smells good.” Jamie sucked in a breath through his nose and exhaled in an “Ah.”
“You like curry?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never made it.�
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“You should like this, then.” With edge of the knife, Remy carried the cutting board to the table and pushed the diced peppers and tomatoes onto the salads. “Do you cook?”
Jamie frowned and ran a finger along the edge of his plate. “No.”
Remy raised an eyebrow. Didn’t sound like a happy situation.
“So what about the nickname? What’s it from?”
Back to that. Remy scooped up the pepper stems and dumped them in the trash. “It’s short for Remington.”
A sunny grin filled Jamie’s face. “Remington. Wow. Like Remington Steele, the TV show?”
“No, like the rifle.”
“Oh. Pretty…powerful.”
He didn’t know the half of it. The power of the name was nothing compared to the power behind the name. Remy sighed. Doctor Rosgood Marshall III had run roughshod over his wife’s wishes when it came to naming his only son. No one but an egotist would name a baby Remington Winchester Rosgood Marshall. At least Dad’s dedication to American firearms had allowed Remy to escape the pretention of Rosgood Marshall the IV.
Since the fateful day Remy had said the words “I’m gay” to his parents, the name was Remy’s only connection with his dad. And what a day that’d been.
Remy pulled open the refrigerator door and surveyed the selection of dressings. “What do you want on your salad?”
“Anything is fine.”
He dug in the back of the fridge, coming up with the Balsamic vinaigrette.
“Hey, Remy? I like the nickname.” Jamie smiled.
In spite of himself, Remy grinned and set the dressing on the table. “So, what do you do when you’re not rollerblading?”
“Um, I’m a massage therapist.”
“What made you decide to move here?”
“I needed a change.” Tension threaded Jamie’s voice.
Oops. Obviously a sore point. Time to change the subject. “Salad first, or would you rather have the curry along with your salad?”
“Whatever the host would like.” Jamie took a sip of water.
“Then by all means, I’ll serve. I’m starved.” Stepping to the stove, Remy grabbed the rice pan.
“Sorry. I really screwed up your evening, didn’t I?”
