Chased

by Hazel James

  “Sort of? Honey, if you’re not sure, I guarantee he didn’t do it right,” I say, my gaze burning holes into her. What kind of taintwagon “sort of” proposes to his girlfriend? Holy Christ, is he a closet cross-dresser using Paige as a cover?

  She clears her throat. “Well, I ruined his actual plans. I got to his apartment Tuesday afternoon and took a nap before he got done with class. He should have been there around five, but when I woke up at seven, he still wasn’t home. I tried his cell, but he never answered.” She pauses to refill her wine glass, her expression bordering on embarrassment. “When he finally got back, I might have accused him of cheating on me.”

  Maggie and Allison gasp in unified outrage.

  “Turns out, he was ring shopping with his dad. He’s never been good at lying, especially under pressure, so he caved and showed me the receipt to prove he bought the ring that night. He was going to wait until he came to visit me next and have my parents on Skype when he proposed. Obviously, he didn’t expect me this week since it was a surprise trip.” She blows out a breath and takes another gulp of wine. For a split-second, she almost looks sad, but her smile is in place by the time her glass meets the table.

  “Aw, congrats, Paige!” Allison is the first to hug her, followed by Maggie and Eric. I stay seated, though, trying to process this clusterfuck of a proposal story. Technically, she was taken when I met her, so I don’t know why word of her being officially off-limits pisses me off.

  But it does.

  “I’m so stuffed, I’m gonna need someone to wheel me out to my car,” Paige moans an hour later. She glosses her lips and gives her belly a satisfied pat. Eric and Maggie are putting Austin to bed, and Allison left just after dinner to meet up with her boyfriend. That worked well for me, because I ate her piece of cheesecake, too. The weather is nice—seventy-one degrees and no bugs—so now we’re sitting out by the heated pool. The contractors finished the installation a few weeks ago, the last of the upgrades from last summer’s tornado damage. Two other people on Eric’s street got pools, too.

  “You’ve never had Maggie’s cooking, have you?” I ask, dipping my feet in the steamy water. Paige sits beside me and does the same.

  “No, this is the first time I’ve met her. I called Allison to let her know what time I’d be in, and she invited me here for dinner. Sure beats the Weight Watchers meal I had planned for tonight. Though I’ll probably be eating them for the rest of the week now.” She laughs quietly.

  “Why would you do that? Don’t they all taste like cardboard and self-loathing?”

  “Well, if I’m gonna be getting married, I need to get on the ball with diet and exercise so the pictures turn out good,” she says with a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “You don’t need to get on the ball with anything. Unless you’d like to get on these balls.” I smile and gesture toward my crotch. I can’t help it. She walked right into that one.

  “That would be a negative, DH. But seriously—why’d you seem mad earlier when I told you I was engaged?” She props the heels of her hands behind her and studies my face.

  I swish my feet back and forth in the water. “Not mad, just shocked is all.”

  “Shocked? At what? That Chad wasn’t cheating on me, or that he proposed and I said yes?”

  I rub my beard and consider her question. It’s neither of those things, really. “I guess it just seems like a waste,” I finally say.

  “Getting married is a waste?” Her tone makes it sound like I just told her Santa and the Easter Bunny aren’t real. Sacrilege or some shit.

  “No, that’s not a waste. Not when you’ve found the right person. But isn’t the whole point of finding the right person to actually be with them? Not living seven hours apart? Face it, Paige. You’re basically engaged to a pen pal.”

  “I happen to like my pen pal. He’s a good man. And it’s only temporary. He’s moving here next year once he graduates from ULM.”

  “What’s ULM?” I ask, fiercely resisting the urge to look at her tits. It’s too bad her shirt is gray instead of white, or I might consider pushing her into the pool.

  “University of Louisiana at Monroe.” That makes sense, though I still prefer ultra-lovely mouthfuls or maybe even über loud motorboating. “What about you?” she continues. “Are you ever going to get married, or will you play the role of manwhore for the rest of your life?”

  “You say manwhore like it’s a bad thing.” I laugh and rub my beard. Paige lifts her brow quizzically, but remains quiet. “No. I’m never getting married,” I say in a gruff voice, staring at the pool.

  “Why not?”

  It’s an innocent question, but there’s no way I’m getting into all of that tonight. Or ever. I’d rather everyone believe that I’m a manwhore than know the real reason. “Because the idea of only having one vagina for the rest of my life makes me feel claustrophobic.”

  “You’re such a pig,” she retorts, pushing me on my shoulder. I pretend to not notice how good her touch feels.

  “What, did you expect some deep, philosophical answer?” I counter, nudging her back. She screams, presumably because she thinks I’m trying to push her in the pool. I sort of am. Or maybe it’s because I just wanted an excuse to touch her back.

  “DH, I swear to God, if you push me in, I’ll murder you in your sleep!” She whacks me across my chest with the back of her right hand, leaving a path of tingles and stings under my shirt.

  “Relax, Paige. I might make you wet, but I won’t push you in.” My chest rumbles with laughter as I take in the scowl on her face.

  “Why do I have a feeling that you’re not talking about the pool anymore?”

  “Me, make a sexual joke?” I ask in my most innocent voice. “I would never do such a thing. When I said ‘make you wet,’ I literally meant make you wet.” I reach down and splash Paige with a handful of warm water. She gasps and does the same to me, then springs up and dashes to the other side of the pool, laughing like a lunatic the whole way.

  Naturally, I chase after her.

  We make it two laps before I finally manage to corner her on the far side of the pool. Her hair has fallen around her shoulders, and her smile could light up half of Oklahoma. She didn’t even smile that much during dinner when she talked about getting engaged. For the first time tonight, Paige looks alive. The part of my heart I closed off years ago drums out a few test beats that match the rise and fall of Paige’s chest. It feels strange, but not unwelcome.

  “The way I see it, this can end one of two ways. You can admit defeat and surrender, or you can make a run for it and lose,” I declare, confidently resting my hands on my hips. Paige’s crystal blue eyes dart around the patio, scanning her options, then settle back on me.

  “Fine. You win. I surrender.” She raises her palms and slowly steps toward me. When she gets one step away, she extends her right hand to offer a truce. I slide my hand into hers, then feel her step forward and lean her shoulder into the left side of my body, pushing me toward the water.

  If I’m going down, so is she.

  I tighten my grip on her hand and grab ahold of her left arm, pulling her to me as we plunge into the deep end. My PJ training kicks in instinctively. I wrap her legs around me and kick my way back to the surface, keeping a tight grip on her in case she doesn’t know how to swim. Or maybe because feeling her pressed up against me all soaking wet is too much of an opportunity to pass up.

  If she was mine, I’d strip us both of our clothes so I could savor the feeling of her wet curves against my body. I’d lock her ankles around my waist and take her luscious tits in my mouth while my fingers found that sweet spot between her legs. I’d tease her with long, deep strokes and fast, shallow ones while she moaned in my ear, begging me to fill her completely. Then, I’d—

  She smacks me on the shoulder and wipes her eyes. Drops of water roll off her glossed lips, tempting me all the way down her chin. “You pulled me in the water!”

  “You pushed me in the water!” My mo
uth is only inches away from the smooth contour of her neck, and I’d sell my left kidney to lap the water off her skin. Paige is engaged. Paige is engaged. Paige is engaged. To a fucknugget, yes, but that’s not the point. In three strong kicks, I reach a depth I know she can touch and separate us, desperately needing some space. “You owe me a date now,” I chide, walking up the pool steps.

  “Excuse me?”

  I do my best to adjust my dick while removing the soggy excuse for a napkin from my front pocket to show Paige. “A hot waitress gave me her number today. You cost me a night of sexual debauchery.”

  “Sorry, I’m fresh out of debauchery.” She gathers her hair in her hands and squeezes the excess water out.

  I grab two towels off the wooden shelf next to the patio door and toss one to her. “I won’t hold you to the debauchery, but I will hold you to the date. It’s only fair.”

  “I can’t go on a date, DH. I’m engaged.” Paige waves her ring finger in the air as a visual reminder and blots her hair.

  “Not a date date. A friends’ date. We can do something completely innocent, I promise.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Innocent like what?”

  “How ‘bout putt putt?” It’s the most harmless activity I can think of. Sure, there’s plenty of innuendos about balls and holes, but I’ll leave that out.

  “I’ve actually never been putt-putting,” she confesses, a small smile playing at her lips.

  “Putt putt it is. What days do you work?”

  “Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

  “How about Monday night?” I can see the hesitation on her face, so I break out the big guns. The sure-fire thing that gets my way one hundred percent of the time.

  Dimples.

  What is it that women say? If you’ve got it, flaunt it? Yeah, it works for guys, too.

  “Fine,” she concedes. “Monday night. But there will be no kissing, no touching, and no sex.” She points her finger at me for emphasis.

  “God, you’re a lame date.” I laugh. “Yes, I know the rules, Paige.” She wipes the water from her face, and I use the opportunity to get an eyeful of her tits. ULM?

  Ungodly lickable moistness.

  “WELL IT LOOKS LIKE HE enjoyed the cake.” I can’t help but laugh as I scroll through photos of Tatiana’s son during his first birthday party last weekend. We’re the trauma team tonight, and of all the nurses I work with, she’s probably my favorite. Her soothing voice and bright hazel eyes have a way of putting patients and family members at ease, and with four years of experience under her belt, she’s always willing to offer advice and support—unlike some of the other nurses on staff. My favorite picture so far is the one of Beckett with a frosting goatee. He’s sixteen kinds of cute, and I can’t wait until I get to babysit him.

  “He couldn’t get enough. He actually got mad when we took it away so we could clean him up,” Tat says, pulling up the photo of Beckett mid-wail. His cherub cheeks are covered in vanilla cake and light blue frosting, and he’s resting his hands on his forehead as if he’s saying, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” I think he’s my spirit animal.

  “At least you didn’t have an Elmo theme,” I reply. “My best friend, Bethany, did that for her daughter’s first party. The poor kid looked like she murdered someone after the cake smash.” Bethany meant well, since Elmo is Annabelle’s favorite Sesame Street character, but I don’t think she’ll be doing any more parties with red icing until Anna can feed herself properly.

  “My neighbor threw a Batman party for her son’s second birthday and she said it took two days to get the black frosting stain off his face. First of all, who puts black frosting on a cake?”

  “Mmm… now I want cake.” A wistful sigh slips past my lips. I think about the hummus and celery sticks waiting for me in my lunch box, and my insides gurgle in protest. After work, I’m stopping by a gym near the house to see about getting a membership. Jeans and scrubs are a lot more forgiving than a wedding dress will be.

  Tat nods in agreement. “I could totally go for some cake.” I open my mouth to respond, but the shrill of the red trauma phone cuts me off. Tat springs up and lifts the receiver to take the information from dispatch. She nods and writes the details on a notepad, her brow furrowing deeper as she goes. Tat’s the epitome of cool and collected, so I immediately know this call is bad. I push down the sinking feeling in my stomach and prepare myself for the worst.

  A few minutes later, she hangs up the phone. “Motor vehicle crash. There’s an adult male, DOA, and the adult female is in critical condition.” One dead on arrival. That’s not so bad. I feel terrible that the woman lost a family member but at least it wasn’t a—

  “There’s a toddler, too. A boy. Approximately twelve to fourteen months old. Also critical,” Tat adds. The words look like they physically hurt her to say them. She glances at her phone sitting on the nurses’ station, and my breath catches in my throat.

  “He’s at home, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I tucked him in before I left for work. Ryan’s off tonight, so he’s home with him.” Her husband is a firefighter and has had his share of close calls on the job, but I sigh with relief knowing Tat’s family is safe. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for our incoming patients.

  “I’ll take the baby,” I say. We don our blue trauma gowns, lead aprons, and booties in mere minutes. I was supposed to be the scribe while Tat worked the bedside, but since there are two critical patients, we’re both on bedside. As nurses, we see all types of patients, and some hit closer to home than others. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to work on a critically-wounded child when you’re a parent yourself.

  Tat flashes a small relieved smile. “Thanks,” she whispers, as we head for the front door to receive the ambulances. The warm air smells sweet after the rain storm that passed through earlier in the night. I wonder if the wet roads contributed to the accident. “They’re about two minutes out,” Tatiana reports. “The baby was restrained in a forward-facing car seat in the rear middle seat of a four-door sedan. He’s unresponsive, but rescue got an airway. Radial pulse is faint. Pupils are unequal. And he’s vomited several times.”

  Shit. This baby is coming in with the cards stacked against him. I have to remind myself to remain focused on my job so that he has a fighting chance at a normal life.

  Minutes later, I’m in the middle of chaos as the baby—Cooper—is transferred from the stretcher to the hospital bed. Apparently, rescue found a diaper bag with his name embroidered on the flap wedged between the smashed-in door and his car seat.

  Dr. Williams wastes no time in his assessment. “Cooper, hey buddy. We’re gonna get you better, okay?” he shouts. We work around each other to get Cooper hooked up to the monitor. I unfold the Broselow tape to figure out his approximate weight so our dosages will be correct and take his blood pressure.

  “He’s tachycardic, and BP is ninety over fifty,” I say, tossing my stethoscope over my neck. His body, marked with a perfect impression of his car seat straps, looks so tiny in the bed and the image burns a spot in my mind that I know will haunt me for months to come.

  “Pupils are still unequal, and his belly is rigid.” Dr. Williams bends down to inspect the back of Cooper’s ears without disturbing his C-Collar. “And he’s got Battle’s sign to go with his raccoon eyes.” The purple bruising behind the ears and around both eyes means Cooper has a basilar skull fracture. Basically, his chance at a normal life just got a lot shittier. Fuck.

  “Halo test,” Dr. Williams continues. He places a two-by-two square of gauze in Cooper’s left ear and holds up the results: a yellow ring of cerebral spinal fluid surrounding the bloody spot. “Positive. Christ,” he swears under his breath. He runs the back of his skilled hand over his face as the reality of the situation hits. We need to start prepping this boy for surgery. The sooner he gets back there, the better. For a split second, I think of Tatiana, and I know I made the right call by putting her with Cooper’s mother.
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  “Let’s get a quick X-ray and get this kid in the back,” Dr. Williams tells the team. Before the rad tech can even get to the bed, the beeping on Cooper’s monitor changes. I take another BP as his pulse drops. “Fifty-two over twenty-eight. Shit. Come on, Cooper!” Medical staff start buzzing around the bed as we work together to get our patient stabilized. I double-check the leads to make sure they’re in the right spot and connected properly, and take another BP. “Forty over twenty!”

  The monitor slows its beeping. “We’re losing him!” Dr. Williams shouts. He checks for a brachial pulse and curses. “He’s in PEA!” Pulseless electrical activity means Cooper’s heart isn’t beating. Without any shockable rhythms, the anesthesiologist immediately starts chest compressions while the respiratory therapist squeezes the bag attached to the ET tube. Over the din in our room, I hear someone shout, “Clear!” from the next room over. It sounds like Dr. Whitson, the other ER doctor who’s working on Cooper’s mom. My heart breaks a little knowing that they’re both fighting for their lives.

  “Epi, please,” Dr. William says. The rad tech switches places with the anesthesiologist and begins a new round of chest compressions. I double check the Broselow tape, pull supplies from the purple drawer, and feed the Epi through his IV, silently praying for Cooper. The longer this lasts, the worse his chances of survival are. I hear another, “Clear!” from his mom’s room, and I whisper my prayers, this time for mother and son.

  Thirty minutes later, Cooper’s in asystole. The flat line on the monitor mocks me as I take my second turn on chest compressions. Some of his ribs are likely broken, which makes me feel guilty for inflicting more damage on his tiny body. Still, I focus on counting as my hands do their best to push life back into Cooper. It’s not until my turn is over that I notice Dr. Whitson in our room conferring with Dr. Williams. His normally jovial expression is stoic, and I know.

  Cooper’s mom didn’t make it.