Chased

by Hazel James

  “Okay, now can you call Daddy?” Tyler interrupts.

  “I don’t need to. They’ll be here in about ten minutes to pick you up. Why don’t you finish your dinner so you can be ready to tell them all about it?” That’s all the encouragement he needs; in minutes, Tyler’s plate is clean and he’s fastening the Velcro on his Paw Patrol sneakers. I heed Ali’s advice too, because I need to get ready for work. “So is this going to be a thing now?” she asks me as we bring our dishes to the sink. “DH dropping by to get measurements to make you custom furniture, then coming over and cooking?”

  “He stopped by? When?”

  “While you were sleeping. He said he wanted to put the bookshelf between the two living room windows, but needed to know how wide to make it.”

  I look over my shoulder at the man arm wrestling a four-year-old on the now-clean dinette. Every time Tyler pushes against DH’s hand, he lets it fly back to the table with a dramatic groan of defeat, causing a new fit of toddler giggles that turns my insides to mush. “Be careful, Paige. Cartoon hearts are going to shoot out of your eyes any minute,” Ali teases, causing my cheeks to redden. She glances at the boys, then back at me. “He’s different with you, you know. We weren’t all that close growing up, but from the stories I’ve heard and what I see now, I’d bet money this is the real deal.”

  I’ve tried to keep my emotions from getting the best of me when it comes to DH, but that’s getting harder and harder. Knowing that Ali sees the connection we have makes me feel better. “Can I confess something without you thinking I’m a terrible person?” I step closer to her to keep DH from overhearing, which is probably unnecessary based on the volume of Tyler’s shrieks. “We have this crazy awesome chemistry that I never felt with Chad, even though we were engaged.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “Then why did you say yes when he proposed?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I figured I’d have the rest of my life to work on the attraction part. That maybe Chad and I were just a slow-burning couple that needed some fuel to get things going. Sometimes I feel bad that I jumped from a three-year relationship into another one.”

  “If you’d have broken up with Chad a year ago, would you feel bad for dating DH now?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then screw the timelines. You know how short life is—we see it every day at work. Besides, I’ve never met a happy couple who said they wish they would’ve waited before they got together.” I never thought about it like that, but she’s right. Feeling more at ease, I lean back on the counter.

  “Thanks for not thinking I’m horrible or crazy for feeling this much right after—”

  “Attack!” DH and Tyler shout from the living room, interrupting our conversation with a barrage of Nerf bullets. Ali and I shield our faces with our hands, but that does little to protect us from the automatic assault. “Tyler, you take the left flank, I’ll take the right. Move out!”

  “What’s a flank?” he hollers back.

  “Never mind, just follow me!” I drop my hands long enough to see the boys running past the dinette and into the kitchen.

  “Run!” I shout, pushing Ali out the other side. We dash into the living room, laughing the whole way, and take cover behind the couch, but the boys don’t waste any time and complete the circle, firing at the throw pillows Ali and I are now hiding behind. Our saving grace comes in the form of three knocks at the front door and the baritone, “Hello!” that follows.

  “Daddy!” Tyler abandons his gun and launches himself into Mr. Wilson’s arms while Mrs. Wilson closes the door. “We’re going to get a jungle gym!”

  “We are, huh? Did I miss that email from the jungle gym fairy?” Ali’s dad makes a show of removing his phone from his back pocket and one-handedly checking his messages. “Nope, no email here.”

  “DH is the fairy! He just keeps his wings hidden because he doesn’t want everyone to know.”

  “Is that so?” On cue, DH approaches the entry way, sans Nerf gun, and shakes Mr. Wilson’s hand.

  “Yes sir. I helped build one for my best friend’s daughter a few years ago. It’s pretty easy. I’ve got all the tools and the wood’s on me. With a few other guys helping, I think we can knock it out on a Saturday.”

  “See?” Tyler shouts with glee.

  “Hang on sweetie,” Mrs. Wilson cautions. “DH, that’s awful sweet of you, but it seems like a big undertaking. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Hannah and Tyler are going to need a place to play after y’all get home.”

  “Yeah, I need a place to play with my new sister!” Tyler echoes. The Wilsons trade glances, and after a series of eyebrow raises and shoulder shrugs, they turn their attention back to DH.

  Mr. Wilson shakes DH’s hand. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Yes!” Tyler jumps down and victory dances into the living room with his dad in tow.

  “Now that that’s settled, I want to show you some baby shower stuff before y’all leave. I can’t decide between a gray banner with yellow accents or a yellow banner with gray accents,” Ali says, taking Mrs. Wilson’s arm and leading her down the hallway.

  “And I need to get ready for work,” I say, stepping into DH’s arms. “Thank you for my bookshelf, and for cooking dinner.” He tips his head down and skims his lips over mine, then brings one hand to the back of my neck and teases my mouth open. My lips, always willing to be taken by his, separate on command, and I’m instantly rewarded with a low rumble of pleasure in his chest.

  He dips his tongue back in for another sample. “You taste like syrup.”

  “I really do need to get ready for work.” I put a few inches between us so I can gather my wits. Unwilling to give up any extra space, DH pulls me toward him, and like a dutiful magnet, I comply without hesitation.

  “What time do you have to be there?”

  “Six forty-five.”

  He checks the watch. “The drive only takes fifteen minutes, which means you have forty-five minutes to get ready.” He nips my neck, and the combined feeling of his teeth and beard cause my nipples to pebble beneath my black Thomas Rhett sleep shirt.

  Logic is my last line of defense, but even that seems unnecessary at this point. I can get ready for work in five minutes flat if need be. “I still need to take a shower and do my make-up.”

  “I could use a shower. Building a bookshelf is sweaty work.” He starts walking me backward down the hall to my bedroom, which is on the opposite side of the house from everyone else. As soon as we’re clear from view, he reaches under my shirt and grips my breast, massaging the tender flesh until all I can think about is feeling his mouth on it, sucking, tasting, taking.

  “I would hate to deprive you of a shower after you so graciously crafted a place for my valuables. I’d even be willing to let you go first.”

  “Nope.” He opens my door and locks it behind him without breaking his connection to me. “We’ll go together. Right after we come together. In fact, I remember seeing something pink in your shower that we can play with.”

  Three hours into my shift, Tatiana pulls me into the staff bathroom, scans the stalls, and blocks the door with her giraffe-print Dansko. “Spill it.”

  “Spill what?”

  “Whoever put that look on your face.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I move to the mirror and fake interest in fixing my messy bun, but I can see her knowing glance over my shoulder. “Okay, fine.” I turn around and lean against the sink, not bothering to hide my grin. “I met someone.”

  “I knew it!” Tat’s fist shoots into the air. “Who is he?”

  I consider telling her about the first time I saw DH, but go with the version that doesn’t involve me being his nurse. “He’s my roommate’s sister’s husband’s cousin.”

  “Your what? Never mind.” She waves a hand. “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Not long,” I reply, purposely being vague again, �
��but I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s pretty damn amazing.”

  “And the sex is good, I see,” she teases.

  “I didn’t say anything about the sex.”

  “You don’t have to.” She winks and opens the door so we can get back to the nurses’ station, where Jack is going on about his new Land Rover. It’s all he’s talked about since our shift started, and Whitney, his latest victim, looks positively bored out of her mind. Granted, that doesn’t take much. How she passed nursing school is beyond me.

  “What does he look like?” Tat continues, pulling out a rolling chair next to me.

  I drum my fingertips together in front of my sly smile. “Tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Muscles for days and a super sexy beard that feels great in all the right places.”

  Tatiana leans forward and sets her chin in her hand. “Let’s pretend for a minute that I’m not happily married. Does he have a brother?”

  Whitney interrupts our laughter with an exaggerated huff and stomps off mumbling something under her breath. “What’s up her ass?” I whisper.

  Tat quickly glances over her shoulder. “I overheard her bitching to one of the techs from Radiology that some guy she’s interested in won’t give her the time of day.”

  “Aww.” My lips form a fake pout.

  “That’s exactly what I said!” Before she can continue, the trauma phone rings. Tat’s joyful expression instantly turns serious as she lifts the receiver and grabs the pen and notepad beside it. She listens for less than ten seconds and disconnects.

  “Male, mid-twenties, GSW to the head, CPR in progress.” We alert the trauma team and grab our gear, then pull the crash cart out and prep the room so we’re ready to go. Gunshot wounds to the head can mean anything from the patient being grazed by a bullet to a full-on fatal blast, and the in-code from the medics doesn’t give us much more information, other than letting us know he’s been intubated.

  When the ambulance arrives seven minutes later, the team swings into a series of well-choreographed movements as we listen to the report from the medic. “Twenty-eight-year-old male, self-inflicted GSW to the right temple. He was unresponsive when we arrived, and he’s been in PEA since then. He’s had two rounds of Epi with no improvement.”

  We transfer him from the stretcher to the bed and connect him to the monitor, but there’s no activity on the screen. Tatiana takes over on CPR, placing the heels of her hands in the center of the red Superman “S” tattooed across John Doe’s chest. The shading and detail make it appear embossed, and I can’t help but wonder why someone with a tattoo like this would shoot himself. Maybe it was supposed to represent the way he wanted to feel about himself? Like a visual reminder of what he hoped to become? If that’s the case, I’m even more sad for him. None of that matters now, though. Tat continues with her rhythmic chest compressions, causing fluid to squirt out of the massive exit wound on the left side of John Doe’s head.

  Superman couldn’t save him, and neither can we.

  One by one, the knowledge that he’s not coming back from this sinks in, until the movements of the trauma team go as still as the line on the monitor. I’ve logged thousands of hours learning how to save lives, but it only takes a thousandth of a second end it.

  Dr. Allen, the attending on duty tonight, exhales a sad breath and glances at the clock. “Time of death, twenty-two thirty-eight.”

  Most of the trauma team disburses, but several of us remain to assist in preserving evidence for the investigation. I switch out my bloodied gloves for fresh ones and bag John Doe’s hands so they can test them for gunpowder.

  “I hope he left a suicide note,” Tat whispers, as she gathers his personal belongings. If this was one year ago, John Doe could have been DH. As ridiculous as it sounds, I’m grateful that he chose a tornado instead of a gun, and that Mother Nature was on his side—even if he didn’t think she was.

  “Me too. I can’t imagine losing someone and never knowing why.”

  Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I knock on DH’s door. I haven’t seen him in four days because he’s been swamped at work and Ali and I have been in final prep mode for Maggie’s baby shower on Saturday, but that alone isn’t why I’m so excited. Yesterday, I ran across the perfect present for him—literally—and I can’t wait to see his reaction. The door swings open, revealing my freshly showered boyfriend in a pair of faded blue jeans and an old Rhoads Auto Shop shirt. I manage to hold my swoony sigh and thrust the box toward him, then step inside.

  “You got me a present?” DH’s face lights up and his dumbfounded grin is ridiculously adorable.

  “Pardon the Handy Manny wrapping paper. It’s all Ali had at the house.” DH gently shakes the box, then sets it on his coffee table and meticulously peels the tape from the paper. “Come on, slowpoke! I thought you’d be one of those ‘tear into it’ kind of guys.”

  He flicks an eyebrow at me and grins. “Unwrapping a gift is like foreplay. It makes the whole experience even more enjoyable.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s always comes back to sex with you.”

  “Absolutely. And also, I didn’t get many presents growing up. I like taking my time opening them.”

  I cringe. “And now I feel like an ass.”

  “Don’t. It’s mostly about the foreplay.” He gives me a quick peck on the cheek and removes the last piece of tape, then slides the paper—which is still in one piece—off the box.

  “Newborn diapers? This present might be about sixty years early and eighteen sizes too small.”

  “Your gift is an odd shape, and this was the only thing that worked. We have a bunch of them because of Maggie’s diaper cake. Keep opening.”

  He pops the tape holding the box flaps closed and laughs as he removes the wadded newspaper padding, revealing the weathered green and white Drive Friendly sign inside. “Where did you find this?” He lifts the sign from the box and runs his hand over the dings and scratched paint. It’s seen better days, but I like to think it adds to its rustic charm.

  “I went to Norman yesterday to pick up a handmade banner for the baby shower when I got temporarily displaced on a random back road. I drove over the sign, and when I realized what it was, I stopped and picked it up.”

  “Temporarily displaced?”

  “Lost,” I admit. “My phone died, and I didn’t have my car charger. I finally found a gas station and bought a new one so I could GPS myself home.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know your way home from Norman,” he tsks, “but thankfully, your gift-giving skills are better than your navigational skills. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a cooler present than this.” He sets the sign down and takes my face in his hands, showing his gratitude with his lips instead of his words.

  “I take it you remember the story behind this sign?” I don’t know if it’s the same one that hit DH the night of the tornado, but that doesn’t matter.

  “Why wouldn’t I remember something as important as the first day I met you?”

  “Because that was almost two months ago, and you said your medicine makes you forgetful.”

  “Short-term memory. Day-to-day shit, not the important stuff. In fact, come with me. I know exactly where I want to put this.” He grabs the sign, and I follow him out his door, down the staircase and into the back door of the auto shop. After flipping on the lights to half of the building, he takes the sign to a work bench and drills a small hole in the top corners. “Can you grab the level and hammer out of the top drawer of the tool chest?”

  “The level is the bubble thing, right?”

  DH rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Right.”

  “Hey, I save lives, not cars,” I quip.

  “We don’t use levels for cars.” He grabs a small box of nails and turns out the lights so we can head back upstairs.

  “So why do you have one in an auto shop tool chest?”

  “Because Uncle Kurt has every tool known to man.” DH opens the front door, and my jaw drops when he
walks into his room and steps on his bed. “Level, please.”

  “You’re hanging that above your bed?” I figured he’d put it in the shop or in a drawer somewhere… but in his room? Holy shit.

  “Did you have a better place for it?” He marks the holes and hammers a nail in each spot, then hangs the sign and hops off the bed to survey the results.

  “Well, no,” I admit. “It actually looks great right there. I’m just surprised.”

  “You’re a pretty big deal, Paige. Get used to it.” He kisses me on the side of my head and returns to the living room to cue up the movie we’re going to watch while I digest the last five minutes of my life. Nothing about my gift to him was extravagant, right down to the box it came in and the wrapping paper I used. Hell, if you want to get technical, I stole county property, but he treated it as a prized possession, and now it has a home where he’ll see it every night before he goes to bed.

  Smiling, I join DH, who’s pulling a bag of popcorn out of the microwave. The last time we watched a movie together, there were rules and barriers separating us. It was almost painful to be so close to him knowing there was nothing I could do about it. Tonight, we get to share one bowl, and I can kiss him as much as I want. Life is definitely looking up.

  “Prepare to be amazed, little one. It’s time for cinematic greatness.” He turns off the lights and hits play on the remote while I snuggle up next to him.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call Hangover II cinematic greatness. Any movie that has a Mike Tyson face tattoo is automatically off the list.”

  “What do you know about tattoos, miss ink virgin?”

  “Says the other ink virgin,” I laugh. “I actually saw an awesome one earlier this week at work. The guy had a Superman “S,” but it looked like it was popping off his chest.”

  “Oh yeah?” He sits forward on the couch. “Who was it?”