by Turner, CJ
Brad wanted to explain to his father that he, too, experienced disappointment in facing who he was. Not that he despised himself. That wasn’t it. He had plenty to be proud of. He loved children and wanted his own, which was a driving reason for the engagement.
“I don’t understand why this trip is important now. You should wait a week or two when the island has things in better shape there. In the meantime, you and Terry can—”
No. Terry and he could not. It was during pre-marital counseling that he realized how massively unfair his marriage scheme was to Terry.
“Love is never constant, son. Just because you might not be feeling it now—”
The problem was he could never ‘feel’ it, not the way a husband should for his wife. Terry might not see it now, but this was the best for her and him.
Brad tugged his tie open. Why wasn’t there enough air here?
“Dad, we haven’t heard word one from Delacroix since the hurricane. We should check on the distillery, as well as our cottage there.” Brad didn’t want to mention the problem with the books, where an audit had shown a shortfall. Plus, Delacroix’s wife, Imelda, was a second cousin on his father’s side, which was how the Hunts got involved with rum production in the first place. He desired the truth of the situation before throwing shade on a man related by marriage to the Hunts.
“Neither of these things are our biggest concern.”
Maybe his father wasn’t sentimental about his distant relations, but Brad had visited several times. Delacroix’s young daughter even called him Uncle Brad.
He pinched his lips together. Sure, Hunt Crucian Rum was a tiny part of the Hunt megacorporation, but it was Brad’s slice to manage as he saw fit. But to be honest, Brad was glad for the crisis. It allowed him a reason to put distance between his messy breakup with Terry, and his family.
Brad drew in a breath before he released it to speak.
“If something is fated, it will work out. But, Dad, I don’t see it happening, and I can’t discuss this now in the middle of the Denver Airport Security checkpoint. I’ll call you from the island. Bye.”
He clicked off the call as anger curled through his gut. But it wasn’t his well-meaning father that upset him, but himself. He was an adult and shouldn’t let his father rattle him.
With an impatient snort, he slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, staring over the head of the handsome blond while trying not to gawk at him. But there, staring Brad in the face, the man’s butt filled out his khakis in luscious round globes, and Brad thought he’d lose it right there.
Brad’s voice stuck in his throat while he tried to come up with a line that wasn’t too suggestive or gauche and wouldn’t give away his sexual interest but foster a conversation. God, he was terrible at this with both sexes. He spent far too much time in the office and not enough time with other people, and his social skills were rusty. If it weren’t for Terry, he wouldn’t have a social life at all.
Damn it. It wasn’t Terry’s fault. She was perfect in every way other than the one that counted.
“Wonder, what’s taking so long?” said Brad.
The man stiffened before he turned and shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t know. Can’t see from here.”
Brad glanced at his watch again, though the action was to keep from devouring tall, blond, and handsome with his eyes. Damn it. How does one know if this man would appreciate the thoughts that ran through Brad’s head right now?
He had tried to research such things, but aside from a strategically placed left earring or hanging out at gay bars, there was no way to guess. He was both relieved and annoyed that one research study announced there was no such thing as gaydar. But not being able to guess a man’s orientation was damned annoying. At least with a woman, you could assume potential interest.
The line moved ahead, and he jerked the handle of his carry-on, and tugged it up too fast, and pulled a muscle.
“Ouch,” he muttered.
The man whirled. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brad blurted. The man’s intent gaze burned into Brad and made him feel exposed and hot. He glanced away.
“Sorry to intrude,” said the man.
“No problem. I just don’t know my strength sometimes. Pulled a muscle.”
“Maybe they can give you ice on the plane,” said the man.
“Are you giving medical advice without a license?” Brad smiled, hoping his quip would make the man smile. Instead, the blond shook his head.
“Not exactly. I’m a doctor.”
The way the sexy physician stared at him stirred a very inconvenient reaction below his belt. Now Brad felt like an idiot. An aroused idiot.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Hey, it’s not like people come up to me and say, ‘you look like a doctor. At least, not without my scrubs on.”
The thought of the doctor in thin cotton scrubs made the situation south worse. Brad thanked the good Lord that he wore a generously cut pair of trousers. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he shut his eyes in trying to compose himself.
“Are you okay,” the doctor asked once more.
“Yeah. I don’t know what got into me wearing a suit. I just didn’t think it through.”
No. Because you were more concerned with leaving town than sensible wardrobe choices.
The doctor peered ahead. “I’m next. Nice talking to you.”
And just like that, the man Brad ogled got swept into the airport security apparatus, while Brad got held up with unloading his pockets and then standing in the machine. By the time he got clear, the doctor had disappeared in the crowd of people heading to the airport subway for their gates. Brad didn’t have time to look for him. He made it to his gate as the attendant announced the last boarding call.
“Sorry,” he said. “Security was a bear.”
The attendant pursed his lips as he scanned Brad’s boarding pass from his phone and waved him down toward the passenger boarding bridge. The attendant picked up a phone on his podium.
“Your first-class passenger is on the way. Are you clear on your end?” he heard the attendant say behind him. The door to the airport gate shut, and Brad picked up the pace.
“Mr. Hunt. So glad you could make it. Is someone with you?
He shook his head. “No.”
“Because you have two seats—” she stopped. Confusion etched her face.
“I always book two seats.”
“Yes, sir. Second row to the left.” The flight attendant waved him toward his seat. Brad settled in the second row aisle seat, which reclined. He needed the extra legroom.
The attendant gave the standard safety speech, and Brad pulled out his ePad from his carry-on. He had a couple of movies cued and thought to watch them for the flight since he rarely had time for mindless recreation.
One hour into the flight, the flight attendant took drink orders and passed out snacks.
“Peanuts?” she asked.
“No. Allergic.”
“Oh, that’s why you bought the seat next to you.”
“Trust me. You don’t want me to have a reaction in-flight. ‘
“No, sir, we don’t.”
“I have my EpiPen right here.” He patted the breast pocket of his suit.
“How allergic are you?”
“A bit of peanut oil on my skin will set off an anaphylactic reaction.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
The attendant moved down the aisle.
Another hour into the flight, the seat belt only sign flashed, and the PA system switched on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this the Captain. If you look out on the right side of the plane, you’ll see New Orleans. We’re asking all passengers to remain in their seats as we make a quick hop over the Gulf of Mexico on our way to Florida.”
But a passenger traveled toward the front of the plane, listing from side to side.
“Sir,” said the attendant. “Please return to your s
eat.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“You can’t now. The captain put on the seat belt sign. You should be in your seat.”
“No,” insisted the passenger. “I need to use the bathroom.”
The man slurred his words, and Brad wondered if he was drunk. With the man trying to push past the attendant, a spray of something flew. Brad watched in horror as peanuts spit from the bag in the man’s hand, and they rained on Brad, along with a spray of peanut dust and salt. Instinctively, he brushed the peanuts out of his hair. Too late, he realized his mistake.
While his pulse ramped to rapid, his tongue tingled with incipient swelling, and his throat tightened. Brad pulled his EpiPen from his jacket pocket and twisted his body so he could get at the outer thigh. But the ship suddenly jolted, and the pen flew out of his hand.
“Damn it.” His heart raced as he looked between his feet, but putting his head between his knees only made him nauseous. He flicked on his call button for the attendant, but the attendant in his section had more than enough to handle with Mr. Can’t-Sit-For-His-Own-Good.
Brad unstrapped his seat belt to give him more range of motion, but his breathing grew more constricted, and his vision grew dark at the edges.
“Help,” he croaked.
The attendant turned around.
“Maddie, I need help here.”
The attendant from Economy rushed forward.
“I think the passenger in 2C is having an anaphylactic reaction. He said he had an EpiPen.” Carolyn’s head popped over his seat, and her eyes widened.
“He doesn’t look good.”
“Carolyn, see if there is a doctor on board.”
Chapter 3
Chase
“Is there a medical doctor on board?”
The flight attendant stood in the carpeted aisle with a distressed expression on her attractive face. Chase looked up and around, and no one else raised their hand. He drew his eyebrows together as he considered the consequences of helping a stranger in a non-institutional setting. It wasn’t the best of situations, and Chase despised having to think this way. But then he remembered that airlines indemnified volunteer physicians against liability. Chase unlatched his seat belt and stood.
“Here.”
“Great. Doctor, please come to first class. Everyone else, please stay in your seats.”
Chase, stuck in a middle seat and apologizing profusely, climbed over the person in the aisle seat and walked to the attendant.
“Hurry, Doctor. I have an allergic passenger exposed to peanuts. He’s having difficulty breathing. Is this something you handle in your practice? Because we have on-ground specialists that can assist you.”
The flight attendant appeared calm, and Chase appreciated the woman’s control in a stressful medical emergency.
“I specialize in emergency medicine.”
The flight attendant smiled, despite the stress in her face. “Fantastic. We have an emergency kit with basic equipment. Carolyn is fetching it now. Here he is.”
The flight attendant pointed to a man in distress in his chair. Chase stopped short as he recognized the man in the security line he had found attractive. He swallowed hard, then shook his head to get over his shock because his patient struggled to breathe and needed Chase on the job.
“Do you know his name?”
“The manifest says Bradley Hunt.”
“Do you have an EpiPen?”
“He said he did in his breast pocket.”
Chase felt the pocket, and he didn’t find it. He pinched his lips together before he spoke because the man’s cologne, a blend of bergamot, pepper, lavender, and patchouli greeted his nose. It was spicy yet clean, as if the man stepped out of a shower. Chase had seen this scent, Dior Sauvage, in a department store and thought it was the sexiest cologne he’d ever sampled. But he felt uncomfortable spending two hundred dollars for a bottle. Oh hell, why did the man have to wear it?
“It’s not here.”
“We have one in the kit. Here it is.”
Chase took the pen and clicked it open. “Bradley, can you turn? I need to get to your outer thigh.”
“Brad,” he wheezed.
It was strange what patients thought necessary in an emergency. He had treated people in their most dire circumstances whisper about laundry left in a machine or their cat left outside. And here, Bradley Hunt thought it essential to tell Chase his name, though he struggled to breathe.
“Owen Chase,” he said. “My friends call me Chase. You can call me Doctor Chase.”
“Sure, Doc,” Brad gasped with difficulty.
“Help him,” said Chase. He crawled over Brad and stood against the airplane’s bulkhead while the attendants supported Hunt’s attempt to move. Fortunately, the first-class seats were more expansive than his section, and he could jab the needle in the correct place in the upper thigh.
He tried to ignore the alluring scent wafting from the man as he injected him.
Brad gasped as Chase sunk the needle into the man’s muscle. It would take at least five minutes to know if the injection helped him or if he needed a second dose. In the meantime, there were things they could do to help Brad.
“We need to lay him flat.”
One attendant helped a passenger in the seats facing the front bulkhead move to another location, while the remaining attendant helped Chase support Bradley to a stand and moved him one seat up to the flat floor of the plane as the aircraft jostled from bumps going into an airstream.
“Please, hand me that kit and help me with the oxygen.”
“Here, a pillow for his head,” said Carolyn.
It was a mini pillow, but better than nothing. Chase raised Brad’s head and slipped the pillow under. But instantly, he realized he was in trouble. He couldn’t avoid touching Brad’s body and brushing it sent an electric tremor through him.
Not very professional of you, Chase, he chided himself. He doubled his efforts to keep his mind on the job. It was a challenge with that enticing scent wafting from his patient.
The airplane jolted once more, and the oxygen mask fell, but it didn’t reach the floor. Chase took the kit the other attendant handed him and fortunately found a roll of tubing meant for the saline bag inside. But Bradley needed air more. He cut the oxygen tubing in half and stuck one end in the tube from the ceiling into it. Then he jammed the opposite end into the mask end to lengthen the line.
“Here,” he said to one attendant as he cut two lengths of tape. “Wrap them around where I joined the tubes.”
While she did that, Chase held the mask to Bradley’s face. “Take deep breaths.”
Bradley’s startling gray eyes widened at the suggestion. “Are you kidding?” his expression communicated.
“Let’s get your coat off,” Chase said. “I need to take your blood pressure and listen to your heart. You just lay still while we turn you.”
With Carolyn’s help, he removed Bradley’s coat. Then Chase took his patient’s blood pressure. He had almost acclimated to the man’s cologne, so he could work with a minimum of distracting thoughts as if one a second was a minimum.
Brad’s blood pressure was low, which is what Chase suspected. Also, the man’s heart rate was too fast.
“How’s the throat? Easing up?”
Bradley nodded.
Chase patted him on the arm. “Keep breathing.”
“Good life advice,” wheezed Brad.
Chase sat back on his heels. The lowered blood pressure was a dangerous sign that Bradley could suffer another round called biphasic anaphylaxis. Chase scanned the other items in the kit. There was an inhaler. He checked the expiration date, saw it was current, and uncapped it.
“Brad, just nod yes or no. Do you take any medications?”
He shook his head.
“Do you take any supplements like Vitamin C?”
Brad frowned but shook his head again. In times like these, Chase appreciated that the male of the species often failed to
take vitamins that could help them. Some supplements could cause a rare interaction, and 30,000 feet in the air was not the place to play with chemistry.
“Here, when I tell you to breathe in, do it.”
He held the inhaler to Bradley’s mouth. “Deep breath now.”
Bradley did as Chase instructed, and Chase pressed a puff. “That’s right, suck it in.”
His patient sputtered and then coughed, and Chase wondered if something was wrong.
“Brad, are you okay?”
His patient nodded but shivered, and Chase noticed a slight chill, too. The flight attendant handed Chase a blanket.
“It can’t be warm on that floor.”
Chase laid the blanket on Brad.
“Doctor, a word,” said the attendant. She jerked her head toward the pilot’s cabin.
“Sure,” he said and then stood. Brad reached up with his hand.
“Don’t go.”
Chase gave Brad his best doctor’s smile, meant to reassure a patient. But he grinned because Brad’s plaintive words tugged at his heart. Chase didn’t want to leave Brad’s side for a second, but that was a dangerous thought. Doctors needed to retain a professional distance.
“I’ll be right back.”
He followed the flight attendant to the door of the pilot’s cabin.
“The captain wants to know if we need to divert the plane and land at the nearest airport, which is Atlanta, to get Mr. Hunt to a hospital.”
“How much longer do we have?”
The flight attendant sighed with relief. “That was the right question. We just passed New Orleans airspace when Mr. Hunt fell ill, and we have another hour before we reach Miami. We can ask for expedited landing. Turning around to New Orleans and landing will take forty-five minutes, but New Orleans got hit by the last hurricane, so there is no guarantee it is the best location. But if Mr. Hunt is in imminent danger, we’ll do it.”
Chase crossed his arms. Would fifteen minutes make a difference? If they got held up because of the problem, NOLA experienced hold-ups in transport to the hospital or receiving care. He glanced back toward Bradley Hunt. Any anaphylactic reaction was potentially life-threatening, but if his patient couldn’t get speedy care, it wouldn’t help to land fifteen minutes earlier.
