Thresh

by Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  1: DAMN THAT MAN

  2: IN DENIAL

  3: 'ROID-HEAD

  4: JUST ONE KISS

  5: GOING DARK

  6: FOUR WORD WRECK

  7: ENDURE THE ACHE

  8: MORE THAN A BLOWJOB

  9: INTO THE EVERGLADES

  10: MEAN SOMETHING

  11: NOT FIGHTING IT ANYMORE

  12: SCREAMING IN THE MANGROVES

  13: RUINED

  14: COMPANY

  15: AMBUSHED

  15: AMBUSHED

  16: NO MAN LEFT BEHIND

  SNEAK PEEK

  1: FANCY

  EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT

  exiled

  Also By

  THRESH

  An Alpha One Security novel

  BY

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright (c) 2016 by Jasinda Wilder

  ALPHA ONE SECURITY: THRESH

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright (c) 2015 Sarah Hansen.

  1

  DAMN THAT MAN

  Experience paradise in exotic St. John! I flipped through the brochure, staring somewhat longingly at the pictures--not that Miami wasn't beautiful, because it was, but Miami was home, and I needed a change of scenery, even if just for a few days.

  Beautiful Belize! I tossed this one in the "no way" pile; Central America didn't entice, for whatever reason.

  Come see Thailand! Nope. No way. I'd heard stories, and Thailand seemed a little too...adventurous, for my first vacation in more than three years.

  I picked up the St. John brochure again, and as I was flipping through it for a third time, a colleague plopped down beside me on the couch in the ICU doctor's lounge.

  "St. John, huh?" she said, reading over my shoulder. Lizzy was several years older than me, married, and had three young kids. "Sounds good, let's go!"

  I laughed. "Just you and me, huh?"

  "Sure, why not? John can handle the kids for a few days."

  I quirked an eyebrow at her. "What about the time he sent your oldest to school wearing two different shoes and without a lunch?"

  "She's been wearing two different shoes ever since. Says it's her style statement. And the school gave her hot lunch. It was fine."

  I laughed. "Lizzy, you didn't talk to him for three days afterward!"

  She shrugged. "Yeah, well, I tend to overreact." She tapped the brochure in my hand. "For real, though, Lola. You need to take a vacation. You haven't taken a single day off in three years. I know we're not exactly close, but even I can see you work too hard."

  I nodded, sighing. "I know, I know. I just..." I waved a hand in frustration. "I don't know where, and I don't know what I'd do."

  Lizzy stared at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "Sit on the beach, drink too many Mai Tais, and find a hot beach bum to shack up with."

  I didn't even know where to start. The drinking too much sounded like fun, and the sitting on the beach sounded like fun, but after what happened--

  The hospital PA system crackled over the speakers at the same time as my pager buzzed in my lab coat pocket. "Paging Dr. Reed to the ER. Dr. Reed to the ER."

  Saved by the pager, apparently. Going down that mental road when on shift was a recipe for disaster.

  My pager confirmed what the PA had just announced: I was needed in the ER.

  I'm not an ER doctor. I hated the pressure and the pace of the ER, and vowed after doing my med school rotation that I'd never work in the ER again. I like the peace and relative quiet of the ICU, and I like being able to track the progress of my patients. In the ICU there's none of the wild bustle and manic, frenetic insanity of the ER, paramedics shoving crash carts through the doors, ambulances coming and going, nurses on the run, doctors bustling from patient to patient, never a moment to yourself, never a moment to breathe.

  Nope. The ER is not for me.

  So being paged to the ER was kind of unusual. I wondered what they wanted?

  I hustled at a quick clip to the elevators, my shoes squeaking on the tile floor. I traveled down to the first floor and across the hospital to the ER department. I found the triage desk, and the brusque, gray-haired man working it.

  "Hi, I'm Dr. Reed. I was paged to the ER."

  He didn't look up from the computer screen. "Waiting room. Patient asking for you."

  "Pardon me?" It wasn't that I didn't comprehend what he'd said, it was just that...what he said may as well have been a non sequitur.

  He finally turned his attention to me. "The waiting room." He enunciated each syllable, speaking to me as if I was either stupid or hard of hearing. "There's a patient asking for you by name."

  Who in the world...?

  Anyone who knew me would come up to the ICU looking for me. Or call me. Or text me. Or find me at home. Who would come to the ER and ask for me?

  I tugged on the ends of the stethoscope looped over the back of my neck, a nervous habit of mine. I blinked a few times, and then pushed through the door and out into the waiting room.

  I scanned the crowd--it was a Saturday night, so the Jackson Memorial ER was a hopping place. The waiting room was packed and there were people everywhere, bleeding, holding makeshift bandages, moaning, leaning on loved ones. At first, I didn't see anyone I knew.

  And then...there he was. The man I'd privately nicknamed Atlas was sitting right next to the admissions desk.

  Oh, I remembered him all right. Seven feet tall, probably somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds, maybe three twenty. A real monster. But...a ridiculously gorgeous monster, if you went in for mountains of muscle wrapped around tectonic plates of bone, all sheathed in rolling acres of tan skin.

  But, holy hell, those eyes. Pale, pale, pale ice blue. Almost white, they were so blue. An odd, piercing shade. And his hair--platinum blond, shaved on the sides to create a short but wide mohawk that resembled a Roman helmet crest, perfectly trimmed and shaped. The kind of hair that on anyone else would look stupid, or at least juvenile. But on this man? It just suited him. Made him look even scarier. Thick blond scruff on his jaw. God, that scruff was delicious looking.

  He'd been in here a little over a year ago, standing guard for a friend or co-worker who had been shot. Nicholas Harris? I thought that was his name. Older guy, good-looking in a lean and sharp and rugged way. Shot four times, or five? Lived, and walked out to tell the tale. Damnedest thing I ever saw, and I'd seen a lot.

  And now, here was Atlas again, asking for me by name?

  Two things were immediately evident--the blood from his injuries made him look even scarier and, despite the crowded waiting room, everyone was giving him a wide berth.

  I could see his left arm was a bloody wreck. His whole torso was covered in blood, but I think the worst of it was coming from his arm, and possibly his shoulder. Some of the blood was dried, and the blood on his black T-shirt was crusted stiff, which meant he'd been injured a while ago.

  That shirt was so big I could probably fit into it two times over, yet it was tight on him, stretched across his chest, and bursting at the biceps.

  I took a deep breath and walked over to him.

  "You again." I kept my voice sharp. "How can I help you?"

  He shrugged his shoulder, indicating his wounded arm.
"This."

  "I'm not an ER doctor." I gestured at the waiting room. "This is the ER, you have to--"

  "Been waiting a while, Doc. I want you to fix it."

  "I'm not a triage physician, Mr.--?"

  "Name's Thresh." He stood up, slowly, carefully. Woozily. Instinctively, I moved closer to him, put my shoulder under his good arm to prop him up. Not that I could do much to support him if he were to pass out. "Don't care what kind of doctor you are. Just...fix it."

  "You'll have to go through the appropriate channels, Mr. Thresh."

  "Then I'll just bleed out here, I guess. Been bleeding for awhile, now." He leaned into me, and his weight nearly crushed me.

  I bore up under it, tensed, and straightened. Lifted. "You can't guilt me into seeing to your injuries, Mr. Thresh."

  "Just Thresh." His head flopped back on his neck. His weight increased as he lost the ability to stand up on his own. I'm a pretty buff girl, but there was no way I could hold him up for much longer. "I'm getting faint, Doc."

  I stared up at him, at his sculpted, brutally beautiful features. He really did look peaked and pale. I wondered how long he'd been bleeding--how long he'd been waiting here. What had happened to him? I shook those thoughts away; it didn't matter.

  "First things first: we need to get you processed." I glanced over my shoulder at the male nurse behind the desk. "Can I get his paperwork, please?"

  The nurse, once again, didn't look up. "Wouldn't fill it out."

  "Can I have the blank forms, then, please?"

  He heaved a sigh, as if I'd asked him to sell his firstborn child, or a kidney, but he brought me a clipboard with the intake forms. "Here. Good luck." He glanced at Thresh warily, and possibly a bit derisively. "You're gonna need it."

  Thresh growled, a sound not unlike the warning rumble you might get from, oh, say, a displeased grizzly bear. "Hey, pal, watch it. I can still crush you like a fuckin' bug."

  The nurse paled, shuffled backward a step. "I--I'm sorry. I just--"

  "Piss off, pissant," Thresh said.

  The nurse fairly ran back to his desk. I hated how it made me feel, seeing Thresh put that unpleasant person in his place. I fought to keep the grin off my face. I handed Thresh the clipboard. "Fill this out, please."

  He just lifted an eyebrow. "Fuck paperwork. I ain't gettin' a lung transplant, here. No allergies, no relevant medical issues. Just the gunshot wounds."

  "You still have to fill it out, Thresh. At least the basics."

  With an irritated sigh, Thresh took the clipboard and pen from me. His hand was big enough that he could almost span the width of the clipboard between his thumb and pinky. When he pinched the pen between his fingers, it nearly vanished, swallowed whole by the size of his hands. It was ridiculous. He was so huge it boggled the mind and defied comprehension.

  I watched him scribble the most basic of information--name: Thresh; age: 37; height: seven feet and one-half inch; weight: 328 pounds; sex: Yes please.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Really? You're Austin Powers, now?"

  He just chuckled and handed me the clipboard. "There. Now, can we go?"

  I eyed him. "Thresh...no last name?"

  "Nope. Just Thresh."

  "You have to have a last name, Thresh."

  He shrugged. "Sure, I've got one. But I don't use it."

  "And is Thresh your given name?"

  He stared me down. "It's the only name you're getting, Doc, so best quit while you're ahead."

  "Ahead? How am I ahead? You won't give me your real name, won't give me your last name--I'm beginning to wonder about you. What do you have to hide?"

  "Got shot more'n four hours ago, Doc," Thresh said. "Not sure how much longer I can hold out."

  "Four hours?" I shouted this, exasperated. "What the fuck have you been doing since then?"

  "Flying here."

  "What? You flew here yourself?"

  "No, my boss did. Harris. You were his doc, year or so ago."

  "I remember that," I said as I moved with him toward the doors that led into the triage area. "Where were you that there were no hospitals closer than four hours away?"

  He tripped, and we nearly went down, but he righted himself, barely. I had to bend at the knees and use my deadlifting form to get him upright again. Good thing I work out.

  "Jesus, Doc, you're a real beast, ain'tcha?" His voice was low, meant only for me, rumbling in my ear.

  I glanced up at him, not sure of his meaning. "Excuse me?"

  He reached down with his good hand--which was black-red with caked blood--and squeezed my bicep. "You got some guns under that lab coat."

  I flushed, but worked hard to keep my tone neutral, even a little sharp. "Hands off, Atlas."

  He chuckled. "Atlas?"

  "You're big enough that you could probably carry the weight of the world on those shoulders so, yes. Atlas."

  "He's from mythology or some shit, yeah?"

  "Or some shit, yes. Greek mythology, to be specific." I couldn't help but laugh. "A Titan, son of AEther and Gaia, if you listen to Hyginus. God of the moon, in some cases, and generally known as the Titan tasked with holding up the sky."

  I felt his gaze on me. "No shit? And if you don't listen to Hyginus?"

  "Some scholars say his father was the Titan Iapetus, and his mother was Asia, the Oceanid. Some say Clymene. Opinions vary. I like to go with AEther and Gaia. Makes the most sense to me."

  We were in the triage area, now, and I was desperately looking for a bed to deposit Thresh onto. I couldn't prop him much longer and I don't think he was faking the weakness--he'd clearly lost a hell of a lot of blood. There was one bed, sitting in the hallway, freshly remade. I angled him toward it, backed him up to it, and he collapsed gratefully onto it, releasing his arm from around my shoulders. I felt light, free, as if I could float away, now that his weight wasn't bearing down on me. I rolled my shoulders, straightened my back.

  And I didn't miss the way his gaze focused like lasers on my chest as I stretched. Not like you could see much, since I was wearing a sports bra as well as a tight camisole under my button-down. I liked to keep my girls well contained while I worked, as I didn't appreciate the attention I received if I revealed too much cleavage. I actually dressed conservatively since I wanted to be respected for my talent, skill, and worth ethic as a doctor, not because of my DD-cup breasts.

  But still, he looked.

  I made sure he caught my gaze, made sure he knew that I'd caught him staring. He just smirked, quirked an eyebrow, not looking apologetic whatsoever.

  Nor did he look as faint as he'd acted just a moment ago.

  But he was still rather pale, and it was clear he'd lost a lot of blood, and he had to be in an enormous amount of pain.

  I nudged his uninjured shoulder. "Lie down."

  He moved to comply, but slowly, stiffly. As if he wasn't used to lying down, as if it hurt to do so. He lay on his back, looking uncomfortable, and unsure. "How's that?"

  "It's just a bed, Thresh. Try to relax."

  "You try to relax with a shattered ulna." He rolled his injured shoulder, hissing. "Or a couple of rounds in your shoulder."

  As gently as I could, I pried his arm away from his body; he'd been keeping it clutched close for so long, it was probably cramped in that position. And yes, he was right in his assessment: his ulna was in pretty bad shape, although I wouldn't classify it as shattered. More like a severe fracture. I peered at his shoulder, noting two entry wounds in the meat of his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

  "Can you rock to the side for me? I need to look for exit wounds." I tugged at him, indicating the way I wanted him to move.

  He remained motionless. "No point, Doc. There aren't any exit wounds, 'cause the rounds are still in there. This ain't my first rodeo. I know when it's a through-and-through, and when they're lodged in there."

  I sighed. "Well, how about since I'm the doctor I'd like to see for myself so, again, please--let me have a look." And, as I suspected, th
ere were two clean exit wounds. So much for his medical expertise. "I don't know if you're going to be happy or sad about this but, the fact is, you have two clean exit wounds."

  "Hmmph," was all he said.

  I unlocked the wheels to the gurney. "Let's find you to a room so I can get to work. I have other rounds to make, you know."

  "I know I could use some fuckin' pain killers. You got any Tylenol in that sexy lab coat of yours?"

  I stared at him, a blank expression on my face. "Doctors don't keep medication in their lab coats, Thresh." I couldn't stop my eyebrows from scrunching down. "And what do you mean by sexy lab coat?"

  "What? Nobody's ever told you you're sexy in that lab coat?"

  I stiffened. "No. Not that I can remember."

  "Then whoever you've been hangin' around with needs to get their eyes checked. That shit is sexy." He lifted up on his good elbow, a sly expression on his face. "You ever walk around wearing just that lab coat? Maybe some black knee socks and a pair of high heels? Get that thick fuckin' hair of yours out of that stupid bun, let it loose around your shoulders. Fuck, man." He slumped back down. "Shit...I popped a semi just thinkin' about it."

  We turned a corner, and I pushed the elevator call button.

  I flushed again, and then my eyes, of their own traitorous accord, slid down, down, down. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Do not check out his package, Lola.

  I checked out his package; that big bulge was a semi?

  I went a little faint.

  And then I got angry, both with him for making me look at his crotch and think about how huge his dick must be, and at myself for being so weak and easily manipulated.

  I was not going down this road again.

  "No," I snapped. "I've never done...what you said. It's stupid."

  "You should. You could give a man a heart attack, if you did that. Real spank bank material, right there."

  "Spank bank?" I felt my cheeks going even more flame-red than they already were--not that he would be able to tell, not with my Samoan skin tone, but I knew I was blushing, and that only pissed me off even more. "Jesus, you're a real pig, aren't you?"

  "More of a bear than a pig, I'd say."

  I ran my gaze over his body, unwillingly--God, he was massive. Very much like a bear. Kodiak, maybe, or a polar bear, what with his blond hair and pale eyes.