And shit, shit, shit, he caught me checking him out. But he didn't say anything, just smirked and covered his eyes with his good arm as the elevator doors opened.
"I don't even own any knee socks," I said, and I wasn't sure why I said that, or where that admission came from.
The doors closed, and Thresh spoke without looking at me. "You should get a pair. Nice, thick, muscular legs like I picture you having under those damn baggy-ass pants of yours? They'd look fuckin' bangin', Doc. Bangin'. Pair it with a short skirt and some heels? Man, I'd be done. Stick a fork in me, done like dinner."
"Stop talking to me like that," I said, and I admit I fairly snarled.
"What? Can't a man appreciate a beautiful woman?"
I hated the curling warmth in my heart, the way part of me wanted to sit up and beg for more of the way he was talking about me. "No. I'm a doctor and you're my patient. Plus, you're objectifying me, and I don't appreciate it."
His voice was sharp, now. "Hey. I don't care for that statement. I ain't objectifying shit. I flew here from fuckin' Nevada, Doc, just to have you, specifically, look at my little booboos. Because I respect your skill as a doctor."
"Thank you."
"And because you're fuckin' hot as hell."
I sighed. "You're incorrigible."
"A woman can be both beautiful and successful based on her skills and education, and I'm perfectly capable of recognizing that. Don't be so fuckin' uptight."
"I am not uptight," I snapped. I hated being called that, with a passion. "I'm reserved, and private. I am not uptight."
He chuckled. "All right, all right. Calm your tits."
"Excuse me?" I snarled.
The elevator doors opened, but I didn't move. I was so irritated. "Calm...my tits?" I got in his face. "If you want me to see to your wounds then I suggest you keep a civil and respectful tongue in your head. Do...you...fucking...understand me?"
His eyebrows lifted, and I think he fought a grin. "Yes, ma'am. Read you loud and clear."
"And I wouldn't classify your injuries as 'little booboos.'"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Bah. I've had worse and kept fighting."
I didn't want to think about that statement too closely. Or, at least, that's what I tried to tell myself. I couldn't help wondering, though, what it was he did. An army guy, or someone from the armed forces, would be seen to at a military base, not at a civilian hospital. So what was he doing here?
The idea that he'd come to Jackson Memorial from Nevada just to see me made my head spin, made me woozy and faint and made certain things ache and throb that had no business aching or throbbing--and I wasn't talking about my yoo-hoo. My heart had been closed down and shut off for a long, long time, and for good reason. Without even trying, Thresh had pried open and breathed life into some long-dormant part of me I had kept firmly closed and shut off.
When we got to a room and I cut his T-shirt off, I could see that he hadn't been lying: his body was a maze of scars, old and new, thin lines and puckered bullet wounds and jagged gashes.
Jesus, what had this man been through in his life to accumulate such extensive scarring?
I met his eyes, and for a moment his expression was full of world-weariness, followed by a hardness, a cold, calculating cunning that terrified me to my core, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, buried and layered under a scrim of warmth and humor.
I put my emotions away, shoving them deep down in the place where I knew they were protected.
I called for help. We gave him some local anesthetics, and I went to work on his arm, first. I cleaned the wound, set the bone, checked for muscle damage, stitched it closed and wrapped it. He wouldn't need plates or screws, thankfully, as it was a fairly clean break and the bullet wounds were through-and-through, with clean entrance and exit wounds.
Before I sent the nurses away I had them give him a tetanus shot as well as a bunch of antibiotics and painkillers. I watched him for a moment, sitting on the foot of his bed. He was awake, but out of it and fading fast.
He was staring at me. Woozy. Tired.
"Rest, Thresh." I hated how tender my voice sounded.
He was a pig. A bastard. The biggest, roughest, toughest man I'd ever encountered. Huge, hard, and beyond bad.
But the really bad news, the worst news, was that he was the kind of man I'd spent my entire life avoiding.
And very successfully, I might add...up until now.
Why did I feel so...
Drawn to him?
I shot to my feet, bustled out of his room without a backward glance, tugging on the ends of my stethoscope, unreasonably angry.
I heard a chuckle behind me.
Damn that man. Damn him to hell.
2: IN DENIAL
I didn't get a chance to check on Thresh again that entire shift. I was kept busy with patient after patient up in the ICU, until finally my shift was over and I was so exhausted I couldn't think. I was so tired I could barely keep putting one foot in front of the other. I got my stuff out of my locker, said goodbye to the nurses on the night shift and then walked over to catch the Metrorail home. When it let me off at my stop I trudged my ass the four blocks home to my third-floor condo.
My home. My sanctuary. My escape from everyone and everything.
The second I was through the door I tossed my pager onto the kitchen counter, kicked off my shoes, and shrugged out of my scrubs. By the time I was in my bedroom, I was naked. By the time my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.
I didn't have a dreamless sleep, though. I dreamed of a pale giant with a mohawk and ice-blue eyes and hands so big he could span my waist--and I'm not a dainty girl. I dreamed about the way he looked at me. I dreamed I was standing in the dark, and he flicked on a light, and then suddenly I realized I was naked, except for my lab coat, with my stethoscope around my neck, and a pair of white knee-high socks. He reached for me, in the dream, and I let him. In the dream, I wore my lab coat, the socks, and nothing else...and felt no embarrassment.
Which was how I knew it was a dream.
I don't have body-image issues--I just...don't feel comfortable putting myself out there like that. And with damn good reason.
When I woke up, I was out of sorts. I was angry at Thresh for invading my dreams, and...if I didn't know any better, I'd say I was horny. But that couldn't be possible--that part of myself had shut down long ago.
I shoved it all away, the anger, Thresh...and the empty, hungry-but-not-for-food, wanting something, fragile, delicate, internal throbbing. Whatever that stupid feeling was, I shoved it down deep and locked the trapdoor on it, where I kept all the feelings I didn't know how to deal with, or even want to deal with.
Which was most of them.
I rummaged through my pajama drawer, pulled out my favorite T-shirt, my dad's old Florida State University shirt, several sizes too big for me, older than me, soft as silk, with tiny pinprick holes here and there. It hung just long enough to cover my ass, with the maroon fabric just barely stretching around my tits, which, left unconfined and unsupported, were big enough that they strained the ancient cotton nearly to breaking point. There were actually holes right over my nipples where the fabric was starting to give out, so my nipples played peek-a-boo. Or, more apropos, peek-a-boob.
Not a single living soul had ever seen me wearing this shirt, and no one ever would. It was my secret. Wearing it was only time I ever felt even remotely attractive, or sexy. It was for me, and no one else.
So why was I wondering what Thresh would think, if he could see me now?
He'd probably pop an erection so big he'd split his pants open.
Alone, in my own apartment, I found myself blushing.
And, yes, thinking about Thresh...or more accurately, wondering how big his man-part really was.
Plenty big, I'd say.
His hands, after all, were simply enormous.
That old saying, about the relationship between the size of a man's feet and his...you-know? It's n
ot true. There's no real correlation. But it is true if you're using the size of his hand as comparison: the span from a man's wrist to the tip of middle finger provides a pretty good approximation of how big he'll be, down there, when fully erect.
You learn a lot of odd things in medical school.
I fixed some breakfast, watched the news, and tried gamely to stop thinking about Thresh. I succeeded, mostly.
I took a shower, and it was all business. Get in, get wet, get clean, and get out. No funny business for me. Certainly not while thinking about Thresh.
God, what was wrong with me?
I hadn't so much as touched myself, hadn't even had a dirty thought of any kind, in three years. No sexual activity of any kind in three years.
And here I was, in the shower, thinking about Thresh, a perfect stranger and a uniquely terrifying human being, as well the sexiest man I'd ever seen. I didn't do anything about it, but I thought about him plenty.
I was distracted enough that I forgot to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, and had to get back in the shower.
For more than three years, I'd thought my libido was just...broken. Useless. Dead.
Maybe, just maybe...it wasn't.
Didn't mean I'd ever trust a man again, but at least I knew I wasn't broken.
Or, probably not. Not totally, at least.
Right?
It was almost time to head to work, and I knew that once I had that lab coat on, I'd be back in control. No emotions, no odd or out of place thoughts. Strictly business. I was a doctor, and a good one.
Curiously, though, while getting dressed, it was the first time since being hired at Jackson Memorial that I'd forgone a super-tight and constricting sports bra in favor of a lacier, push-up bra from Cacique. Totally coincidental.
Had nothing to do with Thresh.
Nope.
*
I'd meant to check on Thresh a lot earlier, but I was swamped the minute I arrived in the ICU. Lizzy had car problems and she was several hours late, which left me covering the entire ICU alone. I had no time to even stop to pee, much less take lunch, much less take time to visit ER patients. As it was, I didn't get over to see him until my shift was over.
My plan was to check in on him, make sure he was doing okay, and then go on my way. Make sure he knew this was it, buh-bye. No more Thresh. There was no point. Nothing good would come of it, or from him. Nothing whatsoever.
When I walked into his room he was sitting up in the hospital bed. He had six paper take-out bags on his lap, five of them unopened, and a 32oz cup on the table near at hand. The TV was on, tuned to a UFC bout, and he had a double cheeseburger in his good hand. He devoured half of one burger in a single bite, swallowed after chewing three times, and then finished it in another bite. The second was gone just as fast. He dug into the bag, producing two more double cheeseburgers, and made short work of those, as well.
At which point I realized that all six paper bags were likely full of burgers.
My mind wobbled at the amount of calories and the sheer amount of food.
"Jesus, Thresh! Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?"
He glanced at the doorway, noticed that it was me, and grinned. "What?"
I gestured at the bags. "Looks like you have enough artery-clogging bullshit there to feed an army."
He wadded up the wrappers, tossed them into the bag, and opened the next one. And, sure enough, he produced two more burgers. "I'm hungry," he said around a mouthful.
"Clearly." I crossed the room and pulled out a chair near his bed. "How many burgers is that, anyway?"
He blinked at me, glanced at the bags, then back to me. Clearly, a little sheepish. "Thirty-six."
I coughed in surprise. "Thirty-six? You're planning on eating thirty-fucking-six double cheeseburgers? By yourself? In one sitting?"
He bristled. "Have you seen me? One or two ain't gonna cut it. Not with the blood I lost. Takes a fucking hell of a lot of calories to power a body as big as mine."
I gestured at the bags. "But...that kind of food?" I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "That shit is horrible for you."
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Doc, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not really in any position to be choosy. If you know where I can get a crate of fresh salmon and a grill to cook it on, let me know. Or maybe you have a blender and a bucket of whey protein in your lab coat?"
I sighed. "I guess you have a point there. But the cafeteria here surely has some salad you could eat, or--"
"Doc. Again, take a good look at me. You think an itty bitty little styrofoam container of wilted lettuce and rubbery chicken is gonna cut it? I did call down, but when I asked for a dozen burgers and a whole pizza, they hung up on me. So I said fuck 'em, and had my boss get some food delivered to me."
I shook my head. "A dozen burgers and a whole pizza?"
He sighed. "I eat a lot, okay? I lost a shitload of blood, and slept for a good sixteen hours. I was in a good bit of pain for four hours before all that, and I'd been in a firefight before that. I need a lot of calories. Yes, I know fast food burgers ain't exactly the healthiest choice out there, but when you got a hunger as big as mine, you do what you gotta do."
I raised my hands in surrender. "As long as you don't eat that way on a regular basis."
He eyed me with amusement. "Why, Dr. Reed, I do believe it sounds as if you just might care."
"Don't flatter yourself, Atlas." I was betrayed by my stomach, which chose that moment to re-enact Mufasa's hyena-scaring roar from The Lion King.
Thresh smirked at me, dug a burger out of the sack, and handed it to me. And, fuck me, but it did smell good, and I hadn't eaten anything in over twelve hours. I eyed the wrapped burger.
"Damn you." I took the burger, unwrapped it, and took a bite. It was as good as it smelled. I ate it in four bites, which earned me a sarcastic grin from Thresh. "Shut up. I haven't eaten since breakfast."
He dug in the sack. "Have another. I've got plenty." He eyed me. "Got a first name, Doc?"
I finished my bite. "Lola." Took another, swallowed, and returned his gaze. "And you? Got a real first name?"
"Told you. My name is Thresh."
I didn't believe him, but there was a hint of warning in his eyes, so I let it go. I'd get it out of him, one way or another.
Wait, no, I wouldn't. I was done with him, remember?
Gah. Apparently I wasn't.
Which was how I ended up sitting in Thresh's room, eating shitty-for-me but delicious double cheeseburgers and watching UFC. I considered UFC barbaric and savage, but damn me if it wasn't fascinating.
When I checked my watch, I realized I'd spent two hours with Thresh, chatting about UFC, about popular movies and TV shows, music, sports--he'd played linebacker for FSU, which meant we had Florida State football in common.
What we didn't do was share any meaningful personal information of any kind.
But it wasn't weird. We just...hung out. He didn't make any lewd comments, didn't hit on me. Not what I was expecting. It was a decidedly unexpected, but pleasant visit. I hadn't hung out and shot the shit with anyone in...I didn't even know how long. I didn't really have any close friends, or...any friends, actually. I had colleagues I was friendly with, like Lizzy, and I had my dad, but he was holed up in his shack deep in the Everglades, so I only saw him on occasion.
Which meant I spent most of my time either at work, at the gym, or at home. Sometimes I'd go see a movie by myself, or have a nice dinner. Alone.
By choice.
Sort of.
My train of thought was making me morose, so I stood up, brushed the crumbs off and said, "Thank you for the company, Thresh. I actually enjoyed myself."
And now his gaze finally did what I'd been expecting all evening: raked down my front, and fixated on my chest. He swallowed hard, blinked, ripped his eyes up to mine, and tried like hell to keep them there, but...it was futile. I glanced down too, and then allowed a tiny smile. I mean, I could see why he'd stare.
It's hard not to, after all. When you're sporting puppies as big as mine, on a frame like mine? They don't need much help to stand out. When you prop them up in a push-up bra? God help any hetero man with eyesight. He'd be trapped, pulled into the orbit of my colossal, all-natural breasts.
Thresh cleared his throat, plucked at the sheet covering his legs, and turned his eyes to the TV. With great effort, I noted. "Don't sound too surprised," he said. "I can be good company, sometimes."
"I didn't mean it to sound like that--"
He grinned at me. "Don't worry about it. People make assumptions about guys that look like me. And, plus, you brought your girls, and you didn't trap them in some stupid sports bra."
I laughed. "I typically bring my girls with me everywhere, since they're sort of attached to me."
"Yeah, well, I think I might be getting attached to them, too." He paired this statement with a blatant ogling.
"You can't even really see anything! I'm just wearing a regular bra."
"I can see the general shape, and I've got a vivid imagination." He winked at me, and then turned his attention back to the TV.
"Oh? And what does your imagination tell you about my breasts?"
He very slowly swiveled his head to look at me, shutting off the TV with the remote wired to the bed without looking at it. "Not sure you want to ask me that question, Doc. Not unless you're ready for the answer." His voice was a guttural bass rumble, husky, dark, ripe with lascivious promise.
I swallowed hard, my gut roiling and my blood pounding in my veins; the look in his eyes was positively feral. It did something to my insides, made my knees watery. I never backed down from a challenge, though, and he was daring me.
"I wouldn't have asked if I couldn't handle the answer."
He pivoted on the bed, brushing monitor lead cords and IV tubes aside. He should have been in pain, still. Should have been weak. Instead, he radiated power. Oozed sensuality, and dominance. Strength. Sexy, masculine charisma. Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, dressed in a hospital gown way too small for him, connected to monitors and IVs--he shouldn't have been capable of turning me to mush, of making my palms sweat and my knees shake and my skin tingle.
But he did.
He reached out his good arm, snagged the ends of my stethoscope and hauled me toward him. I didn't let him, per se, I just...I was helpless to resist.
Thresh Page 2
