by J B Heller
“So much blood,” she mumbles, then her head jerks out of my hold as she vomits all over both of us. And promptly passes out, again.
The nurses scurry to clean up the mess, and Doctor Jim jumps to action. “Right, let’s have a look at this while she’s out,” he says to the first doctor. Glancing at one of the nurses, he instructs her to get something. I’m not sure what, as I’m too busy trying to hold my own vomit back. I’ve always been a sympathetic vomiter.
I clench my jaw as nausea grips my stomach. “Ah, Doc, I’m going to have to lay her on that there bed before I add to the—” I retch before I can finish my sentence.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve showered in the patients’ bathrooms and am wearing a pair of blue scrubs. Reagan’s been moved to another cubicle—a clean one, thank god. I’m grateful for the strong scent of hospital-grade cleaning products filling my nostrils as I walk past our previous one.
Reagan’s still passed out when I enter the small area we’ve been designated, the doctor hovering by her side. “Umm, Doc, is she supposed to be out still?”
“We gave her a little something to keep her under while we cleaned the wound and sutured it. We have administered local anaesthetic to the area, but with Reagan, it’s best she not be conscious for such things.”
I nod along as he explains. Makes sense to knock her crazy arse out. She’d probably kick the doctors in the face sooner than let them look at the cuts.
I’m told she can leave an hour after she comes back around if her hysteria has calmed down. I drag a chair up to the side of her bed and wait.
My head lulls to the side, and I squint. My surroundings are weird. I look around fully and realise I’m in a hospital bed. Then, my eyes land on him.
I swallow hard as the memory of my morning comes crashing down on me. Holy-baked-not-fried-potato-chips. He saw my crazy. All my crazy. My hot-as-sin neighbour—who I may have fantasised about a few (hundred) times—saw me at my ultimate level of crazy. Kill. Me. Now.
An audible groan leaves my lips, and I smack my hand over my mouth to hush the sound. Rhett’s eyes fly open and lock on my face.
I am beyond mortified. Then, he smiles.
“Hey there, crazy girl,” he says with a smirk. “How you feelin’?”
Is it wrong that I want to both slap and kiss that smirk off his face?
When I don’t answer his question, he shuffles to the edge of the chair he’s sitting on and rests his elbows on the side of my bed. His eyes rake over me, from the top of my head right down to my toes.
Wait, what the hell am I wearing? I pluck at the offending garment covering my upper body. Scrubs?
“You threw up on us, then I threw up on us,” Rhett explains, cringing.
For the love of God. Can this day get any worse?
“I recall. But I don’t remember putting this on.” I pluck at the top I’m wearing again. “I would never—and I mean never—willingly wear scrubs.”
Rhett’s lips twitch. “You’d prefer to stay in your manky, puke-covered clothes?”
And that’s when it dawns on my sluggish brain that Rhett, too, is wearing scrubs. But unlike me, he looks like a sexy doctor from Grey’s Anatomy.
“I’d prefer to be naked than wear these.” I sniff. Before he can comment, my brain chooses that moment to filter through his explanation of the scrubs. I narrow my eyes. “Did you say that you threw up on us?”
His smile falls. “Umm, yeah. I have a weak stomach when it comes to that kind of thing. I’ve been a sympathetic spewer since I was a kid when my baby sister would vomit up her milk; I’d be there, right beside her, chucking up my breakfast.”
Right. Well, that’s disgusting.
“You didn’t answer me before. How are you feeling?”
Glancing down at my pristinely wrapped foot, I shrug. “I’m fine.”
Rhett arches a brow. “Just like that? From crazy to cruisy with the flip of a coin?”
I shrug again. “I can’t see the… you know… anymore. It’s a visual thing.”
“But you were fine on the car ride over here. You didn’t turn into a nutcase until we walked in the doors.”
Clearing my throat, I explain, “The bandages were clean when you drove me here. But by the time we got inside, the red stuff had seeped through, and bam—welcome to Crazytown.”
“I think I get it. It’s like me with the vomit, but you go crazy at the sight of blood.”
I nod. “Yeppers. Now, can we go? I hate being in here.”
“Gotta wait to see the doc first, then I’ll take you home,” he tells me.
I wonder why he hung around, especially after the cray-cray came out to play. I want to ask him, but at the same time, I’m content to just sit here in silence for a few minutes. This day has been one I’ll never forget for the rest of my life, as much as I want to. And it’s only ten a.m.
Hobbling into my apartment, I glance over my shoulder at Rhett who’s standing in the doorway. “You coming in?”
He scratches his temple. “Do you want me to?”
I shrug. I had just assumed he would, seeing as he barged in here this morning like he owned the place. “Umm, I guess? I don’t know. I mean …” I’m stumped for what to say. Hell yes, I want him to come in, but this is all so strange. I’m not sure what the appropriate response is here.
He’s so damn pretty I want to lick his face. But if I said that out loud, he definitely wouldn’t come in. And he’d never try to sleep naked on my couch again. I gnaw on my bottom lip. I really want to call Char and ask her what I should say, but my phone is in the lounge room still, and I can’t just make him wait in my doorway while I scurry off to phone a friend.
“Look, it’s fine. I can go home. But maybe you should give me your number so I can check up on you, and you can call me if you need anything, yeah?”
My eyes shoot to his. “No, it’s okay. You can come in. I’m just, well, I told you, I’m super awkward.”
He takes a step inside, then closes the door behind him. “If you want me to go, that’s totally fine, Reagan. Don’t feel like you have to invite me in,” he says while running his calloused hand through his messy hair. “You were right; this is my fault. If I hadn’t forced my way in here this morning, none of this would have happened. I was just so tired and really fucking hungover—it seemed like a great plan.” His shoulders rise in apology, and he drops his gaze to the floor.
I swing my body around to face him using the horrendous crutches the hospital supplied me with. “Don’t apologise. If you didn’t come over, I never would have had the nerve to introduce myself to you, and we’d still be strangers.”
His eyes lift to meet mine. “That’s true. But you’d still be in one piece.”
With a roll of my eyes, I swivel back around and continue hobbling into my lounge room, only to freeze at the sight before me.
It’s clean. No glass, no blood, nothing.
I can feel the heat of Rhett’s body at my back.
“What happened? I don’t understand.” I crane my neck to look up at him as an impish grin spreads across his face.
He scratches the back of his neck as he says, “I rang my sister. I didn’t want you to freak out all over again, trying to clean up the mess. So, yeah, I made a call to the most OCD woman I know, and she did her thing.”
A lump of emotion forms in my throat; he’s so thoughtful. I totally would have lost my shit again if I’d had to face the crime scene. Licking my parched lips, I wait for his eyes to meet mine. “Thank you,” I whisper, unable to make my voice any louder for fear of it breaking.
Rhett shrugs his wide shoulders, his grin having morphed into a megawatt smile. “It’s no problem. I’m just glad I could do something to make it better for you.” His warm hands slide around my hips as he leans forward. “Is this okay?”
I’m stunned at the contact and how my body hums with delight at the small gesture. “More than okay,” I breathe. I want him to kiss me so badly my lips tingle.
He tilts his head in a small nod, then applies pressure to my hips, urging me forward. I’m instantly confused. I thought he was making a move, not guiding me into the lounge room.
Once in front of my gloriously clean couch, he turns me around and pushes my hips back until I sit. Then, in one swift move, he lifts my legs and swings them up onto it. I stare at him—like really stare. He’s so sweet and chivalrous. Such a contradiction to the naked man who barged in here at the arse-crack of dawn to take a nap on my couch.
Rhett doesn’t leave, instead taking up residence on my floral velvet daybed opposite me. He is way too big for it, but he looks comfy enough with his arms tucked behind his head as he lounges.
I flick on the TV and pretend to watch it. I’m not even sure what channel it’s on—it could be playing porn for all the attention I’m paying to it. I can’t look away from him. This is all so surreal.
“You’re staring again,” he says.
“This whole day has been one bizarre event after another. I’m just processing.”
“Can you process while not staring at me?” he asks, turning his head to eye me.
I shrug. “Maybe, but you’re part of it. So I’m processing you, too.”
He rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his arm, keeping eye contact as he speaks. “I think I’m the one who should be processing. This has been, by far, the strangest day on record for me. From your reaction to my dick, to the shitshow at the hospital …” He shakes his head. “Mind fuck.” He uses his free hand to mime an explosion coming from his brain.
Snorting, I turn the TV off, then correct him. “Uh no. You’re the one who showed up at my place—naked, I might add—to take a nap. Who does that? We didn’t even know each other six hours ago.”
“Pfft, you woke me up! I was sleeping like a fucking baby until someone”—he raises his brows pointedly at me—“tried to take down the wall between our places. What were you doing with that hammer anyway?”
I shift a little and avert my gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes bore into me, and I squirm, refusing to meet his inquisitive examination.
“Reagan, I can just go look for myself, you know. You’d be too slow to stop me, so you might as well just spit it out.”
“Hmph, fine,” I grumble but keep my focus on my pretty, pale purple toenails. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d do some remodelling.”
“Remodelling. I see.”
I don’t like his tone. I bet he thinks I’m incapable of doing it myself. Typical male. I slide my gaze towards him, but he’s gone. I didn’t even hear him get up. My eyes widen in panic as I swing my feet to the floor, and I wince in pain at the slight pressure on my injured foot.
“Don’t bother coming after me; I’ve already found it. There’s no sense in you hurting yourself trying to stop me.” His voice comes from the short hallway that leads to my bedroom.
I drop my head back in defeat. Damn him. He has some serious ninja-like stealth abilities.
A few minutes later, Rhett emerges, an amused smirk in place. “Not happy with the layout of your closet, huh?”
Glaring at his stupidly gorgeous face, I cross my arms under my boobs. “No, I wasn’t. I need more room for my shoes and more hanging space.”
He nods as he approaches me. Crouching down at my feet, he lifts them, swings them back up onto the couch, then hands me a light pink tank top. I frown, and he smiles shyly. “You were bitching about the scrubs, and this was on the end of your bed.” He shrugs and moves his right hand back to my ankle. “You should keep your foot up,” he instructs. “It will help with the swelling.”
“Okay.” I swallow, the intensity of his gaze making my heart beat faster. I blink at him several times then shift my focus to the tank he handed me. He makes me feel so weird, all twisty inside. I yank my top off and throw it to the floor, then slip the tank over my head. He’s so thoughtful.
“Sweet Jesus,” Rhett breathes, and my eyes find his again, but they’re locked on my breasts.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
He releases a slow, controlled breath. “You’re not wearing a bra, Reagan.” His eyes finally meet mine. “You just flashed me your amazing tits.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. Holy shit. He’s going to think I’m a whore. “I haven’t had sex in ages!” I blurt. His eyes widen, and I try to explain myself. “I’m not trying to get into your pants or anything, is what I mean. I… um… shit. I didn’t even think about it. You gave me the clean, non-nasty tank, and I really did hate that other top, so I just changed it.” I shrug pathetically. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t ever be sorry for who you are, Reagan. Besides, I didn’t think you were trying to seduce me or anything. After only half a day with you, I’m beginning to realise you just do and say whatever pops into your head.”
I nod. “I do. It’s an illness. Not everybody is as chill about it as you. Although, I wasn’t apologising for being me; I was apologising for flashing you.”
He frowns. “Oh, well, don’t be sorry for that either.” His thumb grazes over the ankle bone of my injured foot. “Doc said you should stay off it for at least a week before you try getting around again. Will that be a problem with your job?”
I shake my head. “No, I can work from home.”
“Good,” he murmurs, his thumb still lightly tracing the contours of my foot. “I can come check on you each morning, make sure you’ve got breakfast and supplies for the day, if you want.”
Hazel eyes bore into mine, and I’m caught in a daze. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” Truth be told, I could get Char to come stay with me and help, but she doesn’t look like Rhett. So, I push that thought away.
The answering smile he gives me says I definitely made the right choice. That and the butterflies swarming in my chest. I grin back.
Could Rhett be the one guy who doesn’t find my awkward nature overbearing?
This chick is unlike any I’ve ever met. I’m a “hit it and quit it” kind of guy with no need for conversation or bonding. I only put in the time needed to secure myself a warm body for the night. But Reagan is different. I want to help her, feed her, hang out with her. And I’m not even thinking about banging her.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’m totally thinking about having sex with her. It’s really freaking hard not to stare at her tits. Especially when I’m this close to her and she just changed in front of me. And … now I’m doing exactly what I was trying not to do: staring at them.
“They’re pretty impressive, huh?”
My eyes snap to hers, expecting her to be pissed or something, but a genuine smile lights her features. I should have known she wouldn’t care. “Umm, yeah, they’re pretty fucking awesome.”
“And they’re real,” she says, squeezing one in her hand.
Goddamn, she’s unreal. Before I can say anything in response, her stomach growls. Loudly. “Hungry?”
She nods. “Yeah, I haven’t eaten today. There’s food in the fridge. I got groceries on my way home last night.” She tries to swing her legs around, but I stop her.
“No, I’ll get it. Stay here.”
Her apartment is the same layout as mine, so her kitchen is just beyond the lounge area. In her fridge, I find all the fixings I’ll need to make us some sandwiches. While I throw them together, I check out her space. The benches are shiny hot pink laminate, the cupboard doors are deep plum purple, and the splash zone is like a chalkboard with notes and scribbles here and there.
My kitchen looks the same as it did the day I moved in: simple black benchtop with white cupboard doors. Reagan’s is much cooler. Maybe I should do something with mine?
Sliding the two sandwiches onto a couple of plates, I carry them back into the lounge room and hand hers over. Taking a seat opposite her, I watch her from the corner of my eye as she takes a bite, grinning when she spots me watching her.
“It’s good. Thank you.”
I smirk. “I know.”
We
’re eating in companionable silence when she speaks up. “Did you know flamingo tongues were a common delicacy in Roman feasts back in the day?”
I pause, the bite I just took falling from my mouth back to my plate as I gape at her. “What?”
“True fact; the Romans had some freakishly disgusting tastes.”
Suddenly, my sandwich doesn’t look so appealing. I glance at it, and back to Reagan, who is still munching away happily on hers, then put my plate with the remainder of my lunch on the floor beside me.
“Where did you pull that little gem of knowledge from?” I ask while crossing my arms behind my head as I lie back on the couch.
“It’s what I do. I am the queen of random facts,” Reagan says from the couch opposite me.
“Aha, so you just like collecting weird little bits of information for fun? Or to gross people out while they’re trying to eat?” I joke.
Her blue eyes widen and shoot to my plate on the floor with the remains of my sandwich. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to turn you off your food. I’m hopeless. Small talk is not my thing. I always say the wrong thing. I’m such a loser.”
“Whoa, that’s not what I meant. It’s fine, Reagan, seriously. It was just a strange thing to say out of nowhere, that’s all.”
She doesn’t look convinced, so I pick my plate up and shovel another bite of food into my mouth, all the while thinking about flamingo tongues in place of the ham on my sandwich.
When she smiles, God, it feels good. It’s a weird thing to say about someone’s smile. But when it’s directed at me? Damn.
She finishes chewing the last of her sandwich, and I stand to take our plates to the kitchen. “Explain why you thought to bring up flamingo tongues while I make us a coffee. You have coffee in here, right?” I call over my shoulder as I go.
I hear her snort, and I grin. This chick.
“Of course I have coffee; I’m not a serial killer. There’s a pod machine by the toaster and an array of pods to suit every mood in the stand beside it. Mugs are in the cabinet above,” she calls back.
