Hissy Fit

by Tilly Pope

The bike was a beat-up old knucklehead. It was a thousand dollars, but I managed to get the dealer down to seven-fifty. It took me eight months to fix her up, because I had no idea what I was doing, but when I took that first ride on her and felt the roar of the engine I’d rebuilt rev up, I knew I’d found my passion.

  So now, I fix up one or two at a time, and then sell them online. The money takes some of the pressure from The Federation off us.

  Right now, I have a few in the garage back at the house. I scored three vintage hogs that were being sold together. It was an impossible deal to turn down, but if I work on Benny’s bike, I’ll have double the workload. “Fuck man, I don’t know. I’ve got a shit ton of work I need to get done. When do you need it?”

  “I’ll pay you double to fix her, because I want to take her to Sturgis,” Benny says, drawing me back to reality.

  Damn! Double? My eyebrows shoot up. “That’s like two months away man. You think I’ve got time for that?”

  Sturgis is a yearly bike festival that’s about a thousand miles away across mountains and desert. Probably not the best ride for a novice like Benny.

  “You’re not riding up there alone, are you?” I ask, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice.

  “Fuck, no!” Benny says, laughing. “Me and a couple of the guys from the club are going out there. I might think I’m a daredevil badass biker, but I don’t have a death wish. I just want this beauty up and running.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh. Well, in that case, bring ‘er in and I’ll take a look.”

  “I’ll be here in the morning,” Benny says, standing up and shaking my hand. “And, if it makes you feel any better, the ride isn’t ‘til August.” Two seconds later, he’s gone, and it’s back to business as usual.

  I try not to curse my father’s name as I settle in for an afternoon of boring paperwork. I try not to think of all the other things I could be doing with my life at this very minute if the stupid Federation wasn’t breathing down my neck.

  Maybe I’ll take the old bike out for a spin.

  Get some fresh air.

  Clear my head.

  3

  Alana

  I’m just about to bite into my sandwich when my phone goes off. Looking down, I read the message and sigh when I realize my precious dinner break is over. There’s an accident victim rolling into the ER as I read, and they needed me down there, STAT.

  I should’ve stopped at Chapter Four; I curse myself as I tighten the laces on my shoes and speed out of the break room toward the stairwell.

  Two seconds ago, I was nose-deep in a titillating ménage scene from the latest paranormal romance novel to arrive in my monthly subscription box. It’s so steamy, I totally lost track of time, ignoring my paltry dinner until it was too late.

  It’s just as well, though. The sandwich I packed got squished in my locker under my spare pair of running shoes, and the strawberry jelly had squeezed out the sides a little, looking more like oozing blood than I’m comfortable with.

  Then again, everything looks like oozing blood to me lately. This is my third month in the ER, and being a county hospital, we’re always busy. What I really hate is all the motorcycle accident patients that come in. They are the worst. The most wounded, hanging on for dear life.

  Lots of blood, lots of gravel in places where gravel shouldn’t be. And the blood and gore from ER patients is affecting my sleep. My dreams are hellacious.

  It’s something I have to get used to. Everyone assures me the dreams will stop, and I’ll adjust to dealing with wounds day in and day out.

  Of course, my preference is to help people, not get accustomed to blood and guts. Instead, I want to use the knowledge I’ve learned over the last few years. Poisonous snakes and their venom are my specialty and I’m getting to be one of the top experts in California. Unfortunately, I’m still in residency, so I have to do my time here first, and I only see one or two patients a year whose injuries match my skills. The rest of the time, I’m stuck with messy flesh wounds.

  “Dr. Samuels!” a voice calls from behind me, and I turn to see Ted Chan, another resident, running toward me.

  “Hey, Ted. What’s up?” I ask, hopping from one foot to another. If I don’t keep myself moving, I’ll collapse from fatigue. And collapsing in the middle of a fourteen-hour shift supervised by Pete the Prick—the hospital’s harshest and rudest doctor—would not look good on my resumé.

  “You heading to ER?” Ted asks as he catches up.

  “Yup, and I’ll bet you ten bucks it’s another biker,” I say as we fast walk toward the doors that lead to the ER.

  “No way, that’s too easy,” Ted says, shaking his head.

  ”Really?” There’s a rider’s club that meets nearby called the Speed Demons, or Demon Speed? Some name I can never remember. The name doesn’t matter anyway; what matters is that it’s full of young bikers who don’t know the first thing about riding a motorcycle, let alone racing one. But that’s what they do every weekend night, and at least one of them ends up here, usually with me treating their injuries.

  But when we walk through the doors, it isn’t the blood, the gravel embedded in the skin, or the gash sliced down the side of the patient’s side that I notice. Nope. It’s his face, which even covered in blood, dirt and grime, is the most handsome face I’ve ever seen.

  And he also looks strangely…familiar.

  Ted follows me to the wash station to scrub up while the nurses fill us in on the injuries. For the next few hours, I’ll be focusing on keeping this man alive.

  The paramedics had hit him with a sedative. Apparently, it was necessary to calm him down. He was thrashing around so much when they brought him in that he nearly took out two nurses, leaving one with a mean-looking bruise.

  He has dirt and gravel embedded in his face, especially his forehead, browbone and eyelids. I guess he wasn’t wearing a helmet, or the crash was so bad it knocked it off. I pray to God he doesn’t have any brain damage.

  I need to check his limbs, so I pull the sheet down and immediately pull it back up, gasping.

  “Are you okay?” Ted asks. I know I’m a professional, but this man’s parts are huge. Like, oh my God I’ve never seen male body parts that big.

  “Yes, Dr. I’m fine.” I choke out and continue checking out the patient while leaving the sheet where it is. I hadn’t realized he’d be naked underneath it.

  The few nurses on staff clean his wounds, removing bits of gravel and glass from his body, and since he’s now stable, I step outside to make a call to the ophthalmologist. I need him to come in to see what can be done about the gravel embedded in his eyelids. I’d hate to see him go blind over an accident if we can avoid it.

  I take a few more glances at his body to check on the road rash on his limbs, and he’s corded with muscle from head to toe. I’m surprised he didn’t knock the nurse out when he hit her.

  After a short nap in the doctor’s lounge, I check on my patient and he seems to be healing already. Much faster than I expected. His skin is already starting to heal over where we picked the gravel out and cleaned his wounds. His color, which was grey and pasty when he was wheeled in, is also returning. It’s a good thing, since we can move him out of emergency and into intensive care.

  After we move this hottie, my shift is over and I plan on going home and sleeping for at least ten hours. This week has been hell and I’ll be glad to finally have some time off.

  “Dr. Samuels. Let’s get him moved so we can head out,” Ted says, from behind me. I’ve been preparing the patient for transfer, while Ted was off in a corner with Pete the Prick getting scolded for drinking the last of the break room coffee and not making another pot. This is a cardinal sin in a place that requires caffeine to function.

  “You get the morphine drip, and I’ll take the bed,” I tell him. Ted helps me wheel the bed out from the wall so I can squeeze behind it. My arms are limp noodles as I grasp the cold metal of the railing. I’m so exhausted, I can barely see
straight, which is why I nearly wheel the bed right into Pete the Prick as we’re rounding the corner to the elevator a few seconds later.

  “Doctor Samuels! Watch where you’re going!” he barks at me as the bed clips his ankle. I grimace and apologize profusely, but I’m too tired to worry about how this will come back to bite me in the ass. Pete the Prick hates all of us residents, but he seems to take particular pleasure in singling me out for ridicule ever since he caught me reading a romance novel in the break room on a rare slow Friday night in the ER.

  Whenever I see him, I imagine becoming one of the witches or werewolves I love reading about and taking him out with a spell or my sharp claws. I’m fully aware this isn’t a healthy fantasy, but it does make me feel better.

  The rest of the transfer is smooth, and I’m packing up my stuff in the locker room when the door swings open and in walks, you guessed it, Pete the Prick.

  “Samuels,” he snorts. I wasn’t expecting him to exact his revenge quite this quickly, so I can’t hide my shock when I turn around to find him glaring at me from the doorway.

  “Yes, sir?” I ask, hoping that by addressing him in his preferred way, he’ll spare me and my tired, broken mind.

  “We need you for a consult. Patient just came in with a snake bite on her ankle. Looks pretty bad.”

  And just like that, my fatigue is gone. I’m finally getting the chance to do what I learned in college.

  4

  Connor

  Two Weeks Later

  “The nurse says you should be able to go home in a day or two,” Aidan says. I hear him shifting uncomfortably in his chair, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against the nylon cushion.

  “Did they say when I could take this off?” I ask, lifting my hand and pointing at the dressing still covering my eyes.

  I’ve been instructed not to open my eyes but, of course, I try. I wish I hadn’t, though. The minute I tried; I was met with the most brutal, searing pain. I managed to lift my eyelids just enough to discern that my vision is fine, since I could see the gauze covering my eye socket, and through it, the blurry shapes and light of the hospital in front of me. The pain was so intense, I haven’t opened them since.

  Like all shifters, I have a high pain tolerance, but even with that, it felt like dull, rusty knives stabbing my eyeballs when I tried to pry my eyelid open. Even thinking about it now makes me cringe from that pain.

  The nurses come in and change the dressing a few times a day, but I keep my eyes clamped shut when they do. Just the exposure of my eyelids to air is enough to make me wince.

  Still, I want the gauze off. I can’t stand being in this strange bed with the scratchy sheets, and the constant chattering of other patients and doctors all around me. It makes it impossible to sleep or relax. Two things I’ve been instructed to do a lot of to recover, and I’m terrified I’m going to shift in my sleep and won’t be able to do anything about it.

  “They told me the same thing they told you, Connor. In a week or so.” I feel my brother lean closer, the cool air radiating off his body and his chair creaking as he moves. “It’s not like we need to see anyway. Our touch and smell are the only two senses we really need.”

  I scoff at this. “Of course, you’d say that. You can still see.” It’s easy to act all high and mighty when you have full use of your eyes. “But my eyesight comes in handy for things like paperwork, and driving, and all the other shit I have to do. I can’t fill out tax forms with my nose, now can I?” I shoot back at him, irritably.

  The hospital gown rubs against the pillows as I attempt to sit up in my bed. A hand snakes behind me and Aidan mutters for me to stop moving. I do as he says and feel him adjusting them for me.

  “Lie back,” he barks at me after a few seconds, and when I do, I’m sitting up with my back supported. It feels great. My whole body was aching from lying down so much without any movement.

  I swear I’m going stir-crazy just lying in this bed. I’m not used to being dependent on other people. Aidan brought me a tablet so I could listen to some podcasts, but I can’t even do that for myself. The nurses have been choosing the episodes for me, and I feel bad for taking them away from their more important work but I’m grateful they do it.

  I’ve managed to work my way through nearly all the episodes from a romance novel podcast that one of the nurses put on one night as a joke. The joke’s on her though, because I actually enjoyed them.

  I’ve never read a romance novel in my life before, so the subject matter is new to me and I don’t always get some of the terms they use. Forced proximity? Forbidden love? Who would think love is forbidden? And my all-time favorite? Forced orgasms. Now that’s hot, and, I like the hosts. They laugh, snort and sound like they’re having a great time. It makes me smile when little else in this sterile, boring place does.

  “Need help with anything else?” Aidan asks.

  I shake my head. “Nah, the pillows were enough, thanks, and sorry for snapping at you earlier. I’m just going batshit crazy here. I want to see things, do things, and being walked around the halls is pretty boring.”

  “And you will,” Aidan says, and there’s a rare hint of sympathy in his voice. It isn’t that my older brother isn’t sympathetic; it’s just that Aidan never shows any emotion; on his face or in his voice, so, when he does, I know he means it.

  “Look, you’re healing, and fast. You know how our bodies work. They bounce back from injuries that would kill normal humans in barely any time at all. But that doesn’t mean you can expedite the process by getting up and around again before you’re ready. Just chill out for a few more days. I’m sure your eyes will heal, and they’ll send you home.”

  “I guess,” I grumble, fully aware that I sound like a fourteen-year-old.

  “And, in the meantime, lay low. Stay calm. The chances of shifting here are slim, but we can’t take any chances. You can’t let yourself get agitated, as easy as it might be. Keep cool, ” Aidan says.

  He’s right. I don’t shift often, but when I do, it’s usually when I’m angry, or overwhelmed, and I’m both right now. Being blind and stuck in a hospital all day makes me want to lash out, and that could lead to me shifting.

  If I shift here in front of humans and they see it, they’ll freak out and call the police. Then, The Federation will have to put me and my brothers into their version of a witness protection program. We’d lose the shop and our livelihoods. I may bitch about being stuck here, but I don’t want to have to go into WITSEC.

  I need to keep my shit together.

  “I promise, I will,” I tell Aidan. “Now, go away and let me get some rest. And turn on that podcast on your way out, please,” I say, lacing my fingers over my stomach and leaning back with my eyes closed.

  “As you wish,” Aidan says, quoting Princess Bride, our favorite movie as kids. I chuckle, and as the soothing tones of the podcast hosts lull me to sleep, I relax.

  Finally.

  5

  Alana

  I’ve been so busy attending to another crash patient over the past twenty-four hours, I’ve barely had a chance to eat, let alone check on the hottie patient from a few weeks ago. I hear he’s still in his room, so I take the elevator up to the third floor, walk over to his bed, pick up his chart, and flip through it. He has a different doctor now, but I like to check up on my previous patients.

  Connor McKinley.

  What a name. Sounds like an Irish gangster, but he doesn’t look like one. No, he looks like sex on a stick. Even in this hospital bed.

  By now, Connor’s road rash is completely healed and, strangely, he has no scars at all that I can see. His cheeks are covered in a light stubble; barely softening cheekbones that wouldn’t look out of place on a Greek statue. He’s the kind of guy I imagine as the hunky hero in romance novels, but never actually expect to exist in real life. He looks too good to be true.

  “Mr. McKinley, how are you feeling today?” I ask. His eyes are still covered with a dressing and I hope I don
’t startle him.

  He doesn’t answer but a light laugh rings out. I look over and see a tablet lying on the bed near his pillow. Leaning closer, I recognize the voice as one of the hosts of my favorite romance novel podcast, Raunchy Romance.

  I’m shocked. This Adonis is listening to my favorite podcast? The one that provides comical, critical reviews of romance novels from every sub-genre? Even the taboo ones? Shit.

  From the look of him, he doesn’t seem the type of guy who’d enjoy sitting down with a romance novel in the evenings after work.

  The podcast hosts make a joke about the way the author of the novel they’re discussing keeps mentioning French doors in every scene, and I laugh. Connor jerks in his sleep, or what I think is his sleep, because when I look over, his head is turned toward me, and he’s smiling.

  “This is my favorite episode. I just love the snorts one of the hosts, Melody, makes,” he says, and for a moment I don’t even realize that he knows I’ve been standing in his room, openly staring at him, for the last five minutes. And, oh, his voice. Gravelly, low, and silky, too. Gliding over me like butter on a hot biscuit.

  But then realization sets in, and with it comes a blush so fierce, it feels like my face is on fire. This isn’t unusual for me. I’m a redhead, so blushing is my natural reaction to everything from sneezing to a nip slip, but the swiftness with which the blush travels from my face down lower is insane.

  It’s the kind of blushing that normally only happens in the bedroom and while this, technically, is a bedroom, nothing sexy enough to make me flush this level of red is going on right now. He keeps talking, and I realize he doesn’t need to touch me, or take my clothes off to have my pussy begging for some alone time with just me, my vibrator and the erotica I’ve stored in a locked folder on my phone.

  “I’m definitely picking one of these books up when I can read again. Way more interesting than travel memoirs, or The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” he snorts, and oh God…be still my heart; he’s a reader.