by Lotta Smith
“Excuse me? Um… well….” I jiggled with my words until I finally asked, “Am I that transparent?”
“Yes, you are.” Jackie grinned like a cat licking cream. “Don’t worry, I know Rick likes you a lot. That’s why he rescued you, putting himself in danger.”
I cleared my throat. “I’ll throw you a party on your birthday.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I mean, I wasn’t planning to have my birthday party anyway.” She smiled.
“But—”
“My folks, along with some of my friends and lovers, tend to have a grief trip on my birthday. I hate it when my loved ones are sad. I hate it even more that I can’t do anything about it.” Blinking, she looked up at the ceiling to keep herself from crying.
“Jackie, I’ll definitely throw you a birthday party. It’s a promise. Whether you like it or not, I’ll do it,” I said. She gave me an inquisitive look, but she didn’t object.
“Look, Rick’s coming out,” Jackie announced, pointing at the metal door. As the automatic doors swooshed open, I caught him being rolled out in a wheelchair, chatting with the orderly. “I’ll see you later, ciao!” She gave a thumbs-up and disappeared.
* * *
By the time we were back in one of the examination rooms at the orthopedics department, waiting for Dr. Meredith Grey—she wasn’t a fictional character after all!—Rick was well enough to make some not-so-nice remarks about my agility, or lack thereof. He also asked me about what really happened prior to the mayhem in Ellie Hochman’s bedroom. I told him everything I could.
“It’s strange.” When I told him about the part about Ellie’s monster hair capturing me, almost strangling me to death, Rick crossed his arms. “Usually ghosts can’t touch you.”
“I know! I’ve been wondering why she could.” I adjusted the ice bag on his leg.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’d be perfect if I had a drink with a little umbrella in it.” Despite being on the examination table, he seemed relaxed, as if lounging on a poolside lounge chair. “Anyway, good thing I’ve already passed the physical test for the current year.”
“Rick, you should have run away without me,” I admonished, and I meant it.
“I don’t think so. I couldn’t run the risk of sending you home wounded.” Taking my hand, he chuckled.
“Rick….” I didn’t know how to respond, so I just held his hand.
“I didn’t want to upset your folks. I like to crash your family dinners. Also, it’s great that I’m not a burlesque dancer. At least I don’t have to worry about if I’ll ever dance in heels again.”
“Dance in heels? What do you mean? I’m not quite following.” I knitted my eyebrows.
“Never mind. I’m just trying to distract myself.”
“From what?”
Rick cast a glance at his injured leg. Swollen and bruised, it looked really painful.
I felt like someone grabbed my heart. “I’m sorry.” After all, it was mostly my fault. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but he was lying. I caught him flinching when he twitched his big toe.
Instead of chanting “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” I stroked my free hand over his bad leg as gently as possible, reciting, “Pain, pain, go away!” I didn’t know why I resorted to such a lame gesture, but I couldn’t help doing so. “Any better?” I asked, swallowing my ego.
“What was that?” Rick tilted his head to the side.
“It’s a pain-relieving spell practiced by the Japanese people since the Stone Age. According to the research by Shibasaki et al. at Gunma University School of Medicine, this spell has proven effects. First of all, this gesture has emotionally soothing effects by the display of sympathy toward the recipient, and physical stimuli like rubbing on the skin trigger the TRPV2 ion channel to open, facilitating the tissue repair.” As I went on, I realized I was talking like an audiobook version of a medical journal. “Ohmigod, I sound like the physiology professor who always bored me to death.”
“Don’t worry. Your lecture was interesting. By the way, Mandy, you’ve got to finish it up with a kiss on my leg, to facilitate the tissue repair,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
My heart stopped beating for a second, but I planted a light peck on his right knee. “How do you feel?”
“I need more.” Pulling me closer, he cupped my face in his hands, and I closed my eyes.
As his lips brushed mine, someone cleared their throat. I jumped away from Rick.
“Oh, don’t bother with me. You can go on with what you were doing.” Dr. Meredith Grey was all smiles, standing at the doorway with the X-ray and MRI films clutched in one arm.
Cheeks burning, I did a little finger wave. “Hello, Doctor.”
“Have you ever heard of knocking?” Rick muttered to his sports medicine specialist, whom he had apparently known since his kindergarten days.
“So you guys can pretend that kiss never happened? No way. That’s boring! Do you have any idea how dull my job is?” Laughing, Dr. Grey sashayed to her swivel chair with the posture and elegance of a dancer.
“Your job’s not dull.” Rick snorted. “At least you get to use lots of power tools for surgery.”
“Oh yeah. You have a point. It’s exciting to use things like hammers, power saws, and stampers on people without the fear of being prosecuted as an ax murderer. Alrighty,” she said, displaying the films on the viewing screen. “There’s good news and bad news. Which one do you wanna hear first?”
“Bad news,” Rick replied.
“Well, let’s start with the good news,” Dr. Grey said, completely ignoring her patient’s preference. “The extent of your soft tissue injury is minimal, meaning it’s only a mild sprain. And both the cartilage and tendons are intact. Lucky you.” She flashed an encouraging smile at Rick.
“Good.” He exhaled, raising an eyebrow. “And what about the bad news?”
“You have a hairline fracture to the fibula, which probably hurts as much as a totally broken bone.” She ran her index finger across the small yet distinct linear shadow on the X-ray film.
“Hell,” Rick muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “That explains the throbbing in the ankle.”
I touched his arm, hoping to offer what little comfort I could.
“Take it easy, Rick.” Dr. Grey winked. “Still, you’re better off than having torn ligaments and/or tendons. Lucky you.”
After a moment of pause, Rick opened his mouth. “Actually, I’m planning to fly to Zermatt, Switzerland for a ski trip in ten days. Can I go?”
“Rick, it’s not a good idea to—” I started, but I was interrupted by Dr. Grey.
“Of course, you can go. Nothing is as fabulous as ogling healthy skiers going up and down the slope while you have to sit still with your leg elevated in a cast. Oh, don’t forget flying won’t be fun—the swelling gets worse, more risk of blood clots, and so on. Maybe you have to spend most of your time in bed while visiting Switzerland, but I’m sure the hotel would be nice, and the hotel should have room service. Also, I’d appreciate it very much if you brought me a nice bath mat as a souvenir from Zermatt. At least, a bath mat sort of rhymes with Zermatt.”
“Why can’t you just say no?” Rick snapped.
“Why can’t I be at the giving end of smartass remarks after I’ve been enduring all these years at the receiving end of them?” Grinning, the doctor went on like a machine gun. “By the way, going on a ski trip in your current condition is the stupidest idea I’ve heard in months. You know what? Right now, the damage to the bone is just a half-an-inch crack, but if you push too hard, it’s possible for the weak bone to snap completely. You may even end up needing surgery. Assuming from your otherwise clean bill of health, it won’t take that long to heal, but better safe than sorry. Stay off your right foot, ice it, elevate it, and just relax. Stay calm. You don’t want to end up needing surgery, do you? You definitely want to take things slow and watch every step to avoid any further injury
or aggravation of the ankle joint. You already have a cracked bone. You don’t want to upgrade it to a shattered bone.”
“Hell no, but considering it’s just a crack and I’ve read in somewhere that the fibula supports merely 10 percent of the body weight, so I assumed I was good for skiing. It sucks.” As Rick groaned, I squeezed his hand.
“You must behave yourself, okay? Rest your body and give it time to heal. You’ll be in a splint for a couple of days. After that, I’ll get you a moon boot for three to four weeks. Look at the bright side—according to my patients, putting on a moon boot feels just like wearing a ski boot, so if you put a ski boot on your good leg and run your air-conditioner at the full power, you should feel like actually visiting a ski resort,” Dr. Grey told him. Then she turned to me. “You’re Mandy, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“I’m guessing you’ll be staying with him for a while,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Um… well….” I fumbled with my words because I wasn’t ready to say yes, but at the same time, I couldn’t say no. So I had been fussing and panicking about the whole situation, but I hadn’t thought about visiting Rick’s place, much less staying there. Technically I could have said no, but that should have qualified me as a heartless bitch. Also, I didn’t want to leave him alone when he was in pain.
Dr. Grey frowned as I fell silent. “If you’re not staying with him, I can arrange a nurse or two to care for him,” she said.
“A nurse? Or two?” I parroted and glanced at Rick. Obviously, he needed someone for help, and I was sure he’d have no financial issue hiring a nurse or two.
“Should I arrange Lauren for him? Lauren has a graduate’s degree from Johns Hopkins, and she’s once demonstrated a kickass performance in a bunny girl costume at the hospital party,” the doctor said, looking into my eyes. The tone of her voice was casual, but I could almost visualize superhot nurses in bunny girl costumes giving him a sponge bath, or some intimate, X-rated massage.
“She will stay with me, so I don’t need a nurse,” Rick replied without waiting for my answer.
“Yes.” I nodded. I had no choice. Heck, I really, really hated to imagine sexy nurses cozying up with him.
“Okay. So he’ll be resting with his bad leg elevated above the level of the heart. You have to put ice on his leg for about twenty minutes, at least every two hours of his waking time.”
“I will,” I promised.
“Avoid icing it too often. Giving him frostbite isn’t in our best interest,” she warned me. “You know, it’s like looking after a baby. I guess it’s good for you. It’ll make great practice, as you guys will have babies in not-so-distant future.”
“Excuse me? What did you just say?” I squeaked. Then I noticed my voice was a little too loud for hospital standards. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout, and I didn’t mean to be rude. Oh, no need to repeat that. I was listening and totally comprehending your words, and I have no issue with the spoken English proficiency, but it’s just… I wasn’t really…” I was babbling, and as I went on, the points I was going to make slipped out of my head. My cheeks burned like they were on fire.
“Don’t mind her, Mandy.” Rick squeezed my hand. “She’s always been like this.”
I didn’t miss the amusement glinting in his eyes.
CHAPTER 7
“Make a left turn and there you go, into the underground garage.”
“Okay.” I was following Rick’s directions to his home, but as I saw St. Patrick’s Cathedral as we rolled by slowly in his Ferrari, my eyes widened and my jaw dropped. “Wait, you live right next door to Rockefeller Center?”
“Yup. I told you I live on Fifth Avenue,” Rick said nonchalantly. “By the way, I want meatloaf for dinner. Homemade from scratch. You can just call the concierge to have the ingredients delivered.”
“Got it,” I said, making a mental note to call Mom to ask for the recipe.
The parking garage was full of high-end, luxurious vehicles—a Ferrari here, Lamborghinis over there, and so on. Adjacent to the parking spot was the elevator landing. The floor was made of black marble. Though it was classy, it was sort of inconvenient to hobble on with crutches. Still, I was impressed when I found out the elevator went directly to his floor and nowhere else.
When the elevator stopped at our destination, I was even more impressed—no, impressed was an understatement. The place was not just clean and tidy, but in pristine condition. And it was immense. The foyer alone was far larger than my bedroom. Perhaps it was larger than the dining room at my parents’ house.
“Gosh, this place is huge!” I gasped, feeling like a giddy schoolgirl as I entered Rick’s condo.
“The spaciousness is handy for post-treatment exercise to restore the muscle strength, except it’s not so convenient right now,” Rick said, hobbling his way down the long corridor, which was embellished with stylish contemporary paintings on both sides.
“I can see that.”
“This way leads to the living room.” He went on without pausing. For someone hobbling on one leg, he was going way faster than my comfortable speed.
“Come on, Rick, slow down. Take it easy. You don’t want to slip and fall,” I warned. I knew I sounded like a fussy grandma. The white marble floor was picture perfect, but it seemed slippery—and painful if you fell on it.
“I know, I know.” Rick chuckled, slightly slowing down. “You know what, you sound like a grandma with arthritis.”
I rolled my eyes. “By the way, are there any rooms off-limits to me?”
“No. Why?” he said, frowning.
“Well, this place reminds me of Christian Grey’s penthouse, so I assumed maybe you have something you’d like to hide from me—such as a torture room.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but Rick sucked in air. “How did you know that? Actually, I’ve got seven of them in the upstairs. Each room has uniquely themed décor and equipment for you know what.”
“What?” My eyes widened. It was my turn to gasp for air. “Not just one but seven torture rooms?”
“Yup, so I can shift them every day of the week. I’m sure you’ll like them.” He winked and ran his finger across my lips. “Don’t tell anyone, it’s my dirty little secret that I have those rooms.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but words failed to come, so I nodded like a bobble-head.
“Good girl.” Glancing at his splinted and heavily bandaged right leg, he said casually, “The stairs are a bitch to climb up and down on crutches, so I’d appreciate it if you’d bring down the handcuffs and whips, along with a silk blindfold and hogtie. Oh, I’ve got a can of whipped cream in the fridge. We’ll have tons of fun.” He winked.
I opened my mouth, closed it, and then repeated the process three times as Rick’s mesmerizing green eyes caught my gaze. I knew I should have averted my eyes, but I couldn’t; I was captured in his world. I wanted to run away screaming “Pervert!” but at the same time, I wanted to engage in whatever play was in his mind. Also, I was a little curious about the usage of whipped cream—and the fun part mentioned with that. “I… I….” I tried to say something, anything, except coherent words failed to come out.
“When did you develop a speech impediment?” He pressed on with a wicked grin.
“I… well…” I should have said something smart, but all I could do was stand there with my mouth open like a total moron and watch the green of his eyes getting darker.
Then, all of a sudden, Rick snorted. “Mandy, you’re epic! For your information, I don’t have any torture rooms, upstairs or downstairs. Also, you’re welcome in every room. I have nothing for you to be afraid of. The look on your face! Hell, I should have captured the moment on the video!” He was practically laughing his ass off until one of the crutches slipped and he stabilized himself by putting his bad leg on the floor. “Ouch! That really hurt!” He grimaced.
“I told you to watch your step!” I grunted, helping to support him.
I
n the living room, the décor was modern. The color scheme was masculine, mostly coming in black and white. The walls were white, the bar counter was topped with black granite, and the orange of the flame in the faux fireplace behind the bar worked fabulously as an effect color. Photos were lined up on the granite mantelpiece, adding the warmth and feel of a home to the place which otherwise felt like a showroom with no resident. In front of the mantel was a square glass-top coffee table with some magazines and an open beer bottle on it, sandwiched by two leather-upholstered sofas.
“It’s Brian Powers, right?” I said, staring at one of the photos. “Wow, he used to be so cute!”
“I was cuter,” Rick insisted, slumping on one of the sofas and undoing his tie.
“Oh yes, I can see that.” I found Dr. Meredith Grey in the photo. She was smiling with Rick and Brian. “Rick, were you dating Dr. Grey back in high school?” I asked casually as I watched his long fingers pulling his tie off.
“No. She’s like a sister to me.” He chuckled, placing the tie by GQ and car magazines on the coffee table.
“Where does this tie belong?” I asked, picking it up. It was still warm from Rick’s heat.
“The tie rack in the wardrobe behind my bedroom. I’ll show you later.”
“Sure,” I said, but I felt my cheeks burn as I thought about entering his bedroom.
“Mandy, you’re thinking about really erotic stuff, aren’t you?” he said, wiggling his fingers at me.
“Am not!” I caught him reaching for the beer bottle. “Rick, you can’t drink that.” I snatched the bottle before he laid his hand on it.
“Why not?” He furrowed his eyebrows.
“Because you have a broken bone,” I pointed out.
“But I’m thirsty.”
“You can have nonalcoholic beverages, such as water, juice, coffee, or tea.”
“Maybe you can look the other way when I drink beer,” he suggested.
“No, I can’t do that.” I shook my head. “Alcohol consumption worsens the pain to a whole new level.”
“So, you’re worried about me.” His lips quirked up into a smirk.