by Lydia Rowan
It turned Shayla’s stomach.
Everything in her screamed at her to jump in, stop this madness, but she did nothing. She’d done a lot of that recently, and it was taking its toll. This was the fourth—no fifth—of these she’d come to, and so far, stitches and some general patchwork had been the extent of her medical care.
Still, she hated it. And she knew she was on borrowed time. Something terrible was going to happen here; someone could die, and she would, at least in some way, be responsible.
Unable to watch the fight that continued, she scanned the crowd and was again struck by the range of people in attendance. All races, all genders, seemingly every class, gamblers, curiosity seekers, pretty much any person she could imagine, all together to enjoy the show. In a way it was pretty spectacular. Other than her emergency room, Shayla couldn’t think of another place where such a dynamic mix of people would congregate willingly. Too bad it was in service of something so ugly.
Ugh.
That was another thing she hated about this. It made her morose, forced her philosophical side to consider the human condition and whatnot. So not her speed. She was a healer; she fixed things. Give her a broken bone, she’d set it, cardiac arrest, she’d do CPR, but leave her to figure out what motivated these individuals, let alone her role in it all, and she was stumped. And she didn’t like the feeling.
Her gaze snagged on Ian, who was across the room holding court. Then she looked to one of the men standing next to him. It was the guy Lottie had introduced her to—Craig? No Greg—Williams. Odd that he would be here, but then maybe Lottie had mentioned what Shayla had said. But then again, he seemed perfectly relaxed, at ease with everything that was happening around him. Maybe his reason for being here was something else altogether. At this point, nothing would surprise her. She sighed, unable to devote energy to that mystery but equally unable to pretend that Greg’s presence here didn’t raise flags.
Then she glanced back at Ian. He too seemed relaxed, more at ease. Maybe whatever…whatever had been hanging over his head—she still couldn’t bring herself to ask for details, willing to acknowledge that she didn’t have the mental space to dedicate more attention to worrying about Ian than she already did—had been resolved, and she could take a step back. She needed to take a step back.
As she stood, a tingle slid across her scalp, and she was suddenly aware that she was being watched. An instant later, she caught a whiff of that clean, woodsy scent, his scent, clear and unmistakable even in the mass of bodies and smells that packed the space, and then she felt him beside her.
Her lips curled up into a smile before she could stop them, and she realized she didn’t want to stop. He was the only sliver of goodness to come out of this mess, and she’d replayed their meeting at the Diner, as ugly as it had ended, in her head a million times, again and again feeling herself pulled into those teasing green eyes, let herself relive the lightness he made her feel, however briefly. Even worse, she’d relived that kiss a thousand times, the feel of his lips against hers, the way their bodies had touched, so vivid a sensation it was almost real. Each time it made her burn for him, making her wish with all her heart that they hadn’t been interrupted. That was one thing that she knew with crystal clarity: she wanted this man, knew that, despite her resolve to stay away, despite who he was and what she suspected he was involved in, she would have him if presented a chance. There was no use pretending otherwise.
That awareness filling her mind and charging her blood allowed her to push everything else aside until the fight faded, the people faded, Ian faded, and even that small part of her that was solely dedicated to her “pre-mourning,” as Nana had dubbed it, faded.
All that remained was him.
“Now that’s a greeting, Doc,” he said, his deep voice sliding through her, rich and heavy with suggestion and such a stark contrast to the lightness in his eyes.
“I haven’t said anything,” she responded, loving how natural and easy the simple act of flirting was with him.
“That’s not true. You smiled. A real, genuine smile of greeting. All for me.”
“Maybe I was smiling at him.” She inclined her head toward the executive type who had each arm around a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.
“Nope. Definitely not. It was for me.”
She turned her gaze on him fully, and smiled again at the slight hitch in her chest.
“You got me.” She held her hands up in placation. Then, in a mock-stern tone she said, “But don’t read into it. I’m just pleased to see a friendly face.”
“Ah yes, a friendly face but not my friendly face in particular.”
“Right.” She nodded.
“Right.” He nodded back.
She laughed and pushed him slightly, feeling like a middle schooler playing at being an intriguing woman but enjoying every second of it.
“Would you like to go somewhere more private?”
She quirked a brow and pursed her lips.
“Does that ever work?”
“Surprisingly well, actually, but in this case, my motives are pure.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
He chuckled low. “Nope, but I’m feeling noble today. Come with me.”
He offered his arm, and Shayla placed a hand at the crook of his elbow, taking a brief moment to look at Ian and nod in the direction she and Demon were walking before she let herself fall back into the moment.
“Here, this should be more amenable to friendly conversation,” he said when they reached a restricted area away from the action but close enough that Shayla could be easily reached if needed.
“So, Mr. Demon,” she started, “of all the beautiful, available women here who would love your attention, why share ‘friendly conversation’ with plain old me?”
“It’s Demon, just Demon,” he responded. “And you’re interesting.”
“You haven’t talked to me enough to determine that, Demon, just Demon.”
“You’re wrong, Doc. One look and I knew you were worth getting to know better.”
She laughed. “That’s not the same thing as interesting.”
“But it’s a good start.” He shrugged. “So tell me something interesting. You’re a doctor, I know. What kind?”
Shayla froze at the question, and Demon appeared to pick up on her hesitation.
“Sorry, Doc. I let curiosity get the better of me. Given the surroundings, I can understand your reluctance, so how about this: tell me about you, not work, not family, just you.”
“Wow, I do that, and you really will have to find someone else to talk to,” she said with a high-pitched, girlish laugh.
“I sincerely doubt it.”
She laughed again, surprised by how unnerving she found the question. Shayla the doctor, Shayla the sister/granddaughter/friend, she knew. But just Shayla? That was a tougher order.
“Hmm. Well, I’m very responsible, but I try not to let that get in the way of spontaneity. I worry about my weight, especially my hips and thighs getting out of control, but only because I feel like I should. I’d have no problem eating macaroni and cheese every day if I had someone willing to cook it. I love cards, dealing especially, and secretly dream of running off to a carnival to do tarot or moving to Vegas and presiding over tables. Let’s see…” She tapped a finger on her chin. “Yeah, I think that’s about it.”
“And is there a special someone with whom you enjoy your macaroni and cheese?”
“Be serious. Would I have let you kiss me if there were?”
He grumbled noncommittally. “Probably not, but it never hurts to ask.”
“And what about you, Demon, just Demon?”
“What about me?”
“Oh, come now, goose and gander and all that. Something you want to share? Like the story of your name.”
A flush spread over his face, and she realized that this confident, handsome man was blushing about his nickname. When he spoke, his voice betrayed nothing, but she still
smiled at the stain of red on his cheeks.
“Nothing much to say. It stuck.”
“Oh, there’s a story there. I can smell it, but in the spirit of cooperation I’ll let you off the hook. For the moment.” He laughed at her arched brow. “Okay, what else about you?” she prompted.
“Hmm. This is tough. I want to do something, but I don’t know what it is. I have ambition but no direction, sorry to say. Does that turn you off?”
“Depends,” she said honestly, thinking of Ian. “I don’t think all, or even most people have a clear idea of what they want out of life, even at our age. So if you decide what you want and have the discipline to follow through and you do so without hurting others, I can buy it and a little hiccup doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?” she asked, tilting her head in question.
“I mean, you’re still relatively young”—he paused to snicker at the sharp glance she cut him—“and you’ve accomplished so much. That takes ambition and direction, and I’d think someone who appears to have an abundance of both would want the same.”
“Oh, those are appealing traits, don’t get me wrong. But they aren’t the be all and end all. And like I said, I was fortunate to have a clear vision and the stubbornness to keep going when I wanted to quit. No magic and certainly nothing that I hold against someone for not having, assuming, as I said, that they don’t hurt anyone else.”
“A very evolved and fair-minded position.”
They stared at each other for a moment, smiling, and Shayla felt that pull toward him, didn’t know how much longer she could resist it, or whether she should even try. They chatted for a few minutes more, but the noise died down, and Shayla noticed that people seemed to be leaving. She relaxed more, happy that the night would soon be over. She’d enjoyed his company immensely, but the day was catching up with her.
“Looks like we’re wrapping up here. We should get you headed home.”
She yawned in response and then giggled.
“Guess I can’t argue with that.”
“Shayla!”
Ian’s whispered yell had her on full alert; Demon too if the way he sat up taller and tensed, seemingly ready to pounce, was any indication.
“What is it?” she asked, taking in Ian’s wild-eyed gaze.
“Come quick. Somebody’s unconscious. Looks like a seizure or something.”
Shayla grabbed the “go” bag she kept with her and jogged toward Ian, Demon keeping pace.
“One of the fighters?” she asked as they moved through the lingering crowd.
“No. Some lady,” Ian responded as they made their way across the large space to where several milling onlookers stood in a semicircle.
Shayla cut through the crowd and kneeled next to the woman, quickly assessing her condition as she slid on nitrile gloves, the rush that always hit her and her years of training taking over.
“Female. Midtwenties. No obvious signs of trauma.” She spoke aloud as she always did, cataloging what she saw as she formulated a plan.
Slight tremors racked the woman’s body, and a thin layer of spit and what looked like vomit coated her lips.
“How long has she been unconscious?” Shayla asked, though the question was directed at no one in particular. “How long?” she asked again, firmer this time.
“Umm…I don’t know, a couple of minutes.”
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that the statement had come from another woman in her midtwenties, dressed similar to the unconscious woman. They were probably just girls out for a wild night. It looked like they were getting what they’d hoped for.
Shayla grabbed her bag and reached in. She quickly retrieved the syringe of naloxone and cleaning supplies. If the woman had overdosed as she suspected, the drug, an opioid antagonist, would counteract the effects of narcotics like heroin and help keep the woman’s central nervous and respiratory systems from depressing to the point that she would stop breathing and her heart would stop beating. Shayla cleaned a small area and gave the woman the injection. Then she pulled out a paper emesis basin and cleaned out the woman’s mouth, ensuring that her airway would remain unobstructed.
“Ian, call an ambulance.”
“Um, Shay, it’s not exactly—”
“It’s on the way.”
She looked away from Ian and looked at Demon, nodding her thanks, before she turned back to her patient. The woman seemed to be coming around, but she’d need to be checked out. By the time the ambulance arrived, the already reduced crowd had thinned to almost nonexistent. Today’s show was over, and no one was interested in the aftermath. Sensible she supposed, given the nature of the occurrence, but annoying nonetheless. That sense of annoyance nagged at her as she gave the paramedics a rundown of her diagnosis. She recognized them from the hospital, but if they found her presence odd, they didn’t show it. She felt wrong, weighted, as she went to the bathroom and changed into the extra clothes she kept in her bag.
Too close, Shayla. Way too close.
The thought rang in her head as she headed toward the parking lot, her car a long, lonely shadow in the distance. Her heart dropped. Ian hadn’t waited for her. She tried not to be disappointed, but she was and combined with the hangover that hit as the rush of treating a patient faded, she was in a sorry state. Too wired to go home and sleep like she should, but not focused enough to think of anything else. As she got closer to her car, she noticed a figure leaning against it and knew immediately who it was.
At least someone had cared enough to wait.
“Nice work, Doc,” he said when she finally reached the vehicle.
She shrugged off the compliment. “I just gave her a shot.”
“Still. That was pretty awesome. You just swooped right in and handled that shit.”
His words pleased her, a great deal actually, and she was too tired to pretend otherwise.
“Thanks for waiting.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
And then they stood in awkward silence, neither seeming to know what to say.
“You’re tired. I should let you get home.”
“Actually…I could stand some company.”
“Really?” He looked surprised.
She nodded.
“You hungry?”
She nodded again.
“Well then, follow me. I know a place with great strawberry shakes.”
“Just so happens I do too. Meet you there?” she said.
“Yep.”
••••
Fifteen minutes later, they settled into the booth in the back of the Diner, this time, the tension arcing between them, but a deeper, more profound sort than the casual feeling out, flirting, and ultimately anger that had marked their previous meeting here.
“Fries and a strawberry shake, right, Doc?”
She nodded, and Demon conveyed the order to the waitress, who nodded and walked away. He looked at Shayla, illuminated under the harsh lights of the restaurant. Her skin was dull and ashen, bags were stark and prominent under her eyes, and her posture, usually so sharp and neat, was slumped, her shoulders looking weighted. This was taking a toll, ebbing at the fire and energy that, even after their short acquaintance, he knew was a part of her.
Even still, he found her beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen. He was in dangerous territory, but he couldn’t step back, couldn’t let go.
“Shayla,” he said, his voice a whisper.
Her gaze flitted to his, and he put his hand on the table, silently begging her to reach out. The internal struggle was clear; she was debating what to do, whether to reach out, but in an instant, her eyes cleared and she laid her hand atop his, breathing out a sigh as she did. As he wrapped his fingers around hers, which were strong, capable, but still slender, fragile-feeling in his, a deep and heretofore-unknown satisfaction spread through him. For Shayla, competent caretaker that she was, this was a huge step, he knew, to reach out to someone, take comfor
t and support, no matter how subtle or ultimately small it was.
Gazes locked, they sat in silence, fingers intertwined as the seconds passed. A small voice in the back of his mind urged him to pull away, to step back before he added to the hurt that she was facing. But the more selfish, and much larger, part of him, dismissed the thought.
“You can’t keep doing this, Shayla,” he said, breaking the silence.
She gave a noncommittal shrug, but the fact that she refrained from outright denial was significant.
“Why did Ian even get you into this? Drugs? Gambling?”
She sighed again, seemingly with her whole body.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else altogether, something simple, something complex. Who knows?” she said quietly, looking away from him, her voice distant and defeated-sounding.
Anger flared in his chest. Ian was an asshole, worse than that, he knew, but until this very moment, he hadn’t wanted to do the man harm. Seeing the anguish on Shayla’s face changed that, and he found himself squeezing the hand that wasn’t holding hers into a tight fist.
“Fries and strawberry shake.”
The waitress’s voice broke the spell, his anger, and her pain, and Demon was grateful for the distraction. He’d never met a woman who pulled him in so completely, and he needed to be careful.
“Thanks.”
He flashed the waitress a smile, which she warmly returned. That got a smile from Shayla and a little of that fire reanimated in her eyes.
“So charming,” she said as she pulled her hand away and grabbed a fry.
The feeling of loss was immediate, but he kept the smile on his face.
“A smile never hurt anyone, Doc.”
“True, though I wonder if you’re a little embarrassed to flirt with a woman old enough to be your grandmother.”
He smiled even brighter at the hint, small though it was, that she held some affection for him.
“Why, Dr. Rodgers, is that jealousy I hear?”
“In your dreams,” she said sarcastically, though he heard a note of sheepishness in her tone.
He also grabbed a fry, taking the moment to pretend that they were just two normal people getting to know each other. But they weren’t, and this moment couldn’t last, so he dived back in.