by Hazel James
He leans against the back of the barstool crosses his arms over his chest. His very muscular arms. “So I was right. You are turned on.”
“We’re done here,” I retort, grateful for the waitress’s timing. I place thirty-five bucks into the black folder, hand it back, and stand up.
“If Chaddie-boy doesn’t answer, you’re welcome to give me a call.”
“When pigs fly,” I say over my shoulder.
“This is Oklahoma, Paige. I’ve actually seen that happen.”
THREE THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN WHEN my phone lights up with a 940 area code: I curse, I pray, and I hate myself just a little bit.
Ring.
FUCK!
Ring.
Lord, please get me through the next five minutes.
Ring.
“What?” There’s no point in pleasantries. I don’t want to talk to the only two people who call me from Cooke County, Texas. It’s a fucking shame that I share DNA with them both.
“Now is that the way to treat your old man? I thought I raised you better than that, Andrew.”
“You didn’t raise me at all. Uncle Kurt and Aunt Helen did.”
“Look, son, I don’t have time to argue. They only give me three minutes.” I cringe when I hear that word. Son. He lost the right to call me that when I was six and he took my piggy bank money to buy drugs. Or when I was nine and he made me sleep outside for three nights because he thought I stole his cocaine stash. The asshole snorted it and didn’t remember. My personal favorite is when I was thirteen and he gave me two black eyes because I wanted to ask Tara Walker to the eighth-grade dance. Then he told everyone I was a shitty football player and that’s why my face got fucked up. Where was my mom, you ask? Either on a street corner or drugged out herself. She’s serving her own sentence at the Cooke County jail. I won the parental jackpot, in case you couldn’t tell.
“What do you want?” I ask with a deep sigh, as my feet make an L-shaped path around my room: nightstand to closet, closet to window, about-face, repeat steps. It’s hard to sit still when I’m annoyed.
“Maybe I want to check in and see how you’re doing. You’ve been out of the Air Force for what, six months?”
“It’s been more than a year.”
“Huh. Time has a way of doing funny things when you’re inside, I suppose…” Or when you’re on drugs. Or when you just don’t give a flying fuck.
“What do you want?” I repeat, the muscles in my jaw clenching.
“I was hoping you could put some money in my commissary account. I promise I’ll pay you back.”
Right. In eight to ten years, after he’s done with his sentence for the manufacturing, possession, and delivery of a controlled substance, and a few other miscellaneous charges thrown in there. Somehow, child abuse didn’t make the list.
The Rhoads brothers came from a devout Christian family, and as the only set of twins on either side, they were the apples of everyone’s eyes. Kurt and Kevin were the stuff high school football legends were made of, and each got scholarships to OU. Uncle Kurt was a wide receiver and Kevin—who doesn’t deserve to be called ‘Dad’—was a cornerback.
Offense and defense.
They had a great college football career, right up until Uncle Kurt broke his femur during practice his senior year. Kevin struggled to finish playing ball and eventually quit the team and dropped out of school.
Still, the Rhoads brothers went on to create empires. Uncle Kurt busted his ass to build a successful auto repair business from the ground up while Kevin ran the largest cocaine ring between the Rockies and the Mississippi River—right up until he sold to a cop. Now the only thing he runs is the track inside the jail.
“No.”
“No?” he asks, like he can’t believe I just said that. Kevin Rhoads isn’t used to hearing the word no.
“Why don’t you call up some of your druggie friends? Maybe they’ll be willing to help you out. I’m tired of wasting my money on a man who didn’t give two shits about me growing up.” And even that’s being generous. I was an afterthought on his good days, and a target on the bad ones.
He sighs. “You know that was just the drugs talking. I love you. You’re the only son I’ve ever had.”
Thank Christ for that. There doesn’t need to be anymore screwed up kids on account of him. “I gotta go to work,” I lie. Today’s my day off, and I refuse to waste any more time on the phone with him.
“Okay, son. I’ll talk to you later.”
The call ends.
I sit on my bed, unmoving, for about five minutes. Long enough to reflect on my joke of a childhood. Long enough to remember June seventh, the day Uncle Kurt and Aunt Helen showed up, packed everything I owned into two suitcases, and drove me to their house. I experienced my very first family dinner that night. Aunt Helen made barbecue chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. To this day, it’s still my favorite meal.
I shared a room with my cousin, Eric. I felt bad that he had to give up some of his space, but he told me repeatedly that he didn’t mind. After a few months, I started believing him. Aunt Helen enrolled me at Eric’s high school that fall. He was a sophomore and I was a freshman, so he took me under his wing. Standing in the hallway that first day wearing all new clothes—I even had new boxer briefs—surrounded by people who instantly accepted me… it was an experience I’ll never forget.
That was eleven years ago, and Eric’s been like a brother ever since.
I reluctantly pick up my phone, bring up the Western Union website, and send Kevin sixty bucks.
This is the part where I hate myself.
“You gonna tell me why you’re so restless?” Eric asks, chalking his pool stick. He hits the cue ball, sending the ten and fourteen balls into the corner pocket. He surveys the table, then walks around to line up his next shot. The group of girls one table over keep sending flirtatious smiles my way, but my shitty mood keeps me from enjoying it. Which is a damn shame, because I’m positive at least two of them would come home with me tonight.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say over the country music blaring from the jukebox. It must be oldies night because Tim McGraw’s singing about being an Indian outlaw.
He pockets the twelve ball. “Dude, your foot’s tapping like you’re that gay guy from Riverdance. You got the Clap again?” He walks back to my side of the table.
“Ha ha,” I mutter. I shift my feet on my barstool, making sure to keep both of them still. A redheaded waitress walks by and takes my empty beer bottle. I think her name is Jenny.
“Still stopping at one, DH?” She bats her fake eyelashes and clutches the bottle against her even faker tits.
I don’t look at her too long, not wanting her to get any ideas. Been there, done that, and I’m not interested in having a repeat performance tonight. “Yup.”
“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” She looks down at my dick, bites her lip, and sashays back to the bar. I won’t change my mind. About having more beer, not about staying away from Jenny—that, I’m sure of. I have a strict rule about drinking: only one per night. Growing up as the child of two addicts, I make damn for sure that I’ll never follow in their footsteps.
Eric waves his hand in front of my face. “Dude, you missed my winning shot.” I glance at the table and see that the eight ball is missing. He steps closer and drops his voice. “Seriously, what gives?” His playful demeanor is replaced with concern.
I sigh, struggling with whether or not to tell him about Kevin’s phone call.
He leans his pool stick against the high-top. “Out with it, or I’m calling Mom.”
“You’re twenty-five, and you’re still gonna tell Aunt Helen on me?” I joke. He crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow.
I blow out a breath. “Fine. Kevin called.” I don’t need to say anymore. He knows what those calls do to me, and more importantly, he knows how to snap me out of it.
“Excellent.” Eric smiles. “Because I was just about to ask if you want
ed to ride the mechanical bull. Fifty bucks says I stay on longer than you.”
Eric is an amazing best friend, and adrenaline is a great therapist.
“You’re on.”
“YOU SHOULD HAVE LET GO.” Eric pulls two twenties and a ten from his wallet and tosses them on the exam bed beside me. “You know, if you’re that hard up for money, you could have just told me.”
“What can I say? I’m not a quitter.” I reach for the bills with my left arm—the good one—and shove them into my pocket, trying to not think about the pain shooting out of my right shoulder.
“Dude, you should start getting frequent flier miles. Or maybe they’d call them frequent fuck-up miles.”
“Hey man, at least I’m consistent. Don’t chicks dig consistency?” It’s the second time in eight days that I’ve been in the emergency room of Barton Memorial. But I can’t blame this visit on a flying road sign.
Nope, this one is all my fault. Eric held on to El Diablo, the mechanical bull at the Angry Bison, for seven seconds. To win, I had to stay on for eight.
I won.
I also dislocated my right shoulder. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s the first time I haven’t been able to fix it on my own. That’s the good thing about being on a team of Air Force pararescuemen—PJs for short, which stands for “pararescue jumpers.” Treating shit like this was a breeze. I couldn’t convince Eric to do it, though.
Chicken shit was too afraid he’d make it worse.
The curtain moves to the side, and I’m greeted by a scowling blue-eyed nurse. She’s wearing Wizard of Oz scrubs that are perfectly tailored to her sexy curves. I admit, I’m a little jealous of the dancing Tin Men—especially the one hovering over her left nipple. Lucky bastard. Red glittery Danskos complete her ensemble. The nurses at the NATO hospital in Afghanistan loved them, but I always thought they were fugly.
“Cute shoes, Nurse Paige,” I remark with a smile.
“What happened tonight, Mr. Rhoads?” she asks, ignoring my fake compliment.
“I had an unfortunate encounter with a mechanized bovine.”
“No,” Eric corrects, holding up a finger, “you had an unfortunate encounter with the inflatable floor. Leave it to dipshit to be hurt by air.”
“It’s an anterior dislocation,” I offer, trying to get Paige to look at me. I haven’t seen her since the night at Cattlemen’s, though I’ve thought about her several times.
She lays my chart on the counter and wiggles her fingers into a pair of small rubber gloves before turning back to me. “I see you have the WebMD app on your phone?”
“Nope. I once read an article in Reader’s Digest about shoulder injuries,” I deadpan. Months and months of medical training is more like it. Eric chuckles quietly from his chair. He’s not used to seeing girls challenge me; I’d bet an easy twenty that I’ll hear more about this later.
Paige checks my vitals, and despite her abrasive tone, her touch is gentle. I almost wish she wasn’t wearing gloves. It would have been nice to feel her skin on mine. She remains quiet while she writes down my stats, then pulls a bag out of the upper cabinet. I recognize the blue writing of the Kwik-Kold ice pack. She squeezes the bag, then shakes it and wraps it in a white paper towel.
“I’ll let the doc know you’re ready. In the meantime, leave this on.” She gently lays the ice pack over my shoulder and leaves.
“Well, she seems pleasant tonight,” Eric quips.
“She’s probably still mad at me from the last time I ran into her.”
“Last weekend when you got stitched up?”
“Nah, I saw her at Cattlemen’s after that. We had a drink together.” The ice pack starts to slip out of the towel. I re-wrap it, careful to not move my right arm, and put it back.
Eric points at the curtain. “You had a drink with her and didn’t tell me?”
“It’s not like we went out together. She was there alone, and I sat at her table.”
“So how’d you piss her off?”
“I just told her the truth.” I don’t elaborate, and Eric doesn’t have a chance to press me for more information, because the curtain opens again. A short guy with a comb-over in a white jacket struts in first. He looks like his bank account is as big as his dick is small. Paige is behind him, the expression on her face saying she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Hello, Mr. Rhoads. I’m Dr. Spencer. Let’s take a look-see, shall we?”
Who the fuck says things like “look-see”? I remove the ice pack and toss it on the counter next to the bed. The doctor spends the next several minutes asking questions and examining me while speaking to Paige as if it’s her first day. “Just as I thought. Mr. Rhoads, you have a classic anterior dislocation. I won’t bother with X-rays.”
I raise my eyebrow at Paige, who just rolls her eyes.
“Nurse, why don’t you come around the bed and assist with this reduction. You did study that in school, right?” She nods once, her lips sealed in a tight line. I commend her ability to not punch this asshole. Forget small; his dick is probably microscopic.
“Her name is Paige,” I offer, trying to keep the heat out of my voice as they position themselves on my right side. I can’t stand the way he’s talking down to her.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“You called her ‘nurse.’ Her name is Paige,” I repeat, pointing at her with my good arm.
“Right. These nurses come and go so fast it’s hard to keep up.” He laughs like he just shared an inside joke from the good ol’ boys club. Fuck him.
I grit my teeth against the pain as they maneuver my arm.
Just.
Breathe.
A few more.
Breathe.
Seconds.
Breathe.
A soft moan escapes my mouth when my humerus finds its home again. Without a word, Paige leaves the curtained area. I’m discharged about thirty minutes later with a sling, a prescription for pain pills, and instructions to follow up with my primary care doctor. Yeah, right. The sling and the prescription will be trashed as soon as I leave, and I don’t need a doctor. What I need is to find Paige.
“Hey dude,” I say to Eric. “I’ll meet you in the car in a few. I gotta take a piss before we go.” He nods and heads toward the automatic doors. I wait until he makes it around the sidewalk before I approach the nurses’ station. “Are you okay?” I lean over the counter, careful to not bear weight on my right arm. Paige glances up from the computer and huffs out a breath between her pink glossy lips.
She gestures at the screen. “I’m busy, as you can see. What do you want?”
“To make sure you’re all right. You seem like something’s bothering you tonight. You’re not your usual spunky self.”
“Because you know me so well after inviting yourself to my table and proceeding to sexually harass me?” she clips. “I’m fine, Mr. Rhoads.” She returns her stormy blue eyes back to the screen. I stare at her for several moments, wondering why I even care about her bad mood. Bitchy women aren’t normally my thing.
“DH! I thought that was you.” My dick twitches to life at the sound of the alto voice coming down the hall. She eye-fucks me right up until she reaches the nurses’ station. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? I could have taken care of you.” She all but purrs the innuendo. The last time I saw Whitney Greene was right after I was medically discharged from the Air Force, when she was riding my cock like her life depended on it.
“I didn’t know you were working tonight,” I reply. I also never saved her number. The only girls I have in my phone are Aunt Helen and Maggie, Eric’s wife.
“Well that’s too bad. I’m always happy to help you out.” She takes a pad of paper from the pocket of her too-tight scrub top and writes something down, then folds it and passes it to me. I hear an impatient sigh coming from Paige, which she covers up with the fakest cough I’ve ever heard. You’d think someone who spent as much time around sick people as she does could do better. Judg
ing from the timing, her little outburst has everything to do with my conversation with Whitney. That’s interesting, considering Paige has a boyfriend. If things aren’t going great for them, maybe there’s hope for getting her in my bed after all.
“Thanks again for helping me study. As you can see, it paid off.” Whitney lifts her slender arms so I can get a better look at her scrubs.
That’s how it started—studying. She’s friends with Maggie. When she mentioned stressing over an upcoming test for nursing school, Maggie suggested I study with her since I was a PJ and had medical training. I soon learned that Whitney was a visual learner.
And she did very well with hands-on exercises.
I tuck the paper into my left pocket, and adjust the semi growing in my pants. I don’t know if it’s from the thought of Whitney’s tits bouncing in my face or the fact that Paige is so bothered by all of this. Maybe a little of both.
“Call me, DH. I get off in seven hours. Maybe you can too.” She winks and runs her fingers across my back as she continues past the nurses’ station.
“You are un-fucking-believable,” Paige mutters from the computer.
“Thank you. I know,” I reply with a smirk. “You still not gonna tell me what’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“I’m not telling you anything about my panties, Mr. Rhoads.” She locks the computer and stands. “I have patients, and you’ve been discharged. I suggest you go home.”
“Fine, but we’re not done.” I turn to walk out of the emergency room and tuck my hand into my left pocket, feeling the paper Whitney gave me. For a brief moment, I consider tossing it into the trashcan on my way out. I don’t though. I think it’s time to see how much she remembers from our last study session.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY I agreed to this.” I take Allison’s peace offering of an iced coffee and a filled bismark from Daylight Donuts, and plop down at the dinette in front of the kitchen window. Career day at her nephew’s school sounds like sixteen kinds of fun, especially after the shift I had last night. Three car accidents, a gunshot wound, and a severe asthma attack from an adorable little girl who, thankfully, is fine. But at least I made it through the weekend without seeing DH. I guess he wised up and stayed away from tornadoes and mechanical livestock.