She rolls her eyes. “It’s because you showed up after the longest damn shift I’ve ever pulled. This whole doctor thing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“You’re good at it, Nat. You’ve got a knack for making people feel better just by being in the room with them.”
“If that’s the way it worked, I wouldn’t have bill collectors up my ass. Nor would I be pulling sixteen-hour shifts.” She groans. “And you need to stop sweet-talking me, Josh McRae. I thought I was done with you when you barreled out of my daddy’s house right after his funeral. You certainly showed up out of nowhere tonight, and if you weren’t fucked up as shit, I’d be kicking you out on your ass in the morning.” She pulls into a parking space at the urgent care center and turns off the car. Her face has always betrayed her feelings, and now I see hurt and anger reflected in her gaze. She frowns. “As it is, you’ve got two days to recover, and then I’m driving you back to your shitty apartment in Nags Head. You still live there, don’t you?”
“Yeah, close to the gym. But I swear, I’m getting out of that.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, Josh. I have plenty of reason to doubt you.” I open my mouth to speak but think better of it. This woman is planning to stitch me up and stick me with needles in a minute or two, and it’s best not to argue with your doctor about ancient history. There’s a lull in the rain, the drops lighter now. “We best get on inside, Josh. I’ll tend you, and we’ll both get home so we can sleep.”
She gets out and hauls my heavy, broken body out of the passenger’s side door, sighing as she takes my weight on her much smaller body. I put my one mobile arm around her, and she walks up to the door and waves her key card, as easy as pie. I don’t ask how she still has the key, but I’d bet it was some old Shaw family trick. You can take the slick redneck out of town and fancy her all up with a medical degree, but she still knew how to steal her supper at the end of the day. Else, neither of us would have survived childhood.
“If we get caught, it’s the end of my career as a doctor, Josh. We need to be in and out.” She looks from side to side when she says it, and I’m pretty sure she’s laying it on thick for my benefit. I move to turn on a light switch, but she catches my hand. “Not a peep, no lights except in the exam room.” I nod. She walks me to one of the rooms and sits me down on the exam table. She slips on a pair of latex gloves and closes the blinds before switching on the lights. Before she exits the room, she looks back at me, and I see the vulnerability and pain in her expression. She walks away, and I listen as she gathers supplies. I’m an extra-special, sharp and sticky thorn in her side tonight, but it had to shake out this way.
I knew I was putting her in a bad position tonight, but Frank needs to see me as his golden boy, the most valuable fighter in his stable. And getting detained by police sniffing around at the hospital isn’t going to match up with that. I wasn’t ready to set eyes on Natalie yet. But the plan has to stand, and I guess it’s okay if it works out this way. I shift on the table, trying not to put pressure on my left side. My shoulder is burning like there are fire ants crawling inside my joint, and the bruise on my ribs is pulsing in time with the crawling fucking ants. I grit my teeth. I can take this. I can. It’s all for one goal—well, two goals—but I’m pretty sure that the second goal isn’t attainable. I fucked that up a long damn time ago.
Natalie wheels in an IV drip with a fat bag of saline in it. “All right, man. I’m the only doctor at the hospital who can get a needle in without a bruise. All thanks to doing nursing school first.”
She takes my hand and puts it on my leg. I close my eyes for a minute and listen to her breathing as she wipes an alcohol pad over my vein. She leans in close to me, and I breathe in, taking in the scent of her. She partly smells like the hospital, partly like her home. But underneath it all, there’s the essence of her. On my mama’s good days, she said to me that the top of the head was the piece of a person that always smelled just like them, that you could get addicted to someone by getting to know that scent. And the way Natalie smelled, well it was just like coming home.
Natalie slides the needle into my hand, and I wince. I’ve done plenty of drugs to get through fights—and to recover from them afterwards—but I’ve never shot anything up. The needle makes me queasy, but this is no time for me to show weakness. I open my eyes and look at her. Her eyes have gone distant, and her hands are moving quick, like she’s in the zone, assessing what to do next. She squeezes the IV bag and gets the saline flowing in my veins. She takes a syringe and empties whatever it is into the IV port. Almost instantly, the fire ants’ crawling begins to fade, and the pulse in my side stops hammering. There’s a rush of sweet, clouded happiness that sings through my veins, and I grin, sinking down into the feeling.
“You like that, huh?” She puts her hands on her hips in a deliciously sexy, sassy stance. I stare at her, look over the luscious curves of her body, unabashed. The fluorescent light seems to glow around her blond hair in a halo of perfect light. “They all love the morphine.”
I laugh. When the sound comes out of my mouth, it’s goofy and far away. She smiles too, or is that a sneer I see on her face? I can’t properly tell. I feel like reaching out and taking her in my arms right now. The warmth of that perfect body, her legs wrapped around me—I’d had that feeling once, and I’d let it go.
You’re so pretty, Nat. I want to say it, but the words are stuck in my throat. She’s risen so high above everyone else, it’s like she wasn’t even human anymore.
“Quit lookin’ at me like that.” She sneers at me as she secures my IV in place, but I almost detect a faint blush creeping over her chest, over the apples of her cheeks. I might be hallucinating it.
“Like what?” I watch as she prepares another syringe, her movements expert, precise.
“Like you’re hungry.” I laugh, and she steps closer to me, puts the needle up to my head. “Like I’m a burger. That ship has sailed.” The sneer stays in her voice, but she can’t help that sarcasm from slipping out here and there.
“Hey, what are you doing? I’ve already been stuck with one needle, Nat.”
“Lidocaine. For the stitches. Hold still there, big guy.” I feel a few small pinches around the gash in my head. I was so worked up about my shoulder and ribs that I’d barely noticed the pain there, but I knew it was fucking nasty. I was thrown hard tonight. It’s a wonder I’ve lasted as long as I’ve had. But I’m getting out, moving forward, going on. Natalie cleans me with a hot washcloth and then another alcohol wipe. I barely feel the needle as it goes in—she’s an expert at this kind of shit. She fastens a bandage over the stitches and helps me out of my makeshift sling. I’m just watching her, the whole time, enjoying the view of the girl I’ve missed for three years.
Not a girl. A real woman, now. Smarter and more gutsy than you or anyone you know.
Before I know it, she’s shooting me up again at the wound on my side and setting my aching left arm over her back so she can stitch me up where the other fighter caught me with a razor blade on my ribs.
“Fuck Natalie, no more needles.” I try to wrench out of her grip. Even under the haze of morphine, the lidocaine stings as it goes in this time. She ignores me and holds me steady.
“What got you here, Joshie?” I open my mouth to tell her as she finishes stitching up the wound, but I think I’d better keep this one to myself. It’s a good story. I beat down yet another fighter from out of town. My MMA name is “Long Shot,” and I’ve lived up to it by messing up some of the best fighters along the coast. The purse at Frank’s club is always fat, and Frank lets us all fight without any kind of rules. So we’ve usually got out-of-towners coming through, hoping to beat the club’s favorite fighter. But I prove them wrong. This one got me with a razor blade. But he looks a hell of a lot worse than me.
“Dunno. Probably hit up against the side of the cage.”
“The cut is awfully clean.” She makes a small sound, like she knows what I was really up to. She proba
bly does. The audience wants blood, so we make sure there’s blood. Frank does, anyway. Natalie grabs a roll of gauze and tapes up my ribs the best she can. “They’re just bruised, I think. I’m not going to risk an x-ray here. If they’re broken, you’ll just have to deal.”
Whatever dose of morphine she’s given me is starting to wear off, and those fire ants feel like they’re back inside my shoulder. The throbbing in my side starts again, centering on the stitched-up wound. I put my fingers to the stitches—clean, professional, perfectly tiny. “Nice job, Nat.”
She swivels around, her wavy blond hair falling in a cascade over her shoulders. Her dress dips just a little, so all I see right now is that golden Rapunzel hair and an eyeful of her round, full, perfect tits popping out of the deep v-neck of her dress.
“Stop touching those stitches, Josh.” She slaps my hand away like she used to do when we were kids and I was messing with her schoolbooks. The touch of her hand is familiar and intimate in a way she doesn’t realize. To me, it feels good, feels like things are back to normal. It feels like this chasm of time has somehow closed, and we’re right back where we used to be before I stormed out after her daddy’s wake. “You’ll get it infected.”
“Will not,” I say. My eyes are drawn back to her cleavage. Time has been very, very good to her. She probably thinks the few pounds she’s gained make her look frumpy, but that little bit of weight has filled out her curves and turned her into the woman she was meant to be—the kind who has regular meals and doesn’t skip dessert.
“Will so.” She slaps a bandage over the stitches, and I groan.
“That fucking hurts, Nat.” She fastens tape over it.
“Serves you right for coming back in the middle of the night and staring at my tits the whole time I’m tending to your sorry ass. Good-for-nothing, womanizing, inappropriately flirty...”
“You forgot ‘extremely handsome’ and ‘athletic.’ Oh and, ‘brilliant.’” I can tell she’s suppressing a smile. She rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time since I arrived at her house.
“I should have kicked you out of the damn house, cocky asshole.” I grip Natalie’s arm for support and slide off the table while she unhooks the saline bag and carries it in one hand. With both hands occupied, her dress falls a bit more. I laugh and try to look away, but my eyes are drawn back again and again. Those breasts are the subjects of my eighteen year old fantasies, and it’s been years since I laid eyes on them. I might be imagining things, but it seems like I notice her eyes connecting with my body, meeting mine for a second and then looking away briefly.
“I’m only cocky because I’m the best fighter the Outer Banks has ever seen. And because I can get any lady, tourist or townie—”
“Enough, Josh. You ever listen to yourself?”
“Not enough to learn anything, I’m sure,” I say. I know it’s what she believes, what she wants me to say. We’re falling into our old routines. She shuffles around, trying to figure out the best way to get me out of the room and take the saline bag at the same time, then she sighs and shoves the saline bag into my hand. She looks at me again, her eyes sweeping over my body. That spark sings through me, the spark I’ve always felt with her.
“You take this, Josh. It’s best we keep the saline going since I imagine you’re ridiculously dehydrated as per usual after your fights, and I’m going to bet we need another dose of morphine before the night’s over.”
I nod and lean into her body, gripping the saline bag tight. She throws her bag over her shoulder and pushes me out into the hall. The heat comes off of her body in waves, and I feel her breast brush up against my bare torso. Even with the sedating effect of the morphine, blood rushes down to my cock, and I feel it stir. I close my eyes as we limp along and try to think about fighting, about Frank, about my GED test, about my sponsor, about anything but Nat. But I can’t focus, and the images of our last night together keep rushing through my mind.
She pushes open the front door and leads me out to the car. If she sees the outline of my cock, she doesn’t say anything. She’s too classy for that anyway. And besides, she probably doesn’t want anything to do with a guy like me—a guy like I used to be, anyway.
When we pull out of the clinic parking lot, the rain is pouring down hard again, and I know her Civic will have a tough time on the bridge. For one night, though, I’ll be in the same space she’s in, and I won’t have to wonder where she is.
I might be used to living in hell, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate heaven right when I’m in it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Halfway across the causeway, the storm lightens up, and I feel like I can see again. Of course Josh would choose a night like this to come barreling back in my life with a dislocated shoulder and two nasty, bleeding gashes. I pull up to the stoplight at the end of the bridge and look over at him. He’s still not wearing a shirt, and the dampness of the rain makes his suntanned skin shine like burnished bronze under the glowing streetlights. I take a deep breath and turn back to focus on the road. Looking at Joshua’s lean, muscular body isn’t a rabbit hole I need to fall into right now. He’s six feet of perfection, broad chest and shoulders, his green-gold eyes framed by the thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. His chestnut hair was thick and perfect before, hanging over his forehead. But now it’s shaved close. It makes him look hard. It makes him look like someone I don’t know.
He’s always been my blindspot. But here we are. I’m doing the same damn things all over again, just for a crooked grin and a pair of beautiful eyes.
No, Natalie. You do not need to think about Joshua McRae. Not now, not ever. It’ll be dawn soon, and I’m due back at the hospital in another twelve hours. By that time, I’ll need Joshua McRae back out of my life for good, no matter how pitiful he is. I’ll fill him a scrip for painkillers and drive his ass back to Nags Head where he can settle back into his questionably legal “job.”
Josh’s eyes are closed, and he’s probably drifting into the sweet sleepiness of the meds I gave him back the clinic. True to form, he didn’t stop to consider the effects his choices would have on others. He just showed up and got what he wanted. Like an idiot, I took him right in and stitched him up. I sigh and turn onto my street. I could lose my license to practice medicine before I get a chance to actually practice medicine. Typical. My stepbrother hasn’t ever been one to consider the feelings of others before acting.
I pull in the driveway and turn off the car. The rain comes in thick, fat drops. It’s better than it was before, but there’s still the occasional crash of thunder, and I know there’s a damn surf warning. I wonder why he couldn’t have invaded my space when there wasn’t a fucking tropical storm.
“Wake up,” I say. Wake up sleepyhead is right on my lips, but I fight the urge to say anything sweet. “Wake up, dick bag,” I add for good measure. I resist the temptation to poke at his left side. Instead, I put my hand on his thick forearm and rest my hand there for a moment. Even the muscles here are tensed and hard. There’s a jagged, pink scar that runs up to his elbow, breaking up the smooth surface of his skin like a twisting river on a map. Gently, I run one finger over the scar, and Josh wakes up with a jolt. I pull my hand away and hold it to my chest—I barely realized I was touching him. That’s what got us in trouble before, that first simple touch. It’s what threatened to destroy me at the dawn of my career, and I don’t need to get sucked into that shit again. Not with all I have to lose. Josh yawns and stretches with his good arm. The simple movement is languid, powerful, like the movement of a lion.
Like a predator. Remember that, girlfriend.
“Can I go back to sleep when we get inside? Pretty please don’t kick me out just yet?” His voice is full of sleep and somehow sexy, even at this godawful time of morning. His eyes are hooded and half open, and I think for a moment that this is what he might look like waking up next to me. It feels like there’s a lump caught in my throat when I think it, but I can’t shake the image this time.
“What
ever, Josh.” My voice sounds more like a croak, and I’m hoping he’s so high that he doesn’t notice. “I guess you’ll be needing help getting up those steps, won’t you?”
“Hold me, Nat, I’m so weak.” He grips the saline bag still, his knuckles white. I know he’s in a good amount of pain, but he grins broadly. I throw the car door open and go about helping him out of the car. When he leans his weight into me, something like an electric shock makes its way through my body. It’s true that my stepbrother is drop-your-panties on the floor hot, but I’m a professional woman. And I’ve spent the whole of the last three years working to forget him. Now, if he would just stay forgotten and stop making me have intrusive sexual thoughts. I help him up the steps and put him on the sofa in the living room. I move my coat rack over to the sofa and hang the saline bag on it, squeezing it a few times to get it adjusted.
Long Shot: An MMA Stepbrother Romance Page 5