Follow Him Home (Alternate Worlds Book 1)

by P. W. Davies

  The stranger shot him a wink while a nurse led him to an empty bed. When the curtain shut, it ended the moment, but it was enough for the man to have made a lasting impression. Work had summoned Peter away immediately thereafter, and, with that, the handsome man had faded into the back of Peter’s thoughts.

  Now, however, the memory had been restored to life with such jarring contrast, it took Peter another moment to steel himself and focus on caring for his patient. Wheeling the stranger into one of the open bays, Peter first examined the cut on his cheek – which had begun to fade – and what remained of the bruising from his altercation a few days ago. “I need the scissors,” he said, holding out a hand, his gaze settling on a tear in the black-button down shirt the man now wore underneath the same leather jacket. Sticky with blood, the fabric gave him something to focus on and within moments, he’d settled into his normal work rhythm.

  The cognitive dissonance still lingered, though – even after the patient had been wheeled up to surgery with a shoulder injury. CAT scans had cleared him of head trauma and though he’d stopped being Peter’s patient, the time that had passed left Peter feeling like enough energy had been expunged to leave him spent for half the night. “He’ll be fine,” Chloe said, patting him on the shoulder as if worry had led Peter to stare stupidly at the elevators where his patient had just disappeared. She returned to work, leaving him there to gather his confidence back and wander back onto the floor.

  As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Peter was too fixated to let it go.

  The riddle haunted him for the remainder of the shift. What kind of man, he thought, strolled into the Emergency Room, past guards and personnel, only to be wheeled in after an accident a few days later? Images replayed in his mind of the dare he had received in just one glance – one small wink – and brought him no closer to solving the mystery. Whoever this man was and wherever he had come from, something had dragged him out from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Peter tried not to be intrigued by it. And failed miserably.

  By the time the sun had begun to crest the horizon, he felt ready to trudge to the subway and back to ignoring the stack of mail on his dining room table. As Peter pulled out his earbuds, though, and cinched his backpack into place, he passed the same bank of elevators they had used to take the motorcyclist up to surgery. Yes, he had stopped being his patient the moment he left the emergency room, but Peter felt that if he didn’t check on him at least once, he’d be awake longer than he should be wondering about him. ‘Chloe said he’d be okay,’ he chided. But if he had to be honest, it wasn’t about that.

  Sighing, exasperated with himself and realizing he might have to dig deeper than the fumes keeping him on his feet, Peter pressed the up arrow and pocketed his earbuds again. He shook his head as he waited for the elevator to descend, and pulled out his iPhone to pretend being unaffected. A few swipes across the screen preceded the metal doors parting and the electronic crutch remained out through the ascent to the patient recovery floor. When he stepped out from the elevator, he slid the phone back into hiding, seeing the nurse’s station ahead and forming a resolution in his mind. He would ask about the patient, if just to sate this needling curiosity. That was it.

  “He’s been moved to a room on the fifth floor,” the nurse in charge said after matching his description with the one provided by Peter. Even though this indicated the motorcyclist was on the mend, Peter trekked to the patient room floor, reconsidering his actions no less than half a dozen times along the way. As he emerged from the elevator a second time, he strode right for where a familiar woman sat, flashing her a brilliant smile when she looked up and did the same.

  Peter sped his pace toward the curvy, red-haired nurse, placing his hands on the counter separating them once he’d reached the station where she sat. “Joanna,” he said. “How’s tonight been treating you?”

  Joanna sighed. “I hit the wall three hours ago,” she said. “Still have four left in this shift.”

  “You sound like I did earlier.” His smile faded, given over to concern. “Want me to bring you coffee?”

  “Only if you’re willing to help me start the IV. I should do my rounds, but the moment I sit down again, I’m a goner.” She spun her chair, casting a quick glance back to the white board with their patient list before pivoting to line Peter in her sights again. “What brings you up here anyway? Shouldn’t you be downstairs looking gorgeous and saving lives?”

  Peter laughed at the playful curl of her lips. “I’m heading home.” He patted his backpack for emphasis. “A few hours of sleep and back at it again. You’ll have to be gorgeous for the both of us.”

  “Oh, stop. I know you didn’t come up here to flirt with me, Dr. Dawes.” Lifting to a stand, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “Who are you avoiding?”

  “Nobody.” Another laugh summoned the brilliant smile back into place. “No, I had a patient earlier and…” He sighed, fighting against his own fatigue to birth the admission. “We had an interesting patient pass through earlier and I was curious to see how he did in surgery.”

  “Ah ha.” Joanna turned back toward the board. “What was the patient’s name?”

  “Not sure. We had him as a John Doe and Recovery only told me he’d been sent here. Motorcycle accident with a shoulder injury?”

  “Oh, him. I know who you’re talking about.” She lifted a hand, tapping her bottom lip with a finger until her face lit up. “There he is.” She pointed. “Lifted him up enough from a narcotic haze to get an ID. Christian Mason.”

  “Christian?” Peter felt like adding seriously to the end of that, but managed to bite his tongue. His gaze followed to where Joanna pointed and he nodded. “If you guys had him talking, that does mean he’s doing better.”

  “Oh, he’s a riot. Until the morphine put him under again, he kept trying to flirt with the nurses. And the doctors.” She turned, catching Peter’s eye and forcing his focus back to her. The curl of her lips turned downright devious. “You came to check on your patient, did you?”

  His eyes widened, a blush forming on his cheeks before he could stop it. “I… did. I was concerned,” he said. Peter reached to scratch at the back of his neck. His pulse picked up tempo and as it did, a rush of awareness raced through him. “More than a little curious, yeah, but I have my reasons for that.”

  Joanna raised an eyebrow at him again. “Sure,” she said. “That and two bucks would get me a cup of coffee.” Glancing one way, and then the other, she looked at Peter again and shrugged a little. “Feel like jotting down his vitals for me? Get you a little peek and you can be on your way home?”

  A lump formed in Peter’s throat as his arm dropped to his side again. Just professional curiosity, he tried to tell himself, but somehow, being granted another look left him wondering how far the intrigue would burrow itself within him. He knew better than to let this shift into the realm of unprofessional, even if that wink continued playing on repeat in his head. “I could do that,” he said. “Especially if it’d be some help to you.” Lowering his backpack down onto the floor, he kicked it closer to the area behind the desk and perked an eyebrow at Joanna. “Don’t give me that look. I didn’t intend to actually go in to see him.”

  The nurse produced a pen and a piece of folded paper from the pockets of her scrubs. “Come all this way and not at least steal a glance?” She shook her head. “I need to teach you better than that.”

  “I’m all ears.” He took the writing instrument as it was offered and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Though I’m strongly suspecting you just want me to do your rounds for you.”

  “If only they’d brought in more pretty men today.”

  Her lips gave way to a conspiratorial grin. Peter laughed, turning his back on her. “Room 418,” she called out and he gave her a thumb’s up in return without facing her again. A casual gait marked his journey down the hall, quiet except for the faint sound of televisions droning infomercials and other staff talkin
g in hushed tones. He reached an open door and before entering.

  The rhythmic noises coming from the machines around one bed provided their own technological symphony, uninterrupted by any other occupants in the dark room. The television remained off, and other than the sound of the occupant breathing, there wasn’t anything else to distract Peter from focusing on Christian. His arm in a sling, blankets covered him, but despite his present condition, he appeared completely serene while he slept. Peter sighed. Christian was the kind of man who looked good without even trying.

  Even if he probably wasn’t the type you introduced to your parents.

  “Well, at least that’s not a problem for me,” Peter said, exhaling a breath rife with tension. He clicked on the pen while shifting his attention back to the beeping monitors. Sleeping Beauty had an oxygen tube running under his nose and IVs dripping fluids and pain medication into him. His blood pressure and pulse remained steady and the numbers Peter jotted onto the sheet reinforced the idea that he was on the mend. “Must not have fractured anything in your shoulder if there isn’t any cast. That should have you on your way home within a few days, I’d think.”

  “Is that a date then?” a hoarse, groggy voice responded, just loud enough for it to startle Peter. The young doctor took a step backward, his gaze shooting to Christian as the other man’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on him. Christian cleared his throat, his voice gaining confidence. “Heaven knows I could use a drink,” he continued. “Perhaps three.”

  Peter swallowed down a lump that had formed in his throat, gathering professionalism back in scraps and clutching it against his chest. Oh God, why did he have to have that accent? “I think you might have to wait a while longer before you get that drink,” he said. “Discharged from the hospital doesn’t necessarily mean back to business as usual.”

  “Just meeting me and already, you know my usual business.” A slight shift in the way he was lying provoked a groan from Christian. Peter motioned closer, but the infirmed man held up his good hand as he settled back into place. “Seems I wrecked myself proper this time.”

  “Yes, you were in an accident, Mr. Mason.”

  “Hmm?” He furrowed his brow, the gesture the first Peter observed which might be a side effect of the morphine drip. Recollection appeared laborious from the other man. “Oh, right. Yes, someone else told me that, I think.”

  “They said you told them your name. I’m sure they tried to explain what had happened.” Peter studied Christian and weighed his next words. “You’re at least looking better than when you first came in.”

  A smirk danced dreamily across Christian’s lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Dr. –”

  “Dawes. You can call me Peter.” He laughed. “And I don’t mean that to flirt. You looked like hell when they first wheeled you in.” Stepping closer, a soft sigh preceded him lowering to a seated position on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Dejected. You weren’t flirting with me.” The continued presence of an amused expression betrayed his words, even if it gained a flicker of sobriety. “You were there when they brought me in?”

  Peter nodded. “You came to us first in the ER.”

  “You seem a long way from the emergency room, unless that’s where they keep people these days.”

  “No. You’re in the patient rooms. I just thought I’d…” He trailed off. The hand still clutching the pen reached back, two fingers relenting in their grip of the writing instrument to wrestle a rogue itch on the back of his neck again. “I wanted to make sure you were doing better. You were one of my first cases.”

  Christian lingered in silence for a moment, just long enough for Peter to believe the drugs had finally slipped the other man into a haze of incoherence. The smile relaxed, but his lips remained curled, his crystal blue irises intent on Peter throughout the quiet that settled between them. A fingertip brushed against Peter’s other hand, where it rested on the bed with a piece of paper still clutched in its grip. The touch caused heat to pool in the doctor’s stomach.

  “I trust this means you’ll come back again, when I can express proper thanks,” Christian said, his fingers retracting. Peter didn’t need to look down to see them slip away. He felt the void they left behind.

  Slowly, he nodded. “Maybe after my shift tomorrow,” he said before he could reconsider. His answer hung in the air, offered too eagerly for his taste. “If I don’t have to slip away to get some rest. The shifts in this place are brutal.”

  “All work and no play makes Peter a dull boy.” Christian hummed thoughtfully, his eyes shutting for a moment. As they opened again, Peter couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a plea in them. “At least pause to say hello. A glimpse of those pretty green eyes could only aid in my recovery.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Peter winked, and though he lifted to a stand, he lingered for a few extra seconds before nodding at the other man. “Get some rest. That’ll probably help more.”

  “Doctor’s orders?”

  “Doctor’s orders.” A warm smile tugged at Peter’s mouth. He turned away from Christian before the look on the other man’s face threatened to force him to stay the rest of the night. Already, he was toeing the line of overstepping his boundaries and the last thing he needed this close to finishing his residency was trouble in both his professional and personal life. Even if the warm, flirtatious words and gentle coaxing continued spinning through his mind.

  After returning the sheet of paper and pen to Joanna, Peter trudged from the building and to the subway. The sun had barely started peeking over the horizon, illuminating the city and threatening to stir its occupants into life, starting the cycle of chaos anew. Peter deposited his keys by the front door of his apartment and sloughed off his backpack while turning the lock and securing himself inside. As silence settled in the empty apartment, Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Shower,” he murmured, emptying his pockets and tossing his coat aside. Both hands lifted, rubbing at his face while the sounds of his next-door neighbors rousing disrupted the quiet. His tired eyes lifted to the loft overhead, the bed calling out his name. By the time he finished cleaning up, everyone would be off to work and he could sneak in enough rest to last the next shift.

  Maybe by then, he might have forgotten about Christian, too.

  Exhaling a deep breath, he flicked on the light switch in his small bathroom and shut the door. The sight of a twenty-eight-year-old man with dark circles under his eyes greeted him, but the color of his irises stuck out to him the most. “A glimpse of those pretty green eyes could only aid in my recovery.” Peter felt another shiver crawl its way up his spine and temptation nip at him once more. Ever since he’d known he liked men, there’d been two types that caught his interest above the others. The first, he called fine dining – the classier men of the lot. The ones who wore suits like it was their natural skin, like the specialists Peter would undress with his eyes while forcing sandwiches down his throat in the cafeteria.

  Bad boys comprised the other group. Peter frowned at his reflection in the mirror before turning away from it. His parents had died before he’d started dating, but somehow, he knew they wouldn’t approve of how many times people like Christian turned his head. Stripping off his scrubs and tossing them into a growing pile of laundry, he started the shower and stood waiting for the water to heat, tempted to slip under the stream while it could still chill him to the bone.

  ‘You want him already,’ he thought. ‘He’s a patient, for crying out loud.’

  “Keeping my hands to myself,” he declared to an audience of one and finally pulled back the curtain enough to step inside. Water covered his face and streamed down his body, lukewarm at first and gradually turning scalding. Peter rotated his shoulders and stretched his limbs, letting the heat work out the kinks in his muscles, then ran his fingers through his hair to saturate the unruly locks. His skin was buzzing, the tingles surfacing and gathering while he called to mind how long it’d been s
ince he’d had a steady boyfriend.

  ‘Just one touch. You’ve jerked off to worse things.’

  He groaned and flexed his fingers, attempting to resist the temptation. His arm lowered and palm hovered between his legs, the internal war waged and lost with the first skim of his hand. His cock reacted, almost coercing him to do it again. Before he knew it, his fingers had wrapped around himself, giving the limp length its first tug.

  “I trust this means you’ll come back again, when I can express proper thanks.”

  Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, the fantasy taking hold. In his mind, he envisioned Christian slipping into the shower, the smug bastard uninjured and clothed only in what God had given him as he encroached on Peter’s personal space. “Need some help with that?” he asked, inclining his head so that his lips might brush near Peter’s, knocking the taller man’s hand away to take hold of it himself.

  “Oh fuck, yes…” The proclamation escaped Peter’s mouth before he could bite it back. It wasn’t his palm slipping up and down the hardening shaft any longer, it was Christian’s, slow and taunting as a devious grin surfaced on the other man’s face. His tongue flicked out, tracing across Peter’s bottom lip while the motion of his hand increased in tempo, still maddening; deliberate. With an invitation latent in it for Peter to lose control.

  “Yes…” Christian said the word. Or he did. He couldn’t be sure once the fantasy evolved. Christian bit his lip and rocked his hips against Peter, pressing their bodies flush, the shorter man stroking him faster when both became hungry for completion. Tipping his head back, Peter felt the water from the shower pour down his back while he braced himself against the wall, coils of tension tightening in his groin and a grunt preceding the cry his mouth produced as the shockwaves took him over. Grasping onto the slippery tile, he felt his turn knees weak and his cock pulse in time with his climax. For a few moments, the sum of his existence was the other man, and what he had just done to him.