Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  With my hand clasped in his, we walk back through the house and out the back door. There is farmland as far as the eye can see.

  “Wow…are you farming this?”

  “No.” He leads me toward a large, red barn that sits off to the side. “I rent it out to a local farmer. Hop on,” he says, motioning toward a Gator. I climb onto the vehicle.

  Rhett pulls out of the barn and drives along the edge of the property.

  “How many acres?”

  “One hundred.” He looks at me and smiles. “I always thought I might put up a new barn and bring some cattle out here. Maybe a few horses and chickens.”

  “If you’re wanting a ranch, you could just take over your father’s. I’m sure he’d be happy to hand over some of the responsibility.”

  “I know he would—and who knows, maybe someday I will—but Allen Family Ranch doesn’t have this…”

  Rhett pulls the Gator beneath a large tree and parks it. We climb out and step up to a wooden fence. My jaw drops open at the sight in front of me.

  “Oh my God, Rhett,” I laugh, my smile too big to contain. “This is breathtaking.”

  His hands land on the fence on either side of me. “This is why I bought the property,” he says, following my gaze as I look out at a perfect view of the Houston skyline.

  Technically, we’re standing on a bluff looking down, so it’s more of an aerial view, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful and impressive.

  “It’s pretty nice now, but you should see it at night,” he adds.

  “Can we come out here tonight?”

  Rhett pulls his phone out and checks the time. “We don’t have much longer until sunset, and we’ve got nowhere to be. We can just stay out here.”

  “I’d love that.”

  Pushing away from the fence, I walk over to an open patch of thick, green grass. I kick off my shoes and sit down. Rhett follows, but opts to leave his boots on. Leaning back on my hands, I look over at him.

  “Tell me something about you I don’t already know.”

  “Hmmmm,” he says, mimicking my position. “There isn’t much.”

  “Come on, there has to be something.”

  “Lincoln and I took a cooking class.”

  I gasp. “You did not!”

  “We did.” He nods. “Neither one of us had a girl, and we were sick of mac-n-cheese, Spaghetti-Os, and takeout.”

  “Whose idea was it to take the class?”

  “Linc’s. He used to date a girl who was a chef. We signed up through her.”

  “Well, did you learn to cook? Is that why you put in a state-of-the-art kitchen?”

  “I did learn to cook—a few things at least. And no, I put in a state-of-the-art kitchen because I was hoping one day I’d marry a woman who would put it to good use.”

  “Is that so?” I ask, laughing.

  He smiles and nods. “Yup.”

  “And what about Linc? Did he learn how to cook?”

  “Let’s just say some people shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen or around a stove.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “We made more trips to the emergency room during the course of that class than I have through all of my bull rides—and trust me, there have been many trips caused by the bull.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “You’ve had quite a few injuries over the years.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I follow your career, remember?”

  “That’s right. My sexy stalker.”

  I swat at his shoulder but miss. “I wasn’t stalking.”

  He winks. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

  We’re keeping things light, but I have to ask… “Nothing too serious though, right? I sometimes felt like Coop sugarcoated when he gave me updates.”

  “Nah. Nothing too serious.”

  Rhett looks away, and that’s how I know he’s lying.

  “Tell me.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Three concussions. Fractured pelvis. Dislocated shoulder. Rotator cuff strain.” He lifts the offending arm. “A few broken ribs here and there, and a broken wrist.”

  I open my mouth to ask him more, but he cuts me off.

  “Now it’s your turn. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Nice deflection.”

  “Thank you. Answer the question.”

  I scrunch my brow, trying to come up with something fun I’ve done in the last six years. “I think you pretty much know everything.”

  “Nah. There has to be a wild, crazy story in there somewhere.”

  I shake my head. “After dad’s stroke, I buried myself in work. Aside from the occasional beer with Claire and Tess, I haven’t done much—watched movies with Dad, bartended, worked at Animal Haven.” I frown, thinking about all the things I didn’t do. “I’m boring.”

  “You’re not boring.”

  “Really?” I lift a brow.

  “There has to be a bad date story in there somewhere, or a drunken night with Claire.”

  I shake my head again. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing. I haven’t done a damn thing for the last six years—unless you want me to tell you about the time a horse stepped on my toe and I had to have my toenail removed.”

  Rhett scrunches his nose.

  “Didn’t think so. I got bit by a stray dog and had to get a tetanus shot. Oh, and one time a skunk got into Mr. Lytle’s house, and I helped chase it out, but not before getting sprayed. I went through ten cans of tomato juice that night.”

  Rhett smiles. “See, you have funny stories.”

  “About animals.”

  Sighing, I flop back on the grass and look up at the sky. The sun is starting to set, casting red and orange across the clouds.

  “I missed out on so much. I can’t tell you how many times I turned down my friends because I was too tired to hang out, or didn’t have enough money to buy myself a beer. Looking back, I wish I would’ve gone anyway, made those memories.” I think about that for a moment and then correct myself. “Actually, it wouldn’t have mattered; I still had to stay home to take care of my dad.”

  “I’m sorry, Mo.”

  “Don’t be. My life hasn’t been bad; it just hasn’t been very exciting.”

  Rhett sighs, shifting his gaze to the sky for a moment and then back to me. “You know,” he says, running his fingers up the side of my arm. “It’s never too late to add some excitement to your life.”

  When his fingers hit the collar of my shirt and dip beneath, grazing the swell of my breast, my breath catches. “I’m listening.”

  Shifting in the grass, Rhett props himself on an elbow and leans over me. He delivers a heated kiss and moves to my ear. “I could show you how much fun three showerheads can be. Did I mention they’re adjustable and one of them has a pulsating option?”

  My throat constricts. “Are they removable?”

  “Damn right they are.”

  Pushing up, I slip my shoes on and look down at a smiling Rhett. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Rhett

  “I hate hospitals,” I tell Mo the next morning.

  “Shhh.” She shoots me a warning look as we enter the sterile waiting area. “This isn’t a hospital; it’s a doctor’s office, and there are people around.”

  I look everywhere, doing a three-sixty, and don’t see a damn person. “Where? Where are the people?”

  “You’re grouchy today,” she says, motioning for me to sign in at the front desk.

  I scribble my name on a piece of paper at the same time the receptionist slides the glass window open.

  “I’m going to need your insurance card and a photo ID,” she says, using a black marker to cross out the name I just signed.

  Well, that was pointless.

  I pull the cards she’s requested from my wallet and hand them to her.

  “You can have seat. I’ll get these back to you when we call you in.”

  I nod as the window closes again. “I’
m grouchy because I hate doctors,” I say, following Mo.

  She walks to the back of the waiting room and grabs a magazine from the shelf. When she goes to sit down, she winces.

  “You okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” she whispers, fighting back a smile. “I’m sore.”

  It takes a second for her words to sink in, but when they do, I grin. Last night was by far the best night Mo and I have had since getting back together. I say that every time, but it’s always true.

  “I guess tonight I’ll have to take your ass instead.”

  Mo’s eyes grow wide as she looks around to make sure no one heard. Lucky for her we’re the only ones in the room, other than the walled-off receptionist.

  Before Mo has a chance to scold me, a door off to the left opens, and a woman in black scrubs steps out. With a folder in her hand, she looks at Mo and me. “Rhett Allen?”

  We follow her through a set of wooden doors, down a hall, and then into another room. She takes my blood pressure, asks a few questions about how I’ve been feeling—to which I reply great—and then disappears from the room.

  “I hate these offices,” I announce once she’s gone. “They’re so cold. Look at the walls; you’d think they could infuse some color or something.”

  “You’ve seen plenty of them; you should know.”

  “Really, Mo?”

  She frowns, but once again, she gets interrupted. I’m grateful because I’m not sure I want to hear what she has to say. Plus, she couldn’t say anything that hasn’t already been jammed into my head a million times over.

  This is a dangerous career.

  What if you get seriously injured?

  The next blow to your head could kill you.

  “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wong says, offering me his hand.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” I ask as we shake.

  He drops my chart on the counter and sits down in a roller chair. With his hands clasped in front of himself, he smiles. “Your physical therapist sent me all of your records, and he seems to think you’ve made quite a bit of progress.”

  “Does that mean I don’t need surgery?”

  Monroe reaches for my hand.

  Dr. Wong nods and stands up. “You’re correct. You won’t need surgery,” he says, manipulating my arm into several different positions.

  I sigh in relief, and Mo smiles. My shoulder has felt great for the last couple weeks, but the thought of surgery has lingered in the back of my head.

  “Does that mean I can go back to work?”

  “Yes, I’m clearing you from your shoulder injury to return to work.”

  He says the words, but his eyes are guarded, and I know there’s a but coming.

  “But I want you to know the risks,” he continues. “I’ve looked over your history, and this isn’t your first shoulder injury. On top of that, your rotator cuff is still fragile, so while I will release you, I highly encourage you to start thinking about retirement.” He returns to his seat.

  “Retirement? Are you kidding me?”

  Mo squeezes my hand, but I shake her off.

  “I’m nowhere close to retirement. I’ve got years ahead of me in this career.”

  Dr. Wong holds up his hands. “I’m not telling you you have to quit. I’m simply suggesting that you start thinking about your future. Another injury like this one, and you’ll be out for surgery with months of rehab, and your shoulder still might not get back to a hundred percent. Look,” he says, scooting to the edge of his seat. “You’re young, and you have your entire life ahead of you. There are lots of things you can’t do with a bum shoulder.”

  “If his shoulder is still fragile, why are you clearing him to return?”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. I shoot a nasty look at Mo, but she keeps her eyes locked on Dr. Wong.

  “Because it’s healed, Ms…”

  “Gallagher.”

  He smiles. “As much as I would like to, I can’t keep Mr. Allen on the disabled list just because I fear a potential re-injury. Bull riding is a dangerous sport, but he knows the hazards, and it has to be his choice. It’s my job to make sure he goes in with eyes wide open.”

  Monroe nods, and thank God she doesn’t say another word.

  “So that’s it?” I ask. “We’re done?”

  “Almost. I spoke to Dr. Pine about the concussion—”

  “I don’t need clearance from the concussion to ride,” I say, interrupting him.

  “I know you don’t.”

  “Wait.” Monroe turns to me. “What do you mean you don’t need to be cleared after a concussion?” She looks back at the doctor.

  “I’m afraid he’s right, Ms. Gallagher. The PBR doesn’t require medical clearance after a concussion. He’s free to ride as soon as he feels up to it.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m fine, Mo.” I grit the words out, ignoring the nauseating look she gives me.

  “Yes, you’re fine now. Forget about the shoulder injury; I’m more worried about your head.”

  Son of a bitch. What was I thinking bringing her with me today?

  “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about next, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wong says. “Dr. Pine wants to see you while you’re in the building today.”

  “I’m not sure if we’re going to have time, and I didn’t make an appointment.”

  He nods. “My nurse went ahead and scheduled you one after I talked to Dr. Pine the other day. He just wants to see how you’re feeling. It won’t take long, and if you’re ready, you can go over there now.”

  “We’re ready,” Mo answers for me.

  “Great.” Dr. Wong reaches for my chart and pulls out a piece of paper. “Here’s your medical clearance.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” I fold the paper and stuff it in my back pocket.

  He reaches for the door and stops. “For what it’s worth, you’re an extremely talented bull rider. I just want you to walk away from the industry someday with enough of your health left to become an even better husband and father.” He glances at Mo, giving her a smile and nod, and steps out the door.

  “Mo.”

  She stands up, pulling her purse strap high on her shoulder. “I refuse to apologize for asking questions that pertain to your health.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to apologize.”

  “Good. Because I won’t,” she says, walking out.

  The silence is deafening as we walk to the opposite side of the medical complex to Dr. Pine’s office. Within twenty minutes I’m back in a stark white room, sitting on a bed with that noisy-as-fuck paper.

  “Mr. Allen,” Dr. Pine says as he walks in. He’s a tall man with a gut that tells me he enjoys his dessert as much as I do. Other than a few gray hairs along his temples, he looks the same. “It’s been a while.”

  “That’s a good thing, Doc.” I shake his hand. “Means I’ve been healthy.”

  “Until recently,” he adds, turning toward Mo. “And you are?”

  “Monroe Gallagher,” she answers, slipping her hand in his.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” When he releases Mo’s hand, he picks up my chart and flips through. “I assume Dr. Wong told you we spoke on the phone the other day.”

  “He mentioned it.”

  Dr. Pine looks up from the chart. “Don’t worry, Rhett, all good things. We’ve both enjoyed following your career.”

  “I hear a but in there somewhere.”

  He smiles at Monroe while pointing at me. “Is he always this cynical?”

  She returns his smile but doesn’t answer.

  “I just wanted to talk to you about your head.”

  “My head is good, Doc.”

  “No blurred vision, floaters, or black spots?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dizziness or headaches?”

  I shake my head, and he continues.

  “Numbness or tingling in the extremities?”

  “Nothing.”
<
br />   “What about muscle weakness, difficulty chewing or swallowing, memory loss, or trouble concentrating?”

  I know what he’s getting at, and he’s not going to get a positive answer from me. “I’m good. I’d tell you if something was wrong.”

  “Would you?” Monroe asks, lifting a brow.

  Dr. Pine laughs. “I like this one,” he says. “She’ll keep you on your toes. In all fairness, Ms. Gallagher, Rhett is generally a good patient. He comes to me when he’s concerned about something.”

  She looks at me apologetically, and I smile. As frustrating as it is, I know she’s just looking out for me.

  “Is that why you wanted to see me today, to make sure I’m still okay?”

  “I got a report from the hospital after your recent stay. I was on vacation, which is why you saw Dr. Simpson. That concussion did a number on you, and I wanted a chance to follow up and make sure you weren’t suffering any secondary complications.”

  “I’m good.”

  “What do you mean it did a number on him?” Monroe asks.

  Dr. Pine looks at me. “I’m assuming that since you brought her in here, I’m able to discuss your injuries with her?”

  “Yeah, you can talk to her.” I drop my head into my hand, running my fingers along my forehead, preparing myself for what’s to come.

  “Well, Ms. Gallagher, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this wasn’t Rhett’s first concussion.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “He was unconscious for three days, although we believe that was partially due to swelling in the brain after a blow to the head by the bull. The time before this, he was unconscious for four days. These aren’t the typical concussions someone playing a contact sport might receive. These are more serious, with the potential to cause severe damage.”

  I peek through my fingers to see Mo grinding her teeth together. Coop probably was sugarcoating things for her. I’ll have to remember to thank him.

  “He didn’t tell me that,” she says, not bothering to look at me.

  Dr. Pine frowns. “I figured.”

  “What does this mean? He had scans, right? They did all of that in the hospital. And everything had to come back okay or they wouldn’t have discharged him.”

  “You’re right. They did scans, everything came back fine, the swelling subsided, and it was identified as a grade 3 concussion. But it’s still considered a traumatic brain injury.”