by Lynn Hagen
Eric chuckled as the doctor left the room. He’d never had to see Dr. Sheehan before, but Eric had heard about the guy’s humor.
“I know who hit you,” Samson blurted out. “That night, when we went to the dinner after volunteering, Mr. Lumberjack was there.”
“Mr. Lumberjack?” Eric furrowed his brows as he reached for his bag and emptied his clothes onto the table. Next to the bag were a set of boots. Eric ripped the gown off and tossed it aside. He pulled his underwear on, pressing one hand against the table to steady himself.
Whoa. Why was he suddenly so dizzy? There should be no lingering effects from the accident. His head swam slightly, and Eric waited for it to pass before he finished dressing.
“He was watching me.” Samson didn’t seem to notice Eric’s lightheadedness because he made no comment about it. “And when he left, he sat in that beat-up red truck and stared at me through the window. But given what just happened, maybe he was watching you.” His brows dipped. “I didn’t even consider that.” He looked up at Eric with worry in his eyes. “Why would he be watching you?”
“I’m gonna get you to the station.” Eric zipped his pants and grabbed a chair to shove his boots on. “I’ll have you work with a sketch artist so we know what this guy looks like.”
A concentrated look crossed Samson’s face.
“Just give as many details as you remember.” Eric laced his boots, ready to get out of the clinic. He needed fresh air, an arm around his mate, and to find out who’d run that red light and nearly killed him. As hard as the truck had impacted his cruiser, the stranger hadn’t been going the speed limit.
When Eric stood, Samson came to him, sliding his arms around his waist. His mate felt wonderful against his body, the fit just right as Samson laid his head against Eric’s chest.
“I was so damn worried.”
“I know.” Eric soothed a hand down Samson’s slim back. “But I’m fine.” He patted his mate’s ass. “And I’m also starving. Let’s go thank the good doctor so we can get out of here.”
A fat greasy burger and some fries sound good right about now. Eric’s stomach rumbled in agreement. Samson looked up at him from under his thick lashes and grinned. “I heard that.”
“I didn’t get a chance to eat your packed lunch.” There was disappointment in Eric’s tone. He’d actually been looking forward to his turkey sandwich.
“I think your lunch is still in the wrecked car.” Samson took a step back and headed for the door. “I can go to the Mark’s Garage and see if I can dig it out, or we can grab something to eat at the diner.”
Eric rubbed his neck as he remembered a sharp pinprick. He took a step forward, swayed, and crashed into the counter before he hit the floor.
“Eric!” Samson opened the door and shouted again. “Doctor!” His mate raced to his side and dropped to his knees, placing Eric’s head on his lap. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I don’t know.” Eric rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand. The dizziness was back but ten times stronger. He felt as though he was about to throw up. His chest rose and fell in choppy pants as the doctor walked into the room at a clipped pace.
“What happened?” He flashed a penlight in each of Eric’s eyes.
“He just fell.” Samson’s fingers worked circles in Eric’s hair. “I thought shifting healed shifters.” There was panic and anger in Samson’s voice. “What’s going on with him?”
“Because yelling at me will get you answers?” the doctor said to Samson before he slid his arm under Eric’s body. “Let’s get you back on the table.”
* * * *
Getting Eric off the floor was a struggle. Samson was a wimp, and Dr. Sheehan was pretty much holding all the weight as they tugged and pulled to get Eric on his feet. Samson squeaked and grunted as Eric’s weight suddenly fell toward him. He pressed his feet against the counter for leverage before they went down and Samson ended up with a concussion and broken bones. The doctor moved out ahead and pulled Eric toward him, walking backward as Eric stumbled forward.
“He’s solid.” The doctor huffed and strained as he helped Eric onto the table. Eric’s arms swung out and knocked a few things over, but he was finally lying down. Samson held his side while a stitch tightened his muscles.
“I’m putting him on a damn diet.” Samson panted. He was joking but also worried.
Dr. Sheehan went straight to work. He put on a pair of latex gloves before drawing blood and checking Eric’s vitals while Samson stood there with one arm folded over his stomach, using the other to bite at his fingernails. “Anything yet?”
“I just started,” the doctor said. “Tests take time.”
“I’m feeling better.” Eric flopped to his back and threw an arm over his eyes. “Now if I can just get rid of the migraine and nausea, I can get out of here.”
“You’re not going anywhere until I’ve run my tests,” Dr. Sheehan said. “But I’ll move you to a room with a comfortable bed.”
“You’re a peach, Doc,” Eric grumbled. “I remember someone coming to my door right after the crash. He said something to me that I can’t recall, and then I felt a sting in my neck.”
“Where?” the doctor asked.
Eric tapped the left side, just under his jaw. “Right here.”
The doctor examined Eric’s neck as Samson drew closer to get a look, too. He couldn’t see anything because Eric’s jaw was covered with stubble.
Dr. Sheehan took a step back and nearly collided with Samson. “Unless you want to become my assistant, I’ll need you to stand on the other side of the bed.”
The doctor’s tone was polite, but Samson heard an underlying note of irritation. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was getting in the way or because the doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong with Eric.
“Sorry. I’m just worried about him.”
Dr. Sheehan’s hazel eyes softened. “That’s understandable. I’m worried, as well. He should be healed, and I don’t understand why he isn’t.” He squeezed Samson’s arm. “But we’ll figure this out.”
Sheriff Werth strode into the room. His dark brows pulled down as he stared at Eric. “I thought he shifted and healed.”
“Complications arose,” the doctor said. “But since you’re here, you can help me get him settled into a room.”
The sheriff moved to the other side of the table as Samson moved out of the way.
“What kind of complications?” Together they got Eric up, one man on either side of him with Eric’s arms over their shoulders, and moved him down the hallway, Samson right behind them.
“Can’t tell you,” Dr. Sheehan said. “You know, that pesky thing called patient confidentiality. It’s more of a law than a suggestion.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Eric moaned.
They moved faster and got Eric settled before the sheriff grabbed a small trash can by the closet and brought it to the bed. Dr. Sheehan frowned and grabbed a small blue bag, handing it to Eric.
Werth set the trash can down. “I wasn’t trying to infringe on Eric’s rights. I’m just concerned.”
“I got dizzy and fell,” Eric said. His arm was back over his eyes. “My head hurts, and I’m nauseous. Doc took blood from me so he can figure out why.” Eric lowered his arm long enough to look at the doctor. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nope, that about sums it up.” Dr. Sheehan grabbed a chair and moved it to the side of the bed and then waved for Samson to take a seat. For the past couple of minutes, Samson had felt invisible and was glad the doctor had thought of him.
“Is there anything you need?” Werth asked Samson. “I know Jacoby is messed up, but we can’t forget about how this has affected you.”
Werth’s statement endeared him to Samson. “No, I’m okay, but thank you for asking.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
“I’m gonna go take a look at his blood.” Dr. Sheehan left the room.
Samson had no idea since she’d left before he’d
woken up. He was grateful for everyone’s help, but he didn’t really want to discuss her issues with an almost-stranger. “She’s doing okay.”
Werth rolled his eyes. “If everyone was any more okay, the world would be a great place to live. But I’ll butt out.”
“No.” Samson held up a hand. “I wasn’t saying that.” He bit his lip. “But if you really want to know, I’m worried like crazy for Eric, and I know who hit him. My mom left for work before I got up this morning, and I think she’s avoiding me.”
The words just flowed once Samson had opened his mouth. He felt as though a weight was sitting on his chest, and spilling his guts to the sheriff felt as though that weight was lifting.
Eric set the blue bag down and grabbed Samson’s hand. He squeezed it before tangling their fingers, their palms pressed together. “It’s okay, babe. You have a lot on your plate. I just want you to sit and take a deep breath. Take a moment for yourself.”
“Have you eaten?” Werth asked.
“We’re starving,” Eric answered. “But I’m afraid to put anything on my stomach.”
“How about I grab you a sandwich from the diner?” Werth asked Samson.
“You don’t have to go out of your way,” Samson said.
“He’ll take one,” Eric said.
With a nod, Werth headed toward the door. “Be back in a jiffy, and then we can talk about how you know the hit-and-run driver.”
“Eric says the guy injected him with something. The doctor thinks that’s why he’s so messed up right now.”
Werth frowned at Samson. “Then we really need to find this son of a bitch,” the sheriff said.
“Get a sketch artist in here,” Eric moaned. “Samson saw his face.”
With a nod, Werth left the room.
Samson settled back in his chair, refusing to let Eric’s hand go. “Has this ever happened before?”
Eric peeked at him from under his arm. “What, a shifter getting sick after he’s heeled?”
Samson nodded.
“Not that I’ve heard of.” He groaned. “Unless the shifter had silver poisoning.”
Samson’s brows shot up as terror filled his heart. The word poison was a huge indicator that silver was lethal to Eric’s kind. “Is that what you have?”
“I’d be dying right now if that were the case, and although I feel like shit, I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.” Eric gave him a weak smile. It did nothing to settle Samson’s nerves. His mate might not have silver poisoning, but something was wrong, and Samson was terrified to find out what that something was.
“You said you loved me,” Samson blurted, “when you were in the ambulance.” He wasn’t sure why he was bringing that up. He’d already decided that Eric had said those three words in delirium. But a part of Samson wanted to believe Eric had known what he was saying.
His mate grinned while his arm was still over his eyes. “Ah, you heard that.”
“It was kind of hard not to.” Samson’s heart sped because Eric recalled saying it. “Did you mean it?”
Eric grunted as he rolled to his side. From the expression on his face, he was in a lot of pain. He tucked an arm under his head as he stared at Samson. “I meant it.”
Samson looked down at his hands and plucked at a loose thread on his jeans. “I…uh…might mean it, too.”
His head snapped up when he heard a low, deep chuckle. “For someone who doesn’t have a problem saying what’s on his mind, you sure know how to freeze when it comes to saying you love someone.”
“Hey, give me a break. Aside from my mom, I’ve never said that to anyone.” Samson pulled his hand from Eric’s and gave it a gentle slap.
Eric tapped his lips. “Put one right here, gorgeous.”
A wide grin spread across Samson’s face as he got up and gave his mate a chaste kiss.
“You can do better than that.” Was Eric really pouting?
“You’re sick, and I don’t want to push things.”
Eric grabbed Samson around his neck and pulled him closer, giving him a kiss that made Samson’s heart flutter.
“Break it up,” Dr. Sheehan said when he entered. “Get a room.” He grinned. “Then again, you’re already in one. But no hanky-panky.”
Samson pulled away and settled into his chair. “Eric started it.”
The doctor held up a syringe. “And I’m ending it.”
“What’s that?” Samson asked as the doctor moved to the other side of the bed.
“Anti-nausea medication. It’s usually reserved for my human patients, but since Eric isn’t acting himself, I thought I’d give it a try.” He tapped Eric on his hip. “And since you don’t have an IV, you’re getting your drugs direct.”
Eric winced when the doctor gave him the shot.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Samson teased, praying the medication worked.
“All done.” Dr. Sheehan disposed of the needle in the small bin attached to the wall. “Let me know if that helps.” He exited the room.
“I guess we’ll have to make out later.” Eric entwined their fingers again as he closed his eyes.
Samson rested his head on the mattress, settling in for however long they would be there.
Chapter Eight
So maybe Samson didn’t remember every single detail. The sketch artist hid his frustration—but Samson clearly saw it in the man’s brown eyes—when he had to start over for the third time. He couldn’t remember if Mr. Lumberjack’s eyes had been blue or green or what color his baseball cap had been. Had his beard been longer or shorter, black or brown? “I think his nose was a bit longer and his eyes were beadier.”
Was his nose that shape, or was it a little wider? The longer Samson sat there, the fuzzier his brain had gotten.
“Why don’t you take a break?” Eric suggested. “Maybe some fresh air and some food will do you some good.”
The sketch artist rose to his feet, set his pad aside, and stretched. “I’m gonna head over to the coffee shop. I’ll be back.”
They were still in the medical clinic. Dr. Sheehan was still poking around Eric, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. It had been hours since his mate had taken a spill, and Samson felt testy sitting in that room for so long, still…
“I’m not leaving your side.”
Nothing could rip Samson away from his mate. Except a bathroom break, which Samson desperately needed. Sheriff Werth, the sweetheart that he was, had brought him an Italian hoagie, fries, and a huge soft drink. But now he needed to pee.
“I’ll be right back.” Samson gave Eric a quick kiss before he hurried into the hallway and looked around for a bathroom. He was doing the pee dance by the time he found one. That would teach him to drink such a large soda.
After he was done and hands washed, Samson came back into the hallway. God, that had been the nicest smelling bathroom he’d ever been in. Even the hand soap rocked. Now his fingers smelled like black cherry merlot. He wondered if the doctor had put that in there so he’d know if someone washed their hands.
Samson stopped walking when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and spotted Mr. Lumberjack entering the clinic. For a moment, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and then Samson shouted as he ran toward the big, burly guy as if he were a cop with ninja skills. He wasn’t sure why he was running toward him. It wasn’t as though Samson could tackle the big fucker and do any damage.
The guy’s eyes widened before he spun and ran out the door. For someone that big, he hauled ass at an incredible speed. His arms and legs pumped like he was some sort of jackrabbit while Samson’s muscles burned and he ran out of breath.
But he raced down the street like some kind of idiot, shouting to anyone who would listen that Mr. Lumberjack was wanted by the cops. It never occurred to Samson that he might be running into a trap. All he cared about was capturing the guy who had hit his mate’s cruiser and had nearly cost Eric his life.
And the guy who had injected Eric with something that h
ad made him all wonky. The guy cut down an alley and disappeared. Samson halted, placing his hands on his knees as his body protested the exercise. As badly as he wanted to go after Mr. Lumberjack, Samson wasn’t an idiot. Alleys were for muggings and getting shanked.
A cruiser pulled to the curb. Dillon and Vince hopped out. “What’s going on?” Dillon asked.
Samson wiggled a finger toward the alley, gulping down air as he tried to speak. It wasn’t easy considering his lungs were on fire. “Bad…guy.” That was all he was able to manage. Sweat poured off him, and he finally relented and planted his ass on the sidewalk, his legs too wobbly to support him.
“The one who hit Jacoby?” Vince asked.
Samson wasn’t sure how the guy understood who he was talking about, but he nodded as he wiped the sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt. Dillon and Vince raced down the alley, but Samson knew they wouldn’t catch Mr. Lumberjack.
The only good thing to come of the pursuit was that now Samson remembered what the guy looked like. Wouldn’t Mr. Sketch Artist be thrilled? Samson was.
Dillon and Vince returned without Mr. Lumberjack in custody. Samson knew they wouldn’t catch the guy but was still disappointed that they hadn’t.
Dillon held his hand out, and Samson took it. The deputy helped him to his feet.
“What happened?” Vince looked at him with concern, as if Samson would fall over at any second.
“He just walked into the clinic.” Samson looked up and down the street to make sure the guy hadn’t popped out of some doorway. “I don’t know why he was there, but as soon as I shouted, he took off.”
“And you thought it a bright idea to chase him?” Dillon asked with his hands on his hips. “What if he’d been carrying a weapon or stopped running and confronted you?”
Samson hated that Dillon was right and felt like a child being scolded. He bristled at the deputy’s tone. “I don’t need a badge. It’s called citizen’s arrest. And he didn’t have a weapon.” Not that Samson knew of, but he hadn’t asked either.
“Let’s get you back to Jacoby,” Vince said.