by JA Lafrance
I stopped him in his tracks by blurting my words out, “I love you, too!” I breathe a sigh of relief. “I thought it might be too soon to say. I didn't want to scare you.” He is quick to remove my hand, reaches under me, and scoops me up onto his lap.
“This is the best day.” He kisses me deeply and full of passion. “We won't let no pandemic stop us.” Another kiss and my body melts into his. I hope the neighbors aren't watching. How embarrassing. “I'm so happy right now. Thank you for loving me. You are the best thing to happen to me.” He gives me one last kiss and sets me back on the blanket, which is a good thing. If the kissing kept up, the show would turn rated R pretty quickly. That's what this man does to me. “Let's eat something, and after that, we can take the kissing back to the house.”
He winks and opens the basket.
About Jean Kelso
I'm a married mother of 2 boys who has survived many trials in life. During these trials, I have managed to write 4 romantic suspense stories that will leave you wanting more. My characters are mostly based off of real people, one is me. I hope you enjoy!
[email protected]
No Rest for the Wicked
Carey Decevito, Edits donated by Karen Hrdlicka
She'll be his. Forever. — No Rest for the Wicked
No Rest for the Wicked
Rett
“Go home.” Serena has her face stuck in a patient chart, updating it. “You should have clocked out four hours ago. If the Chief catches wind you’ve been on shift for nearly twenty hours, he’ll have my head.”
“See you Monday,” I tell her, waving my hand over my shoulder, not waiting for the reply I most likely wouldn’t get from the nurses’ station.
She’s right. If the Chief caught wind my replacement hadn’t come in for her shift, not only would he be pissed, but at this point, we can’t afford to lose any able hands, and we would.
This fucking pandemic is kicking our asses and taking names. It’s bad enough that we have employees out because they’ve either succumbed to burnout or they have become COVID patients themselves. We are barely coping with the revolving door on our medical staff rosters—nurse, physician, specialist—it doesn’t matter what specialty you’re in; for the last few months, it’s been all hands on deck.
So yeah, I’ve been working longer than our recommended ten to twelve hours since mid-March. The extra cash will go toward my medical school tuition in the fall.
“Murderer!” I hear the moment the automatic sliding doors open to one of the many side exits of the Ottawa General Hospital Campus.
Before I know it, I have a six foot three to my six and a half feet of a lean, mean, fighting machine in my face—fist first.
The moment his knuckles make contact, I see blood. Head wounds are gushers, and I’m now the new owner of split skin above my left eye, or so I suspect. The sight of the scarlet fluid does nothing for my attacker because he keeps at me.
“You’re the fucking nurse who killed my wife!” A sucker punch to the gut has me bending over with the wind knocked out of me. Then a knee to the chops has my teeth rattling and my lip stinging with the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
Another fist comes at me, but I dodge it, catching two medics and a doctor running toward us from the corner of my one good eye.
“Sir,” I groan, barely able to keep calm. I know precisely which case he’s referring to. After all, I don’t make it a habit to lose patients on the regular, and up until today, I hadn’t crossed paths with a loss for the last four months in my ER rotation. The man’s wife was my first COVID loss to boot.
“I’ll sue you for your ineptitude.” He takes another swing and misses. “I’ll sue you and this shit hospital.”
“Hey! Hey! Calm down, sir,” one of the paramedics says, as he winds an arm around my attacker’s left side.
“I will not! He killed my wife!” The man tries to pull away, but the second medic secures his other arm while the doctor waves a security officer toward us to help subdue the bereft man.
The first medic leaves his post to the officer, then approaches me with a shake of his head and a smirk. “You okay?” Steve, according to his name badge, hands me a wad of gauze from one of his uniform pockets. “He got you good.”
“Just a few scratches,” I say. I don’t want to admit to the headache that’s beginning to brew or the fact my vision is a little blurry. I’m not new to brawls, but I sure as shit hadn’t expected what I was met with just now. “I’ll be fine.”
“You might need some stitches; at worst, a CAT scan.”
I shrug. “I’m on my way home. I’ve got a kit there. It’s nothing I can’t handle with a few butterfly bandages.” True. I’ve been known to superglue cuts and other assorted wounds where I come from. Growing up in the Ottawa valley, the son of a farmer, means I came from stern stuff.
“I still think you should get checked out,” Steve says.
“I agree,” Dr. Bourne interjects, “unless you have someone who can make sure to look after you in case you have a concussion. Being a hospital employee, I’d advise staying here until you get the all-clear.”
A half hour later, I’m the recipient of a butterfly bandage across my left eyebrow, an ice pack, and one hell of a fat lip. Dr. Bourne gave me a quick once-over to rule out broken ribs, but he did state I’d be sore for the next few days, citing I should look at taking additional time off.
I nodded where I needed to, accepted the doc’s recommendations, stated I wouldn’t press charges, and went off on my merry way, hoping Johanna would be home—alone.
Johanna
The house is dark, due to the window coverings. It’s mid-June, and the Ottawa humidity is catching up with us homeowners who like to save pennies on our air-conditioning usage. It’s also why I live with Rett, well, did up until March when his folks brought over their trailer and parked it in the driveway. That’s where Rett lives now, so we can minimize direct contact, since we both work essential positions that bring us into direct proximity with the general public.
So, he lives in his folks’ trailer, and I’m in the house, whenever I’m home and not traveling as an emergency responder for the Canadian Red Cross. I just got home from a deployment out in Fort McMurray, Alberta, thanks to numerous forest and grass fires, not to mention the continuing Red Cross efforts post-flooding. Suffice to say that COVID has rendered these operations much more complicated.
To be honest, I miss Rett even when we’re both home, which is why I’m a little annoyed he’s not here when he should be. That and the fact I just got into town, picked up a pizza from our favorite neighborhood pizzeria, and I’m currently stuck waiting on his ass to get home. We have a standing date, whenever I get home from a deployment and his hours allow it, where we eat together and catch up while social distancing.
Tonight, however, I have some big news for him, and I need my best friend to celebrate.
The pizza’s gone cold, and I’m not quite sure what time it is when I hear the front door snicker shut as someone comes into the house, waking me.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?” I whisper, as I jackknife onto my feet and hurry toward Rett, who’s standing there, beaten and bruised.
“You should see the other guy,” he says with what would have been a smirk but looks more like a grimace. My hand reaches toward his bandaged eyebrow, and I smooth my fingers gently down his cheek, stopping to skim his busted lip.
“Rett.” I grab on to his hand and pull him toward the couch, forcing him to sit. He winces but settles and leans back with his eyes closed.
“I’ll be fine. Nothing a little rest and Tylenol won’t cure,” he assures me.
“Have you stopped at the trailer to take anything?” He shakes his head, so I head for the medicine cabinet on the main floor powder room. Tapping a few tablets in my hand, I rush for the kitchen, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and return to Rett.
“You’re the best,” he says before he pops the two Tylenol Extra Stre
ngth, breaks the seal off the water bottle, and starts to chug.
I sit down next to him, observing the man before me. The way the muscles in his neck undulate as he swallows his water, the scruff on his jaw that tells me he hasn’t slept much over the last few days because that’s the only time he won’t shave, and even his swollen eye. None of it does a thing to dull the attraction I feel for this man. But he’ll never know about that last bit as I’m pretty sure my feelings for Rett are all one-sided—unrequited.
“Uh, Jo?” Rett whispers, knocking me out of my reverie.
“Huh?” I mumble with my thumb at Rett’s mouth, collecting the bead of water that sits on his upper lip after his drinking. Shit. Get it together, girl! I snap my hand back with a, “Sorry, what?” and a shoulder shrug.
His lip quirks up on the uninjured side. “Got our pie?” he asks, sitting up. I nod. “Good. Pop it in the oven. I’ll head over to the trailer and get cleaned up and changed; then we can eat.
Without another word, Rett gets up and heads out the front door.
Scurrying to the kitchen, I find myself fumbling to get the pizza onto a pan, shove it in the oven, and turn on the appliance. Leaning back against the counter, I try to calm my racing heartbeat, all the while chastising myself for my schoolgirl crush demeanor.
Must be the lack of sleep over the last few weeks.
Rett
I’m glad I got out of there when I did. Thankful for the slight slouch I now have, thanks to my bruised ribs, I was able to hide the fact my best friend—once again—succeeded in causing me to have another visceral reaction like I’ve been having as of late whenever I think of her.
The fact she seemed dazed the moment her fingers touched my lip has me wondering if this unwanted attraction I have for her is more than one-sided.
Nah!
I make my way to the bedroom area of the trailer, grab some clean underwear, a T-shirt, and a pair of shorts from the drawers under the bed and head to my tiny-assed shower.
Turning the water on, I discard my wallet, car keys, my work ID, and pocket change onto the back of the toilet and strip out of my scrubs.
The hot water does wonders for my sore ribs. Droplets land on my lips, causing me to lick them. The act reminds me of Johanna’s earlier intimate yet innocent gesture, which had my cock standing at attention, leading to my escape.
Erection in hand, I squeeze my girth, closing my eyes. It’s so wrong to be jerking off to the thought of my lifelong friend, but it feels so right.
I’m zipping the fly to my shorts when Johanna knocks on the trailer door.
“It’s open, Jo!” I shout, taking the towel and vigorously rubbing at my light brown hair. “I said I’d be right over.”
Dropping the towel on the bathroom floor, I pop my head out of the room’s doorway as soon as I hear the door to the trailer snick shut.
“Everything is set up, but you’re taking forever, and I’m starving.” Jo shrugs in her what-can-you-do way she does since always, that I find adorable.
“Right.” I stand there waiting for the truth only to find her eyes filled with a look of horror, her gaze stuck to my chest.
Before I know it, we’re standing face-to-face, and Johanna’s small hands are caressing the bruises on the right, below my pectoral.
“Oh, Rett.”
“I’ve had worse.” It comes out deeper, raspier than my usual tone, causing Johanna to halt her movement but she doesn’t back away. Instead, she freezes, and her head tilts back to look me in the eye and swallows hard.
“I-I know that.” She backs away and turns to head toward the door. “Put a shirt on and meet me in the backyard. I fired up the firepit too, and the pizza won’t be able to suffer through another reheat.”
Johanna
What the hell is wrong with me?
I scamper off as quickly as I can toward the gate at the side of the house, pull the latch, and let myself into the yard, not daring to look back to see if Rett is following or not.
For the second time tonight, my being so close to Rett has been intense. In all honesty, it feels like forever since I’ve developed these feelings for him, but I’ve never slipped up like this before. If I’m not careful, I know I’m liable to do something we might both regret and ruin our friendship.
Taking a seat on one of the Adirondack chairs, I grab the bottle of wine I’d uncorked earlier to let breathe and pour myself a generous amount of cabernet sauvignon into my goblet. Not wasting any time, I chug half of the glass down, then top it off.
“That bad of a deployment, huh?”
I jump in my seat as Rett is a little slow taking his—at what I no longer consider a safe distance—six feet is nearly not far enough right now with the thoughts that won’t stop circling in my brain.
With a shake of my head for an answer, I fake annoyance that some of my wine has sloshed over the rim of my glass. It’s leaked onto my thigh, barely missing the hem of my white shorts.
“Not nearly,” I mumble, as I rip a piece of paper towel off the roll I’d brought out with the pizza—now transferred back in its box to keep the flies and other assorted vermin at bay—and mop up my thigh and hands.
“Tell me about it?” Rett leans forward, pops the box open, and grabs himself a slice. Leaning back, he begins to chow down, his attention entirely on the food before him, but I know he’s waiting for me to tell him how things had gone.
It’s what we always do.
Thank you, Rett. With a simple kind gesture, he’s made me feel more like myself for the first time since he walked through our front door today.
Rett
“So I have to ask you for a favor,” I tell Johanna while she’s sipping, what, her second glass of wine. She’s definitely celebrating her new, albeit temporary, promotion as vice-president of Emergency Management.
“Name it.” Always so amenable, that’s my Jo.
“Since the doctor tells me I might have a concussion, I need you to look in on me every hour tonight. I feel bad asking because I know you’re exhausted, but it was my only way out of observ—”
She sets her wine down on the wide armrest of her chair and looks at me with that no-nonsense look of hers. “I got you.”
I smile her way. “Thanks.”
“That means you’re moving back in, though.” Despite not having any alcohol, I swear my imagination is playing tricks on me when a glimmer of excitement flitters through Johanna’s eyes, but I squash the same sentiment rolling through me down as quickly as it comes.
She already knows this, because I’ve told her as much, but I’ve missed her more than she’ll ever know.
A few hours later, Johanna and I are both tucked away in our bedrooms after she helped me put fresh sheets on my bed, citing I shouldn’t be moving around too much if I do turn out to have a concussion.
To be honest, I gave in without much protest because my head was pounding heavily, and I was also due to take more medicine. Once I was alone, I popped two more tablets before stripping down to my boxers and turning on the TV. A deep sleep finds me almost instantly.
By the time three in the morning rolls around, I’m feeling guiltier than I did when I initially made my request with Johanna.
“Stay,” I mumble to my quickly departing roommate, who pauses at my bedroom door.
“What?”
I should be exhausted, but the breathless way she says that singular word has me wide awake and a particular part of my anatomy is rising to an occasion that is nonexistent.
“You’re exhausted. Stay,” I repeat, shuffling sideways and away from the center of the bed, making room. “Set the alarm clock if you have to, to wake you up, but stay. I know you, Jo. The steps to get here and back to your room are waking you enough that you’re having trouble falling asleep only to wake up again.”
She laughs softly, and it sounds nervous. The wringing of her hands proves it too. “Did you put up cameras in my room while I was gone?”
I chuckle but shake my head as my a
nswer. “Come on.” I pat the mattress beside me, giving her an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle. “You know you want to.”
She seems to think it over for a few seconds, but pads her naked feet toward my bed then proceeds to get in, turning to set the alarm clock on her side of the mattress, rolling over to face me when done.
“No funny business, mister,” she warns on a yawn.
I wink. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Jo-Babe.”
“G’night,” she whispers, her eyes closed.
For the longest time, I can’t seem to stop staring at the sleeping beauty next to me.
Johanna
By six the following morning, the alarm wakes me, and I find I can’t move.
Surrounding me is a mammoth furnace of flesh. Muscled legs are tucked into the back of my knees, lean and defined arms are holding me against a torso that rivals that of a Greek god’s—considering what I had taken in last night after Rett’s shower—there’s a soft, warm breath feathering the fine hairs at the back of my neck. The worst part of this is the one hand stuffed under the large T-shirt I’m wearing, currently cradling my bare boob.
The moment reality hits, panic sets in.
How in the hell am I going to get out of this?
“This is nice,” I hear, followed by a nuzzle of his nose against the back of my shoulder.
Oh, my God! He’s waking up, and his hand is now massaging my tit. Tell me I’m dreaming.
“Not a dream, Jo-Babe.”
There he goes using the nickname only he uses for me, except now, just like last night, it somehow seems more intimate—like some sexy pet name.