Crash Pad (2 page)

“Hold up.” Remy set the brakes on the wheelchair. “You’ll make it worse if you fall.”

Jamie grimaced, damp golden curls stuck to his forehead. “I’m holding.”

“Right.” God, Jamie was model-handsome. Remy could go for him, if they’d met another way. And if the guy wasn’t a patient. And wasn’t the victim of Remy’s carelessness in the park. “Let’s get you into the chair.”

“’Kay.”

Squeezing between the car door and Jamie, Remy bent and wrapped an arm around Jamie’s side. Warm body, firm muscles. Sweaty but a lingering trace of clove. Distracting. Very distracting. “Put your arm over my shoulders, then use your right leg to stand. Okay?”

Jamie nodded, lips pressed together.

“Here we go.” Remy straightened, pulling the other man upright.

“Son of a nutcracker,” Jamie said.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Maybe the guy
did
have a head injury. “Now pivot and drop into the wheelchair.”

Jamie did as instructed. He white-knuckled the armrests and leaned his head back.

“I’m going to lift your feet onto the footrests now.” With care, Remy settled each skate-bearing foot on the metal platforms. The skates clattered and slid.

Jamie gasped. “Can’t you take the rollerblades off?”

“Not till we’re ready for X-rays. It keeps the swelling down.”

“It doesn’t keep the pain down.”

“I’ll get that taken care of shortly.” Remy stood and moved behind the wheelchair. In his capacity as an ER doctor, Remy had dealt with a fair number of sports injuries, including rollerblade mishaps. “Trust me, I’m—”

“A doctor, I know.” Face pale and sweaty, Jamie tilted his head back and looked at Remy upside down.

Those eyes. Arresting blue and full of pain. Remy resisted the urge to smooth Jamie’s hair off his forehead.
Mind on business, Marshall.

Remy freed the brakes and backed the chair away from the car, then closed the door. Carefully he swung the wheelchair around and steered toward the ER. The glass doors slid open, and a puff of rubbing alcohol and floor cleaner met them in the foyer. Work. He’d know that smell anywhere. And to think he’d planned to avoid it for ten days.

“Hello, Dr. Marshall.” A receptionist grinned at him from her cubicle. “Out drumming up business?”

They’d never let him hear the end of this.

“Not intentionally.” Remy pointed at the locked entrance to the examination rooms. “Can you hit the button, Shelly?”

“Sure.” The door swung out. “I’ll send someone back to get his information.”

“Talk to me first,” Remy told her. Since this had been Remy’s fault, no way he’d expect Jamie to cover the copay and deductible for the visit.

Jamie muttered something unintelligible.

Bending over Jamie’s shoulder, Remy asked, “What?”

“No insurance.”

“No worries. You’ve got a friends and family discount coming.”

* * * *

This was taking forever.

Pain medication had eased the wait, but still… Jamie raised his head and looked at the foot of the gurney. His left ankle had inflated. Leaving the rollerblade on had worked fine. As soon as the pain medicine had kicked in, Dr. Marshall had eased off the skate and sent Jamie to X-ray. In its gratitude to be free, the joint blew up like a helium balloon. A faint violet hue had overtaken the side of the ankle.

He dropped his head back on the pillow. How was he ever going to pay for this? Maybe he could borrow the money from his sister. Or get an advance at work? Vince? No. Jamie would work three jobs if necessary. Never again would he rely on that sadistic prick. Never.

The striped curtain whooshed back. Dr. Marshall strode in, carrying a set of X-rays. The doctor had changed into a pair of green scrubs, which made his eyes look more gray than blue. With his short sandy hair and wiry build, he had nothing of Vince’s swarthy “The Rock” look. The guy was cute, in a take-charge sort of way.

He’s a doctor, like Vince. Watch it.

Dr. Marshall snapped the X-rays up on the viewer. “You’ve got a chip fracture of the lateral malleolus of the fibula. In other words, the outside of your ankle is broken.”

Broken? Crap.

“The good news is it won’t need surgery to fix. A splint will do it.”

“Yay.” Jamie tried to sit up; his head felt floaty. “Can I go home now?”

Over the clipboard, Dr. Marshall shot him a quizzical look. “Feeling pretty good on the Demerol, huh?”

“Better than sucking up the pain, sure.”

“I’ve called Orthopedics. They’ll take a look at the ankle, and then—”

“Orthopedics?” Had Dr. Marshall called Vince?
Nooo
. But this was a different town. Jamie shivered and clutched the blanket.

“You’ll like Dr. Jenter. She’s small but mighty.”

She. Thank God
. His shoulders drooped. “Then I can walk out of here?”

“Not exactly. Crutches. And your concussion panel shows you did thump your melon, even with the helmet.”

“It’s the Demerol screwing up your pop quiz.”

“No, I did the test before the Demerol.”

“Oh. Right.” Dr. Marshall had administered the Twenty-Questions-touch-your-nose-and-say-Peter-Piper test during Jamie’s nine out of ten pain level.

“You shouldn’t stay alone for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” The doctor jotted a note on the clipboard. “Someone needs to check on you, make sure you can wake up and answer questions.”

“I’m not staying in the hospital.” Christ, that’d cost a fortune. Jamie crossed his arms. Hopefully he looked fierce and assertive in his petit-floral-patterned hospital gown.

Grinning, Dr. Marshall set the clipboard on a metal table. “Easy there, gladiator. I wasn’t planning to admit you. Who can we call to come get you?”

“No one. I can get myself home.” Why did men always want to tell him what to do? He could take care of himself.
You are a strong, independent man. You are the key to your own happiness
… How did the rest go? It took too much effort to fight the medication. Jamie yawned. Those were some good drugs.

Dr. Marshall shook his head. “You still need someone to stay with you.”

“I’ll call someone when I get home.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Displeasure narrowed the doctor’s eyes, and his sand-colored brows drew together.

“I want to leave.” Struggling upright, Jamie grabbed the rail of the gurney.

Dr. Marshall huffed out a breath. “Look. I can’t discharge you without someone to be responsible for you, even AMA. You’ve had a strong pain med, and you have a mild concussion. Right now, you’re not competent.”

“Competent?” Jamie glared. He didn’t have to stay here. He hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place. This guy was as bad as Vince. “You saying I can’t make my own decisions?”

“I’m saying the drugs can affect your ability to decide what’s best for you. It’s a matter of safety.” Dr. Marshall stepped forward and covered Jamie’s hand with his, gave him a gentle squeeze.

No mastery or show of superior strength in that touch, not like Vince. Not clinical either. Warmth and reassurance and something like friendship. Jamie relaxed. “I guess I can call my sister.”

“I’ll bring you the phone.”

The smile on the doctor’s face melted the last of Jamie’s resistance like beeswax in sunlight.

* * * *

Almost done. Pacing outside Jamie’s cubicle, Remy glanced at the clock.

Ankle splinted, script filled, physician instructions given. With luck, someone could be here to get the patient within the hour. Remy could run home, shower, and still meet Brett and the mystery man for dinner.
Better call.

“Hello, sweetness,” Brett cooed. “Ready to rumba?”

“Not exactly. Something came up and I’m going to be late.”

“Don’t tell me you’re at work.” Brett’s snippy tone implied personal affront. “I happen to know you have this week off to train for your race.”

“I ran into this guy in the park—”

“So you’re blowing off a prearranged date in favor of someone you just met? Hmph.”

God
. Brett could be such a bitch sometimes. “No. I literally
ran
into him. I wasn’t looking where I was going and slammed into the guy. He fractured his ankle. At minimum, I had to drive him to the ER.”

After sulking in silence for a few moments, Brett said, “Okay. I can push the reservation back to seven. Can you make it by then?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Because this guy really wants to meet you.”

Remy rolled his eyes. More than likely the guy really wanted to meet a doctor and the doctor’s checkbook. “See you at seven.”

He took another loop around the ER and stopped outside Jamie’s cubicle. All was silent within. He leaned toward the curtain. “Jamie?”

“Come in.”

Pulling back the curtain, Remy swallowed. Hard. A zing of attraction shot through him. Jamie had slid off the hospital gown, revealing a muscular but slender frame. Pale skin, with a dusting of golden hair turning into a trail that disappeared under the waistband of his cargo shorts.

Remy dragged his gaze up to Jamie’s. “Any luck?”

Jamie took a deep breath, whooshed it out. “My sister can come. But not until Wednesday.”

Wednesday. Four days from now
. “Someone else, maybe? A friend? Neighbor?”

Jamie shook his head and stared at the wall. “I just moved here a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know anyone in the area.”

Great
. Remy had managed to disable a lone man with no social resources. The dinner date looked more and more impossible by the moment. Guilt pressed on his shoulders. Maybe he should get a social worker involved. “You can’t stay alone.”

“So you said.”

“Anyone else you can call?”

“One other possibility.”

Chapter Three

Jamie couldn’t believe he was going to do this. He’d only met the guy in the next motel efficiency a couple of times. Simon had seemed like an okay guy, just down on his luck. A legal separation from his wife had led him to move into the Western Inn. Everyone there was in transition from one stage of life to another, one residence to another. One relationship to another. It was an eclectic community. Simon had sounded happy to help “a fellow wayfarer” out.

Dr. Marshall swung into the motel driveway and halted near the office. “Okay. You want to give this guy Simon a call? I’d like to brief him.”

“That’s not necessary, Dr. Marshall.”

“Remy. I’d like to make sure you’re set before I go.”

“Okay…Remy.” Jamie wasn’t at all sure he wanted Remy sharing medical information with Simon, but it wasn’t like any big secrets would be revealed. With luck, Jamie’d be out of here within the month, in a real apartment of his own, meeting people his own age. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Hello?” The Doors’ classic “Riders on the Storm” played in the background.

“Uh, Simon? It’s Jamie.”

“Hey, neighbor.” Simon gave a high-pitched giggle. The music dropped off. “You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Jamie shifted in his seat. For a typically quiet guy, Simon seemed a little wired.

“Be right down.”

Remy got out of the car and strolled around to the passenger side. Jamie lowered the window and said, “He’s coming down. From the third floor.”

“Okay. Where’s the elevator?”

“There is no elevator.”

Frowning, Remy gripped the door frame, peering down at him. “So how did you plan to manage the steps?”

“I can do it.” Crutching up and down the stairs would be a great upper body workout, assuming Simon didn’t murder him in his sleep. Jamie pulled the door handle, and Remy stepped back.

Beyond him, Simon came into view. “Hell-o, neighbor!”

Holy Healthcare, Batman
. The sedate accountant had undergone a transition. On a couple of occasions Jamie had wondered if Simon was a closet case, but this was weird. Simon wore tight running shorts and a T-shirt that read,
Accountants do it by the numbers
. The shirt ran out of fabric before it covered Simon’s rotund gut. Was that a wad of lint in his belly button? Jamie winced.
Some things you just didn’t want to see.

“Simon Larimer, this is Dr. Marshall. Remy, this—”

“I’ll take it from here, doc.” Simon shuffled Remy aside.

The distinct odor of alcohol perfumed Simon’s ensemble. Jamie wrinkled his nose. Intoxication wasn’t an attractive look on Simon. In fact, it was downright disturbing. “Uh, Simon? We don’t really know each other, and I don’t want to upset your routine—”

“It’s fine. You’re fine. What’re neighbors for? I was just kicking back. Just don’t throw up.”

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Maybe? No maybe about it.

“Sure it is.” Simon leaned in, onion breath tickling Jamie’s ear. “We can get better acquainted.”

The earth screeched to a halt on its axis. Was he serious? Jamie gulped.

Simon waggled his eyebrows.

Oh, God. Abort! Abort!

“Mr. Larimer.” Remy’s hand appeared around Simon’s elbow and tugged him back. “Mr. Sutton needs very particular care, and he’s not feeling well.”

Jamie tilted his head and caught Remy’s gaze.
I’m not?

Remy’s eyebrows shot up, and he nodded.

Except for the ankle, he didn’t feel bad.
Oh
. “Right. I’m not feeling too hot.”

“That’s what I’m here for, friend.” Simon squirmed—like a toad—in Remy’s grip. Simon’s brain appeared to be squirming as well.

“Jamie’s stomach is worse than I thought,” Remy said, staring at Jamie.

Mustering every bit of skill, Jamie mimicked dry heaves. “
Urk, urk
, gonna…blow…”

Simon jumped back. “I don’t do vomit.”

“I think I better get Mr. Sutton back to a medical facility.” Remy swung the passenger door shut. He walked around to the driver’s side and spoke over the roof of the car. “Thanks for your offer, Mr. Larimer.”

Shuffling backward onto the sidewalk, Simon nodded, palm plastered to his mouth.

Remy slid into the driver’s seat, reversed, and steered into traffic.

Jamie leaned back, resting his head. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” Remy shook his head and gave Jamie a wry grin. “Interesting neighbor. Have you known him long?”