Not His Type

This
book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance
to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences is purely
coincidental.  The characters and story lines are created from the author’s
imagination and are used fictitiously.

Thank you to all
my readers and supporters; I couldn’t do this without you!  I hope you enjoy
Brooke and Travis’ story, the first in this series.  If you do, please watch
for Nick Rodgers’ story in the next title, Not Her Type.

Should you have
any questions or find any typographical or grammatical errors, you’d be doing
me a tremendous favor if you let me know; you can email me at
[email protected]
.  The favor
of a positive review is also greatly appreciated, at
www.amazon.com
!

Thanks again,
and happy reading!

Lisa

Brooke hurried
outside, ignoring the sounds of construction from the lot next door.  The house
was almost complete, and as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t be finished
soon enough.  When she’d sold the lot, she never imagined the noise and the
mess that would follow.  Everything in her house seemed to sport a fine layer
of dust.  The noise of hammers, saws, nail guns and construction workers
yelling to one another woke her as early as six-thirty some mornings.  If she
hadn’t needed the money, she’d never have sold the property to begin with; but,
she admitted to herself, the money from the sale had paid the back taxes on her
own house and the balance of her grandfather’s medical bills and given her a
little bit of breathing room.

Today had been
one of the mornings the builders had rattled her out of bed before seven.  It
was just as well; she’d overslept, after working the late shift at the diner
the night before.  Now she was going to have to fly if she was going to make it
to class on time.

She’d donned a
clean uniform and pulled her hair into a messy ponytail.  She poured coffee in
a travel mug and grabbed a bagel.  Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she
raced out the door…and stopped in her tracks.  She had a flat tire.

Brooke knelt
beside the tire, blowing out a sigh of frustration.  The gray head of a roofing
nail protruded from the tread of the front driver’s side tire.  Mentally
calculating the cost of a new tire, Brooke realized her “breathing room” was
shrinking.  And she didn’t have time for this.

“Looks like you
got a flat,” a voice said from behind her.

Brooke glanced over
her shoulder.  One of the builders stood behind her, his pose one of practiced
nonchalance.  He smiled, his dingy teeth almost matching the gray sky of the
wet morning.  Brooke sighed and straightened.

“And it looks
like one of your roofers is missing a nail,” she said coolly.  She narrowed her
eyes at the man.  “Tell your boss I’d like to talk to him later.”

“Want me to
change it?” he asked.

“No, I don’t
have time right now!” Brooke said.

She raced inside
and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt.  She stuffed her
uniform into her backpack and hurried back outside.  The construction worker
still stood at the edge of her driveway, watching Brooke as she unlocked the
garage door and shoved it upward.  She yanked a cover back, revealing a small
motorcycle.  Moving quickly and efficiently, Brooke started the engine, backed
out of the garage, hopped off, shut, and locked the garage door.  She climbed
back on the bike and backed out of the driveway.

Brooke loved
riding her bike.  She actually preferred it to the ancient car her grandfather
had left to her when he died seven months earlier.  But when it rained, as it
was doing right now, she usually took the car.

Brooke was
almost to the end of the driveway when a movement caught her eye.  She stopped
and looked up.  The man she assumed was the construction boss was waving at
her.  Brooke waited impatiently as he hurried over.

“Sorry about the
nail!” he shouted over the noise of the motorcycle.  “I’ll take care of the
tire!”

“Thanks!” Brooke
yelled back.  “I really have to go now!  I’m gonna be late for school!”

The man backed
up a couple of steps and Brooke shot out of the driveway.  The bike’s tires
spun on the wet road; Brooke righted the bike then swerved when a worker
stepped out from behind a Hummer.  There was no righting the bike this time. 
Brooke felt the tires slide, then felt a burning pain on the left side of her
body; she’d thrown on a hoodie over her tee shirt, but it didn’t offer any
serious protection as she skidded on the wet asphalt.

When she finally
stopped moving, Brooke lay still for just a second.  She began trying to push
the bike off her leg, but hands stopped her movements.

“Be still,” a
deep voice said.  “We’ll get it.  Just be still.”

Brooke obeyed. 
She wasn’t completely sure she could’ve gotten out from under the bike anyway. 
It wasn’t a huge bike, but her left arm hurt terribly and her left leg didn’t
seem to want to cooperate.

“Uh, boss,”
another voice said.  “You might wanna take a look at this.”

“Let me up,”
Brooke muttered.  “Is my bike all right?  I need to get to class.”

“Sweetheart,
you’re not goin’ anywhere but the hospital right now,” the first voice said. 
It was deep and soothing to Brooke’s ears.

“No!” Brooke
said adamantly, trying to sit up.  She pushed at the hands that held her, but
was having trouble focusing on any one thing.  “I have a test this morning!  I
have to go!”

The motorcycle
had been lifted off Brooke and she tried to rise, pushing herself up.  Her left
leg buckled and another searing pain tore through her.  She collapsed into a
pair of strong arms.  The last thing she remembered was a pair of crystal blue
eyes, and that deep voice.

“I’ve got you,”
the voice said.  “You’re gonna be okay.”  Travis Cooper tossed his keys to the
man beside him.  “You drive, I’ll sit in the back with her.”

“She’s gonna get
blood all over your truck, boss,” the man said.

“I don’t care!”
Travis snapped.  “Let’s go!  We can be there faster than an ambulance can come
get her!”

In the back seat
of his Hummer, Travis pulled off his denim shirt, leaving his white tee shirt
in its place.  He folded the shirt and pressed it tightly against the woman’s
thigh; he did his best not to press against the jagged piece of metal
protruding from her leg.  Blood had already soaked the left leg of her jeans
and the front of Travis’ clothing as well; he was concerned about the amount of
blood that continued to soak through the shirt he held against the gash that
ran the length of her thigh.  He looked up and saw the doors of the hospital ER
and relief washed over him.  He slid from the back seat, the woman’s limp form
in his arms, calling for help.

The automatic
doors slid open and several people wearing various colors of scrubs poured out,
pushing a gurney.  Travis gently laid the woman on the gurney and followed
along, answering questions as best he could.

“What happened?”
a doctor asked.

“Motorcycle
accident,” Travis answered.  “She sliced her leg open on a piece of metal
gutter.  She’s lost a lot of blood.”

“All right,” the
doctor said.  “We’ll take care of her.  Why don’t you go see Admissions about
filling out some forms.”

“But I don’t….”

They were gone,
pushing the blood-soaked woman through a set of swinging doors.  A passing
orderly pointed down the hall.

“Admissions is
that way.”

Travis walked
down the hall to the Admissions office.  He went in and looked around blankly. 
An older woman looked up and smiled at him.

“May I help you,
sir?”

“I just brought
someone in to the ER,” he answered.  “They told me to come here and fill out
forms, but I don’t really –“

“Oh, certainly!”
she said brightly.  She waved at a chair beside her desk.  “Have a seat,
dear.”  She turned to her computer and tapped the keyboard.  “Patient’s name?”

“Brooklyn Valentine,”
Travis answered.  He knew that much from the realtor who’d handled the sale of the
lot he’d purchased from her.

“Middle name?”

“I have no
idea.”

“Address?”

Travis knew
that, as well.  He gave the woman the address of the house next door to the one
he was building.

“Date of birth?”
the woman asked.

“No clue.”

The woman looked
up.  She gave Travis an odd look.  Her gaze went back to her computer screen.

“Social security
number?”  At his silence, the woman’s gaze swung back to Travis.  Without
taking her eyes from him, she said, “Drug allergies? Medical history?  Next of
kin?  Emergency contact?”

“Me!” Travis
blurted out, grateful to be able to give the woman an answer; her welcoming
smile had turned to a frown of disapproval.  “I’m her emergency contact!”  Travis
shook his head.  “Look, I don’t really know her.  I’m her new neighbor, that’s
all.”

“Oh!” the woman
said, all smiles again.  “Why didn’t you say so, dear?  In that case, we’ll
finish these later.”

“Oh, you can
also put me down as the responsible party,” Travis added.  He gave her his
address and cell phone number.

“All right,
we’ll get everything else we need when your neighbor can help us.”

Travis walked
back down to the ER waiting room.  Will sat looking very nervous, as if he
might catch some horrible disease sitting there.  When he saw Travis, he shot
up and held out a backpack.

“Hey, this is
hers,” Will said, practically throwing the pack at Travis.  He shook his head. 
“Listen, I don’t do hospitals, man.  I gotta get outta here.  Nick’s comin’ to
pick me up.  I’ll get back to work, all right?”

“That’s fine,”
Travis said.  “Thanks for drivin’ me.  I’m gonna stay with her for a while,
make sure she’s all right.”  He hefted the damp backpack.  “Maybe I can find
some information in here.”

After Will left,
Travis sat down in the waiting room.  He unzipped the backpack and dug through
its contents.  He placed them on the seat beside him.  A uniform made of the
ugliest golden-yellow polyester known to man; Travis remembered seeing the
woman next door in that uniform a couple of times.  Three heavy text-books; economics,
business administration and marketing.  A second uniform?  Well, not so much a
uniform as a tee shirt with the name of a fast food restaurant emblazoned
across the chest; he’d seen her wearing at least two shirts like this one.  Did
his neighbor work two jobs?  And go to school?

“Aha!” Travis
murmured to himself.  In the bottom of the backpack, he found a cell phone and
a worn purple leather wallet.  He opened the wallet.  There was her driver’s
license; Bunny Brooklyn Valentine. 
Bunny
?  Who named their kid Bunny?  And
no wonder she went by Brooke.  She was twenty-four years old.  She had no
credit cards.  A public library card, a student ID from the local community
college and three dollars in cash.  There were two photographs, one of an old
man and one of a woman and a little girl; the woman looked angry and bitter,
the little girl sad and hopeful at the same time.  The expression on her tiny
face bothered Travis; it was as if she knew her life had no chance of turning
out well, and yet she dared to dream it might.

Shaking off the
feeling, Travis set the wallet aside and picked up the cell phone.  He couldn’t
help but compare it to his own; his phone was the latest in technology, all the
bells and whistles a phone could possibly have.  The model in the backpack was
several years old; calls and text only.  It was nearly impossible to imagine a
twenty-four year old woman with a phone this simple.

Travis flipped
the phone open and scrolled through the contact list.  As if he’d conjured
someone up, the phone rang in his hand.  The screen read, “Satin”. 
Satin?
 
Travis hesitated just a moment, then answered the phone.

“Um…hello?” he
said.