13. Markus
CHAPTER 13
MARKUS
My head is pounding. No, wait, that’s the front door. And the noise won’t stop.
Bang. Bang. Bang…
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Why is someone beating on my door? I climb off the couch, awkwardly balancing on weak legs. Everything hurts. It feels like every inch of me, both inside and out, is bruised and broken.
I shuffle to the door, and that incessant banging continues the whole way. When I’m finally there, having journeyed the long distance of ten feet, I struggle with the dead bolt and open it before remembering to check who it is first. Not smart, but I’m not thinking clearly.
The instant I crack open the door, it’s pushed wider. Someone shoves a stuffed animal into my chest, and a Mylar balloon bounces against my face. I stumble backward with surprise and confusion, and when the balloon clears away from my vision, I stare down at a little stuffed lab dog in a lab coat. Squinting, I read the words printed on the lab’s lab coat: “Trust me I’m a dog-tor.”
It’s cute. I chuckle. But my good humor only lasts a moment before I’m shocked back to reality with the harsh sound of an angry voice asking, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I look up. Pain lances through my neck and down my spine. Adam stands in my kitchen, frowning. He looks at once too large for this cramped apartment but also just right standing here in my space. And he’s hot as hell in a FIRE T-shirt that stretches taught across his sculpted chest and big bulging biceps?—
“Seriously, Markus, what the fuck?”
My name. He said my name. Tearing my ogling gaze away from his body, I see fire in his eyes, but it’s not the good kind of fire. He’s angry. At me.
“What?” I ask dumbly.
“Why would you check yourself out of the hospital?” Adam asks in a loud, demanding voice.
I grimace at his tone and pause to collect my thoughts. But all I can manage to say is, “I… Uh… I’m fine.”
“Bullshit, you have a fucking concussion!” The volume of his voice hurts, his words slicing through my brain like they’re punctuating his sentence with a big, sharp, spiky exclamation point.
I’m too tired to keep standing here, so I turn my back on Adam, hug the stuffed dog-tor to my chest, and shuffle to the kitchen table.
It takes me an inordinate amount of time to make it to one of the chairs there, and I struggle to pull it out. Soon, Adam is beside me, shifting the chair so I can sit. Grateful for the help, I grin at him, catching his eyes and holding his silent stare for just a moment before I carefully sit.
Once I’m settled, Adam pulls the opposite chair away from the table. I think he’s going to take a seat, too, but instead he dumps a big, red canvas bag there, the words FIRE 31 NEWMAN spray-painted across the side with a stencil.
Rummaging around, he comes up with a blood pressure cuff, and I let him fit it over my bicep, silently staring at the curl of his eyelashes as he pumps the cuff and watches the dial. When that’s finished, he finds another tool from his bag and brings it to me. I’m too focused on the feel of his hand on my face to notice what it is.
His touch is firm but gentle, and his eyes are gentler still as he tilts my chin up to face him, and?—
“Ouch! What are you doing?” I yelp and wince and force my eyes shut as bright light floods my left eye. Even with my eyes closed, I see a delta of veins painted in neon colors on the backs of my eyelids.
“I’m checking your pupil response. Now open your eyes.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He huffs, sounding very exasperated with me. “I’m not fucking around with this, Markus. You have a concussion. You shouldn’t have checked yourself out of the hospital. And you shouldn’t be alone right now. So let me just make sure you don’t have a serious brain injury, okay?”
Well, when he puts it like that… I blink my eyes open, squinting a little with fear of that blindingly bright light. This time, though, it doesn’t hurt as much when he slashes the light across my gaze. I stare past the bright pinprick and focus on him, on those incredibly long, curly lashes and the depths of his gorgeous green eyes.
“What’s my name?”
His question snaps me out of my ogling perusal. “Uh… Adam.”
“What’s your name?”
I huff, but his expression brooks no argument. “Markus.”
“Where are we?”
“My kitchen.”
“What day is it?”
“Sunday,” I answer quickly, but the expression on his face sinks with concern, and I realize my mistake. Right, the sun has set and risen again since the car accident. “Monday.”
Adam nods, puts the penlight back in his bag, and settles into the chair across from me as he keeps up the inquisition. “Do you have a headache?”
I shrug and nod, and even that bit of movement hurts.
“Why do you have a headache?”
“Because Mildred hit me with her car. How is she, by the way?”
“She’s in stable condition at the hospital, where you should be .” He raises a brow like he’s chastising a very naughty boy. And if he still had that pulse oximeter on my finger, he’d likely notice a change in my heart rate at the thoughts he’s putting in my head. Changing the subject, he asks, “What’s your favorite food?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“German chocolate cake.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
Huh? I’m so confused. “How does answering that help you diagnose a head injury?”
He grins with half of his mouth, and it’s mesmerizing. “It doesn’t. I’m just curious.”
God, that smile is charming, disarming. That smile is dangerous. And it makes me smile, too, feeling a bit bashful with all his attention focused on me.
“Why’d you check yourself out of the hospital?” he asks next.
My smile sinks and so does Adam’s.
After a moment, he tells me, “You hit your head in the accident, hard enough to cut it. That’s stitched up, but swelling on your brain remains a concern. It’s not safe for you to be alone for the next”—he checks his watch—“twelve hours or so.”
His words send a chill through me. The doctors at the hospital had said pretty much the same thing, trying to frighten me into staying with tales of hypothetical hemorrhages on my brain and the depressing prospect of dying alone in my apartment.
“So I’m going to stay and keep an eye on you.”
Uh…what?
“Have you eaten?” He changes the subject and doesn’t wait for an answer. Assuming, correctly that I haven’t, he stands and crosses to my fridge, opening it and poking around.
I look down at the plush puppy dog in my hands and feel a warmth in my chest as I realize how sweet this gift truly is. Adam went to see me in the hospital—brought me a get-well puppy—only to find me gone. So he came here.
And now, he’s feeding me, taking care of me. He’s clearly frustrated with my early release from the hospital, but it’s plain to see his anger is defensive, a mask he wears to hide his worry. I can’t remember the last time anyone worried about me, took care of me. I’ve been looking out for myself since I was fifteen, so his concern feels strange. Nice, but strange.
I grin at his back, charmed by his brusque display of affection, and finally answer one of his questions from before. “One More Try.”
He pauses in all his slicing and dicing to look over his shoulder at me. “What?”
“My favorite song is George Michael’s ‘One More Try.’ ”
He stares at me for a long moment, then slowly he smiles and nods. “Good song.”
When he returns his attention to cooking, it’s my turn to ask questions—well, one question: “Where’s Rufus?”
Adam doesn’t spare me a glance this time as he answers, “He’s at my mom’s kennel, hanging out with Drusilla. We looked him over last night, and incredibly, he came through without a scratch.”
A wave of intense relief washes over me. I’d suspected Rufus would be safe in Adam’s care—certain that Adam would get Rufus off the shoulder of that road last night—but hearing him say it sets every nerve in my body to rest. Adam rescued me yesterday. And then he rescued my dog.
I stare at him, his strong shoulders shifting and pulling the fabric of his shirt taut as he cuts and stirs, his pants hugging his ass so nicely as he squats to dig a skillet out of a cupboard and stands again to turn on one of the stove’s burners.
The warmth I feel for Adam in this moment is big and strange and great. But there’s an emptiness too. Petting this stuffed animal is soothing, but it’s not enough. I need Rufus here with me, so I can see with my own eyes that he’s safe.
Like he can read my thoughts, Adam says, “I’ll have someone bring him over if you’re ready to see him. He won’t jump on you, will he?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s a good boy.”
Adam grins at me over his shoulder, then he looks down at the stuffed dog I still have in my hands. His smile turns a little thoughtful as he goes back to cooking, but he uses one hand to pull his phone out of his pocket. I listen as he tells someone to bring Rufus over and gives my address as “above the vet clinic.”
Once that’s done, he turns his full attention to frying eggs and toasting bread. I stare at his ass, ogling like a creep as I stroke my puppy. That thought makes me laugh. As if “stroking my puppy” is a euphemism, and honestly, with the way Adam looks in those pants, it could be.
Adam glances at me. “Something funny?”
I could answer, but I don’t. Instead, I go back to his unanswered question from earlier. “I checked myself out early because I hate hospitals. Had a…bad experience.” I practically shiver at the cold memories flooding my mind, then try to shake them off. “Anyway, I just don’t like them.”
Adam’s hands stop moving, and he glances at me, then he turns back to the stove to dish up our food. He brings two plates to the table, and it’s a breakfast feast of eggs scrambled with cheese and diced veggies, toast with honey, and orange juice.
Using the fork he hands me, I shovel food into my mouth so fast I nearly choke, then wash it down with juice and pause to catch my breath. Clearly, I’m famished, considering I haven’t eaten since my road trip with Rufus yesterday.
“Slow down, now. Those eggs aren’t gonna run away from you.”
That makes me laugh a little and gets me to slow as I continue to eat.
“What happened to make you hate hospitals?” Adam asks after a moment.
I finish my eggs, blot my lips on a napkin, and take a deep breath in, then let it out. Here we go. “I’m gay.”
Adam’s brows hit his hairline, and he chuckles a little before he says, “Me too.”
Wait. What? “Really?”
“Yeah, the woman at the wedding was my sister.”
Uh…
“Anyway you were saying…about hospitals.”
Right. That. With another deep breath in and out, I just say it, spill it all. “When I was fifteen my parents found me making out with a friend from the football team. They’re very conservative and were horrified by the idea that their son might be gay, so they went to the leadership of our church, looking for some solution to my ‘problem.’ Two nights later, I was basically kidnapped from my bed by some church leaders. They took me to a hospital, where they administered an assortment of ‘therapies’ to fix me.”
“Jesus!” he says, his expression pure abject horror.
“So, I don’t like hospitals.”
“That wasn’t a hospital! That was some conversion therapy bullshit.”
“Sure. Of course, I know that. But…it was shaped like a hospital, it smelled like a hospital, the so-called doctors wore lab coats and administered treatments as if it were a hospital, but with locks on the doors.”
Adam grimaces like my words hurt him. “I’m sorry about before, barging in here and bossing you around. I didn’t know?—”
“Of course you didn’t know. I hadn’t told you.”
Now he looks up, capturing my gaze with his, and he asks gently, “Are you comfortable with me here, to check your condition as you recover from the concussion?”
I’m surprised he thought to ask, but I’m grateful that he has. It’s a gesture of understanding and courtesy, which is greatly appreciated.
Before I can answer his question, there’s a loud rumble of racing feet on the stairs outside, and the door bursts open—did I forget to lock that?—to the small redheaded woman I remember as Adam’s “date” to the wedding. With a trumpeting shout in a fake British accent, she announces, “Your highnesses, Sir Rufus Woofington of Woofersland, has arrived.”
I am so confused right now, but none of that matters when I see Rufus. He comes rushing to me, tail wagging and a big goofy grin across his face. My legs can’t hold me when I stand, so I pretty much collapse onto the floor, desperately hugging my dog.
Few things in this world are as pure and special as the love of a dog. His excited whines and wiggles and furious licking have me laughing and hugging him tighter, putting my face in his fur to breathe him in.
All the tension in my body drains out, and the only thing holding me up now is Rufus. He’s here, safe and sound, and I can finally relax.
“Speaking of barging in,” Adam scowls at the woman, “wow, sister! We’re gonna need you to bring the volume level down from an eleven to about a three. He’s had a concussion. I can only imagine the havoc your shouting is wreaking on his brain right now.”
At this, she looks at me with curiosity, sympathy, and anticipation, as if she’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t.
Adam speaks instead, gesturing to the woman. “Markus, this is my most annoying sister, Ava.”
“Hi, yes, I’m his favorite and bestest sister, and here’s your dog, you big cock.” Uh. What?
Over my head, Adam asks her, “Are you just calling everyone a big cock now?”
“Yes, to avoid confusion.”
“I don’t think it will have that effect, Sis.”
I stare at them as they bicker, and the similarities are so obvious to me now. Their red hair, green eyes, and smirking smiles match almost exactly. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Went so far as to think he was straight and dating a woman who looks eerily like him.
The expression on my face must telegraph my thoughts because Ava turns to me and boisterously explains, “You didn’t think we were on a date at the wedding, did you? Ew. No. Siblings.” She gestures between them for emphasis, then points at Adam. “Also, by baby bro Rooster here is gay. Like, totally one-hundred-percent homosexual. At the wedding, I wasn’t talking about his cock, I was calling him a cock, because, you know, Rooster. But I don’t want there to be any confusion. This cock’s cock is, as far as I know, totally available and only stands up for dudes, my dude! So, huzzah!”
Uh. Does my concussion have me hearing things, or did she actually say all that? Because. Wow!
“Ava, for the love of all that is holy, please stop talking and go away,” Adam says, with none of the humor in his voice that was there a moment ago when they were bantering.
She stares at him, assessing his expression, then shrugs. “I just want to help.”
“Go. Now. Please, Ava.”
She turns to me and shrugs again. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go now.”
Ava pets Rufus on the head a couple of times, and then she’s gone. In her wake, it’s very quiet. Rufus and I sit together on the floor. Before us, Adam stands with his hands on his hips, staring at his feet. Quietly, he says to the room, “Well, that was awkward.”