Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
ASPEN
Emmett’s not special.
I’ve checked up on other patients after handing over care, and I float to cover other areas of the hospital all the time, so running into patients I flew with isn’t unheard of.
But there’s only a handful of patients I’ve gone out of my way to personally check on.
The ones I almost lost.
Or the ones that don’t sit right after I hand them off.
So why does this feel different?
It could be because the need to check on Emmett feels more about me than it does about him.
Head injury. Shock. The fentanyl.
All of those things could explain the way he looked at me in the helicopter.
None of them make it easier to forget.
It’s a loose end.
I’ve tried ignoring it, but his face is a permanent fixture when I close my eyes.
The entire flight is embedded in my brain. The way he trusted me, the way he went on about everyone but himself. The way he held on like I was a tether when he was halfway between realities.
Seeing him with my own eyes, knowing he’s okay, feels like the only way to move on. And I need to move on.
“He’s just like all my other patients,” I lie under my breath.
I’ve seen it all—miracles where people survive unbelievable odds; senseless, devastating loss that makes you question everything; palpable relief when things go just right and bargaining when they don’t.
The bargaining might be the most devastating to witness.
“It should’ve been me.”
Not unfamiliar words in my line of work, but Emmett’s held an acceptance I rarely hear.
Healing bodies is what I’m good at, but that wasn’t what he needed.
Not really.
This man I know nothing about, branded himself on my empath soul more than all the others.
Physically, I know he’s okay—I’ve already checked his chart.
It’s the other stuff that’s not sitting right.
That’s what brought me here—it’s got to be. I refuse to entertain any other reason. And frankly, I only have the bandwidth to deal with one mess at a time.
My phone vibrates, making me jump, something I do far too often these days, all but expecting a text from a former hook-up that won’t leave me be.
Looking up to make sure I’m alone, I find the hallway just as deserted as a minute ago, so I pull out my cell from the pocket of my scrubs.
I roll my eyes—because, brothers—but the near miss has my posture sagging as I lean into the wall. Relief and adrenaline flood my nervous system.
Although, brothers is generous. It’s essentially just a conversation with Trace.
Drake doesn’t participate, but we keep him in the chain, mostly to guilt him into semi-regular communication.
Though ninety percent ends up being neutral reactions to our messages.
I think Trace and I are both afraid that if we let Drake remove himself, there’d be no proof he existed at all.
The text chain with my brothers fills my screen, and my smile comes easy when I see the long thread of messages above the newest one.
Trace
Everything is set with the property. You’ll get payments through the business account to make things clean and easy, just like we talked about.
Aspen
You make it sound like we’re laundering money.
Trace
That’s not how money laundering works.
Aspen
Why do you know this?
Trace
Ozark
Right. He’s the painfully boring and predictable brother. Gym, work, raise my nephew, and his shows.
Aspen
Isn’t it eight o’clock there? That’s past your bedtime, old man. Why are you still working?
Trace
Whatever, whippersnapper. Sign the contract from the attorney that’s waiting in your inbox.
Aspen
Grumpy much?
Trace
Try raising a teenager and then talk to me about grumpy.
Aspen
I’ll pass.
Trace
And you’ll sign everything?
Aspen
Yes. Tell your assistant to expect chocolate. I know she was the brains behind this.
Trace
That’s hurtful. I’m more than a pretty face.
Aspen
Awe, poor baby.
Trace
First I’m old. Now I’m a baby?
Aspen
You contain multitudes, big brother.
Trace
You’re as hard to talk to as Knox.
Trace
We used the business address and a proxy number for inquiries, so your info stays private.
Aspen
I don’t even know what that means. Why couldn’t I just put it on WYList?
Drake
Because WYList is for used underwear and feet pics. The internet is full of weirdos, and as annoying as you are, I’d prefer you didn’t end up tied up in someone’s basement.
Aspen
Says the man with a MeetQuick profile.
Aspen
Also, it’s weird that you know that about the feet pics.
Trace
Everyone knows that, Aspen. This is safer and easier. Sign the damn contract and stop snooping on my dating profiles.
Aspen
“Dating.” Sure, we’ll call it that.
I sigh. He might be obnoxious but he’s also right. I don’t have time to add things to my plate. And this is a drop in the bucket for him and his team.
Aspen: But seriously, Thank you, Trace.
Drake: What about me? It was my idea to rent out the loft.
Aspen: OMG he’s alive.
Closing out of the message thread, I stare at the door in front of me.
The distraction helped.
But not enough to make me walk away.
I’m still here, lurking. And if I stand here any longer, it’s going to get weird.
With my shoulders pulled back, I push through the door to Emmett’s room.
His eyes find mine the second I step over the threshold.
Blue-and-white-striped pillows prop his thick frame up against the bed’s angled back.
Dark circles hollow his rugged features.
Without the adrenaline of a life-or-death emergency I take a moment to really look at him.
The stubble on his square jaw is thicker now, and dark lashes frame blue eyes that are hard to look away from and sharp enough to cut steel.
He looks haunted.
And ruggedly handsome in a way that clashes with the gown, the wires, and the bed.
Setting that thought aside, the nurse in me goes straight into assessment mode, looking beyond the obvious. His tanned skin is washed out and he doesn’t look like he’s slept at all since the flight. Despite that, he’s alert and tracking me approaching his bed.
Becky might have mentioned that the longer he’s here, the grumpier he gets. A feat considering it’s only been two days. But the charge nurse takes no crap. Anything less than total cooperation puts you on the top of her shit list. Just one reason why she’s my favorite.
His attention shifts back to the TV.
I guess I’m not of interest to him.
He leans forward with effort when a grizzled hotshot steps into the camera’s frame for an interview.
Carl Calloway—not a name I recognize from our local emergency response team. And I know most of them.
As good of a reason as any to break the silence.
“A friend of yours?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” He doesn’t bother looking at me. “He’s my boss.”
Emmett doesn’t elaborate, and I can tell he won’t even if I ask.
So much for breaking the ice.
I check his IV just for something to do. His attention might be elsewhere, but the way his hand is wrapped tightly around the bed rail tells me he’s aware of my every move.
I glance at his vitals and then back at him, taking inventory of his visible injuries.
The stitches above his eye look good. He’ll have a scar, but I doubt he minds.
It’s his shoulder that concerns me the most. At the moment, it’s dressed, but I saw it firsthand in the helicopter.
It was full thickness and covered a good portion of the joint.
Hopefully he can avoid a skin graft and preserve his mobility.
The silence between us grows until it’s taken on a personality all of its own—looming and clunky.
He moves around it first, clearing his throat.
“Are you going to say it?” His gaze is still glued to the screen as updates on the status of the Stillwater fire roll steadily across the bottom of the screen.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, ducking my head as I do to hide my shock. After what Becky told me, I wasn’t sure he’d allow me in his room let alone speak to me.
“Say what?”
“That I look like hell and should be resting,” he croaks out. “The other nurse already read me the riot act so you’re off the hook.”
Shrugging, I suppress my smile at his blunt appraisal. He doesn’t look well, and he should be resting, but he’s certainly not hard to look at.
“Well if she’s already told you it hardly seems like I should waste my breath.”
“You seem like you have an opinion.”
“To be fair, you look like someone who got pinned under a burning tree branch and is lucky to be breathing, so you should probably take Becky’s advice.”
What starts as a rumble of laughter turns into a cough that has me reaching for his water on his table.
“That bad, huh?” he asks when the cough clears, sounding hoarser than before.
“Worse.” I take the hospital-issued water bottle back from him, noticing it’s nearly empty now.
He’ll need more before I leave. “Cracked ribs. Third-degree burns on your shoulder. Six stitches above your eyebrow. You’ve got cuts and lacerations all over.
And don’t even get me started on the smoke inhalation.
But you already know that, and I’m off duty. ”
Emmett flexes his fingers, testing the stiffness in his left hand—the one that’s bruised. “She sent you in here to play good cop then?”
“She didn’t send me in here at all. And I might not seem like it, but I can be just as strict as her.”
Almost. Sometimes.
“If you’re off duty and she didn’t send you, why are you here?”
Phew, that’s a loaded question. Especially since it doesn’t seem like he remembers me. Giving him the whole reason—that he got under my skin—will make me look unhinged.
“You saved my best friend.” That much is true. He saved Harlowe, and from what I’ve heard, an elderly couple who wouldn’t have made it out of the fire otherwise. “I owe it to you and her to make sure you’re okay.”
His eyes sweep over my wrinkled scrubs with a hint of intrigue that wasn’t there when I first walked in. A look like that does something to a girl's ego especially when I feel as glamourous as the walking dead.
Whatever that look was, it's gone quicker than I can snap my fingers.