Chapter 8
Ophelia. Three Years Ago.
“Ruby.” A voice called my name from a far-off planet. “Ruby. Can you hear me?”
“Uh-huh,” I squeaked out.
“Come on, Ruby. Open your eyes.”
I pried my eyes open. At first, I couldn’t see anything but blinding light, and I squinted against it. My vision slowly cleared and, when it did, my heart gave a jump-start and stuttered.
I was looking up at a silver fox god. I found myself lost in his eyes. Hazel brown, speckled with hints of green and gold.
The edges of his gorgeous eyes creased lightly when he smiled.
“There she is,” he said. “Good girl.”
My body, normally tensed and ready to fight, suddenly unwound. The low cadence of his voice tricked my nervous system into relaxing. I felt cradled in the cocoon of his soft, soothing tones.
“Don’t try to sit up, alright?” he said. “Do you know where you are?”
“Um…” I twisted my head. I was on my back on the flat, polished stage. Our painted backdrop—a black and red version of the underworld—loomed behind me. My castmates lingered around me like vultures, eyes on me, equal parts worried and curious.
Oh, yeah. I knew exactly where I was. I was in hell. Or more accurately, the Chrystie Theatre, in New York City, in the dead heat of summer with a broken AC unit.
“Chrystie Theatre,” I told him, bits of memory coming back. “We were rehearsing…blocking the descent scene…and that’s the last thing I remember.” When I turned my head, a jolt of pain sliced through the back of my skull. I winced and touched the spot. “Did I…pass out?”
“Seems like it. Try not to move around. I’m going to get your vitals, alright? You okay with me touching you?”
“Uh-huh.”
He had large hands, strong arms, but his touch was delicate as he fit the pressure cuff over my arm.
“Have you been sleeping okay, Ophelia?”
“We’re opening in a week, so. I’ll sleep when the show is over.”
“How about water? Have you been keeping hydrated?”
“Does coffee count?”
He scoffed. “It certainly does not.”
I knew I should be taking my health seriously, but part of me enjoyed being chastised by the older man. No, I haven’t been sleeping. No, I haven’t had enough water. What do you plan to do about it, Paramedic Daddy?
“Ruby, I’d like to take you to the hospital. Make sure you’re not concussed. What do you think?”
“But…we have to finish blocking…I’m Persephone…”
One of my cast mates crouched down beside me. “I’ll fill in. Just for today. Go. I’ll come by with notes later.”
“This is stupid, I’m fine.” But the second I tried to sit up, it was as though someone had dropped watercolor paint in my eyes. Blotches of black spread across my vision and I felt lightheaded. I swooned, but this time, I didn’t hit the floor.
“I’ve got you.” My paramedic’s strong hands cradled the back of my head as he carefully lowered me back down.
“Fuck,” I muttered between my teeth, frustrated.
“So,” he said. “Can I convince you to ride with me, Ruby?”
“I guess.” I had to put my stubbornness in the back seat. My brain kept flickering, and that frightened me more than I let on.
He motioned his partner over—a short woman with a tight buzz cut and the word “EMT” on her uniform. Together, they lifted me onto a stretcher and wheeled me out.
“Is this all necessary?” I groaned.
“Absolutely not,” the paramedic said. “We just thought we’d give you the star treatment.”
My director, Thom, nervously followed beside us. “Is she okay? She’ll be okay, right? Mr. Chrystie—he owns the theatre—I mean, if he hears about this…”
“How long has the AC been out?” the paramedic asked. His voice sounded suddenly sharp, not quite the same playful tone he’d used with me.
“A week. Or a couple of weeks. Maybe a month.” Thom wiped sweat from the back of his neck; I couldn’t tell if it was pooling from heat or nerves at the thought of a lawsuit on his hands.
We were halfway out the lobby when the paramedic stopped my stretcher.
“One second.” He patted the wall, where there was a hidden door.
“Is the unit in here?” Thom nodded. He unlatched the door.
The AC unit loomed in the dark—bulky and completely useless.
I watched the paramedic climb into the wall.
He felt his way around, then smacked the side of the unit.
The machine started to click, as though it was chomping its teeth.
Then there was a sudden rush and it shuddered out a blast of cold air.
Personally, I’d never been more jealous of an AC unit.
“Look at you,” the EMT smirked. “Mr. Fix-it.”
The paramedic hopped out of the crawlspace and shrugged. “Just needed a little TLC.”
She shook her head. “You have a strange definition of the word tender.”
“Me next,” I piped up. The words left me before I could stop them, but in the moment, I was convinced a sharp smack on the ass from those strong hands would cure me of any ailment.
Yeah, okay. Maybe I was a little concussed.
It at least pulled a laugh from the pair, before they continued to roll me out.
They navigated me out of the theatre and I rattled onto the New York City street.
Even the bright summer heat felt better out here than the stifling furnace inside.
I caught the curious stares of onlookers.
Normally, I loved being the center of attention.
This, however, was not ideal. I was grateful for the speed at which the two professionals loaded me into the back of the ambulance and shut the door.
The EMT took the wheel while the paramedic stayed in the back with me, locking in my stretcher before settling into a pull-down seat.
He gave two knocks against the wall between the back of the van and the front, and the ambulance rumbled to life, sirens wailing.
“Am I dying?” I asked.
“Not today,” he said. “No one dies in my ambulance. That’s a rule.”
“Oh, well. Can’t break the rules.”
“No, you don’t seem the type.”
“Are you calling me a goody-two-shoes? I’ll have you know, I’m a bad bitch when I’m not strapped down to a gurney.”
He shot me an amused look. “I didn’t say you weren’t. You can be a bad bitch and a good girl.”
Good girl. The first time he said it, I could forgive it. The second time? He was like a cat playing with his food. It was just unfair the way those two words made my heart flip and my cunt clench.
I couldn’t stop staring at him.
It wasn’t that he was blindingly, drop-dead handsome.
Actually, he was the opposite. Not ugly, but just…
average. I clocked him at late forties with graying hair along his head and jaw and thick shoulders and muscled arms above a trim but soft waist. He wore a dark uniform and worn, beat-up sneakers.
His only real defining feature was a purple birthmark that curved along his jaw in a crescent moon shape.
Other men might try to hide the mark under with a thick beard, but he didn’t seem so afflicted.
There was something incredibly attractive about that level of confidence.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Alex. Alexander Casper.”
“Alexander. Greek?”
He shook his head. “English-Irish, mostly.”
I sighed, disappointed. “That’s too bad. My dad wants me to marry a Greek man.”
He chuckled lightly. “We’re married now, huh?”
“We will be. It’s fate.”
“I see.” He pulled out a clipboard and started to make notes. Probably something along the lines of crazy woman, definitely concussed.
That, or he was just avoiding eye contact. Did I make my doctor shy?
“You don’t believe me?” I said. “Look.”
I arched my back so I could pull the hem of my pants down just an inch. I revealed the tattoo on my hip; a small, dark ink illustration in the shape of a waxing moon. I watched his gaze fall to the bare patch of skin and stay there.
“See? We match.” I touched two fingers to my jaw, motioning to his moon-shaped birthmark. “Moon boy and moon girl.”
“Hmm,” was all he said. He had this lovely, pronounced Adams’ apple and it bobbed when he swallowed. My eyelids started to feel heavy. I let them fall closed, but then his fingers laced in mine. “Hey. Moon girl.” He squeezed my hand. “Eyes on me.”
That voice. Something about the deep and command of it struck a chord within me. My body wanted to do whatever that voice said. I forced my sleepy eyes open. “I was just resting them.”
He smiled. It was the sweet smile of a man who knew I was lying, but he was going to let me get away with it anyway. “Tell me about your show.”
“It’s a modern retelling of a Greek myth.”
“I love mythology. Give me some lines.”
“You want to hear it?”
“Yeah. I really do.”
So I ran lines all the way to the hospital. He didn’t let go of my hand, not once, and I decided we fit perfectly like this.
The ambulance slowed to a stop. He squeezed my hand and released it. “Alright, Ruby. We’re here.”
I frowned. “Already? ‘I have not art to reckon my groans,’ good sir.”
He finished the quote: “‘Oh, dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers.’”
Hold on. Did my paramedic know Shakespeare? By heart?
What else did he know?
He opened the back door and hopped out of the ambulance.
He winced when his feet hit the ground. I felt the bed pull forward and, slowly, I was lowered to ground level.
Together, Casper and the EMT wheeled me over to the hospital bay.
Another crew of doctors came to get me, one of them looking me over. “What’ve we got here?”
Casper gave them the run down. “Thirty-two, severe dehydration and heat exhaustion. Needs to be checked for concussion.”
My heart hiccupped. “Aren’t you coming in?”
Casper shook his head. “This is where I leave you. You’re in good hands.”
“Casper.” I reached out. I clung to his hand. “This is going to be a funny story to tell our children.”
“Certainly is.” He gave my hand a final squeeze, then released me and stepped out of reach. He nodded to the ER doctor. “Take care of my wife, will you?”
The doctor chuckled. “Only the best for Mrs. Casper.”
My paramedic-husband left, the doors sealing shut behind him. I huffed dramatically. “Always leaving when I need him.”
“Yeah, he’s got a habit of that. Can you follow my finger, Ruby?”