Perilously Fun Fiction Bundle

Chapter 4

4

Back in Mike’s examining room, our patient now sported a neat bandage across his chest in place of the bloodied shirt. He was also conscious. I examined bandage and chest to avoid meeting Kelvin Kapone with a K’s gaze.

“You look better.” I caught Mike watching me watch our patient, who was watching me. Caught between gazes I couldn’t comfortably meet, I shifted mine to a poster of a dog skeleton on the wall. “You’re awake.”

You’re good, Stan. Truly inspired.

“Yeah.” I heard the grin in his voice and had to see the dimple again. It was as good as I remembered. Added to his potent blue gaze, I forgot I was too tall, too flat-chested, my makeup long gone and my face possibly still sporting his blood.

“Do you know how much you weigh?” Mike asked, breaking into the strange intimacy of the moment.

We both looked at Mike. Good thing he wasn’t looking at me, because I wasn’t about to share my weight any time soon. Kelvin struggled to sit up and I jumped forward to help him. My fingers spread across his arm, supporting him as little tremors of delight wandered up through my hands where they touched his warm flesh. When he was upright and steady, I stepped back with a much better understanding of the phrase, ‘delights of the flesh.’

Kelvin shrugged. “About one-eighty, maybe. Why?”

“I want to give you a couple of shots, antibiotic and some painkiller. You’re going to be a little sore for a few days.” Mike held up a tiny bottle, drawing the liquid from it up into a syringe. He hesitated, the needle still imbedded in the bottle, and looked at me. “Do you remember what Addison weighed last time you brought him in?”

“Last time I brought him in he wouldn’t sit on the scales.”

“Oh. Yeah. He sat on me.” He frowned.

“Who’s Addison?” our patient asked, with understandable confusion.

“Addison is my dog.”

Comprehension didn’t dawn in his blue eyes, but I stared into them a bit longer, just to be sure. Mike squirted a little fluid from the end of the long needle.

“You’re not a fainter, are you?”

Kelvin seemed fascinated by the glistening length of steel. “I don’t think so.”

I guess I must have imagined his two periods on unconsciousness in the short time since he'd dived through Rosemary's sunroof.

Mike swabbed Kelvin’s arm. “Had this three hundred pound jock pass out on my desk just because the prof stuck a needle in a grapefruit. Broke my wrist.” He jabbed the needle into flesh.

Kelvin winced and stared at the poster of the dog skeleton. When he’d delivered both doses, Mike tossed the syringes, pulled a couple of packets of tablets out of a drawer and handed them to him.

“Here’s some painkiller and another dose of antibiotic for the morning. It should hold you until you can get to your doctor. The dosage is iffy, so only take one of the pain pills at a time and only if you need it.”

Kelvin held the packet up. “Kind of big to swallow, doc.”

“You don’t swallow them. You crush them and sprinkle them on your feed—” Mike stopped. “Or your breakfast. You could sprinkle them on your breakfast cereal.”

Kelvin’s face was devoid of expression, his eyes a couple of blue mirrors. “You’re not a people doctor, are you?”

Mike looked at me.

“What?” I looked at Kelvin, ready to explain, but hoping I wouldn’t have to in front of Mike.

Kelvin didn’t ask for an explanation, but I didn’t feel relieved. Mike got Kelvin a shirt that almost swallowed him whole, but failed to make him look ridiculous or less dangerous.

“Take it easy,” Mike cautioned, “and don’t be surprised if the medication makes you a little sleepy.”

Mike walked with us out to the car, stood with his hands in the pockets of his robe, his feet still bare despite the snow drifting down.

Kelvin gritted his teeth and sank onto the seat. “Thanks for your help, doc.”

Mike nodded, shut the door and turned to me. “You sure he’s not your boyfriend?”

“Quite sure,” I said, surprised he’d even asked. “How much do I owe you?”

He scratched his beard with a massive hand, looking toward the cloudy sky. A few snowflakes lodged in the dark hair. “How about dinner and a movie?”

“With me?”

Mike grinned. “I think I’ve spent enough time with him.”

I smiled. One way or another, it had been quite a night. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow. At seven?”

I frowned. “Better make it eight. Rosemary’s club is having a wax fruit retrospective until seven thirty.”

“Wax fruit?”

“According to my mother it makes more sense than writing my cockroach books.”

Mike chuckled, the vee of his robe gaping as his big chest shook. “You’re full of surprises, Miss Stanley.”

I fingered the rich brocade of his lapel, as surprised at myself as he was. Maybe it had to do with almost getting shot. “So are you, Dr. Lang. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I inserted myself into the car for the final lap of my adventure. As I pulled away, I think the wind caught the flap of Mike’s robe but I was too much of a lady to look. It was too dark to see anything anyway.

“Care to explain why I was patched by a dog doctor?”

I gave him a wary look. “The hospital didn’t seem like a good idea with your gun-toting friends lurking outside. They beat us to the ER.”

“Well, well, isn’t that interesting.”

Interesting? That people wanted to kill him bad enough to stake out a hospital? What had I gotten myself involved in? I stopped at a red light and looked at him. I was eager, despite his obvious assets, to get uninvolved as fast as possible. I wasn’t in one of those movies or books where the heroine immediately decides only she can figure out the dangerous mystery. I could barely balance my checkbook. Someone else would have to take care of the dangerous mystery.

It was decision and directions time. I cleared my throat. He didn’t respond.

“Where do you want me to take you?”

He turned his head slowly, like he was afraid it would fall off. Then he blinked twice. “Why are you…spinning?”

“I’m not spinning.”

“Am I spinning?”

“No…” He slumped against my shoulder. “Might make him a little sleepy, Mike?” I rubbed my face. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

My Good Samaritan gene twitched. It’s passed down from Baptist to Baptist. Maybe the hospital was safe for him now? Or the police—

I looked down at him. His lashes fanned across his cheek, his mouth curved in a slight pout, and his deep, even breathing ruffled the hair next to my ear. What is it that we women find so appealing about that little-boy-lost quality when we know exactly what little boys are made of? And how do we get over it?

“Sometimes I wish the Good Samaritan had passed by on the other side.” The light changed and I set the car in motion, turning it towards home.

With each turn he settled more heavily against me. I reached out and flipped on the defrost. He must have a very high body temperature to steam the windows up so fast. I knew that my mother would think I'd lost my mind to bring a stranger, no matter how unconscious, into my home. But after all that had happened, he didn't seem like a stranger. And at one o'clock in the morning there aren't that many options for the unconsciously inclined—if one ruled out hospitals and police stations. Was I supposed to just roll him out of the car into the gutter and drive away when I'd gotten my most promising date this decade out of the deal? Besides, what kind of standards did she expect from a person whose last roommate had been a roach?

At least I knew there would be no one up this time of night. My mother is of the early-to-bed, early-to-rise school. She likes to pad around while it’s still dark and wax lyrical about the benefits of watching the sun rise. As a confirmed night owl, I was all about moon risings.

When I pulled Rosemary’s car into its slot in her garage, my uninvited guest didn’t stir from his position against my side. All the way home his body lying against mine had taken away the chill and replaced it with feelings I thought I’d safely stowed in the hope-less chest. I didn’t waste time dwelling on what his reaction would be when he came to in the morning, focusing instead on the logistical problems of getting him out of the car and into my apartment. The problem with an over-the-garage apartment is that it is over the garage.

“Mr. Kapone?”

No response.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to bed? I know I would.”

“Bed?” he murmured, stirring. A faint, reminiscent smile curved his mouth.

“Brings back pleasant memories, does it?” It seemed I’d found the magic word. I scrambled out and went round to his door. “Time to come to bed.”

It worked better than Pavlov’s dog bell. He turned toward me, his lashes at half mast, lifting his feet clear of the car and lowering them to the floor like it was a moving surface. Maybe from his perspective it was.

I took his hands, ignored a mental click as they fit together, braced myself and pulled. He came up eagerly, if groggily, and we staggered into my mother’s van occupying the other slot. I slid my arms around him to steady him. I don’t know why he slid his arms around me. His eyes, though hazy and unfocused, still managed to be unsettling.

“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”

Instead of answering, he smiled.

Some men were born to smile at women. He was one of those men. It was an arrow shot straight through the armor of my resolve. If my toes hadn’t curled into hooks, he would have knocked my socks off. He smoothed the strands that had escaped from my braid off my face, the sweetly abrasive palm of his hand brushing against my skin in the process. His hand settled in for a visit and I realized I might be in trouble. When my breathing changed into this gaspy, CPR-like rhythm, I knew I was in trouble. His head bent towards mine, setting off a chain reaction in my mid-section. My insides curled like a ribbon when you run scissors along it. The blood in my face went all tidal, creating a serious impediment to clear thought.

“Mr. Kapone—”

“Call me Kel,” he murmured against my lips.

My lips really liked being murmured against. I licked them in anticipation and was rewarded with contact.

Cold at first, his mouth warmed up fast. His hard, strong body pressed mine into my mother’s van, sending the rational part of my brain sliding down a spiral tunnel of delight. He broke contact, despite an involuntary protest from moi, then made up for it by taking nibbling bites down the side of my neck. I arched up on my toes to give him easier access and realized I was gripping his shoulders.

I’d already gone further than this Baptist had gone before.

“No wonder people wrote operas about love,” I murmured, while tipping my head to allow access to a neglected spot clamoring for its turn.

His hands, warm and strong, kneaded my back, then slid down to cup my posterior, lifting me deep enough into his embrace to assess his level of involvement. It was pretty high. Even while my body quivered its delight, my brain was wondering how he could be drugged to the eyeballs and ready to jump my bones. I didn’t dwell on why I was tempted to let him. This was research, I assured myself, nothing more.

“Uh, excuse me?” I shifted my grip to the side of his head and pushed until I was looking in foggy blue eyes. “You’re wounded. You need to lie down. You know, go to bed.”

I knew right away I shouldn’t have used the b-word.

His lids dropped to half mast. His nostrils flared. His mouth curved in sensuous anticipation. I tried to get my elbows between us, but he moved fast for a drugged guy.

“You've been wounded. Wounded.” Wounded, I reiterated this to myself to keep from getting hypnotized by the warm attention of his gaze. This was a drugged stranger, not a fantasy lover.

His half-lidded eyes were a sensuous, hot blue, the curve of his mouth anticipatory. I spread my hands across his chest again, intending to push him away, but then I felt his heart beat strongly against palms suddenly sensitive to sensuous things.

“Bed,” he said, pulling me back into the hard cradle of his body and claiming my mouth with a deep hunger that filled a need I didn’t know I had.

We started to slide sideways and the door handle of my mother’s van dug into my back, a pointed reminder that I was going somewhere I’d never been with someone I didn’t know. And doing it leaning against my mother’s vehicle. That sobered me more than not knowing Kel. I pulled my head away, and took several deep breaths.

“Please stop, I need—”

“—to call me Kel.” His mouth explored the right side of my face.

“Oh, my—”

“Say it,” he insisted, his dimple flirting at the edge of my vision. “Call me Kel.”

“Oh, what the—” Didn’t I need some experience if I was ever to move past my roach? This was research. My arms slid back around him as my mouth sighed into his. “Kel.”

Capitulation took the starch right out of me.

He retained his starch.

Our lips fused in a scorching contact that carried away sober Baptist and left hot-to-trot Gumby. When we came up for air, I made another weak protest, “You need to get to bed.”

“Bed,” he agreed, turning us both in the direction of the stairs.

I'm not really sure who supported whom, but with wobbles and bumps and me removing his hand from my rump every other step, and a couple of stops to imbed wood slivers in my butt and some lip-locking, we made our uncertain way up the stairs.

“…sort things out up top,” I rationalized with a certain lack of clarity. Besides, it was great copy…

Sorting wasn't on his agenda when we quit tripping on stairs and ran into solid wood. He had other, more ancient ideas. I sagged against the door, his hands spread across my cheeks and into my hair, tacitly encouraging his feather light exploration of my face with his mouth. My hands tried to creep round his waist again, so I shoved them in the pockets of my coat, foraging for my door key instead.

“…copy…copy…copy…” Surely this mantra would ward off anything too final. My eyes felt wide and dry and my heart was as wild as lunch room full of nine year olds. Perhaps I could blunt the physical impact of his touch by assigning text to the taste and feel of his mouth—but adjectives fled when he settled his mouth over mine, deepening the intensity of contact until my couldn't keep up with the beat of my heart.

“…copy…copy…copy…” I intoned in my head.

When he finally came up for air, I'd almost forgotten how to breathe.

“It's just copy—good—very good copy—but still just copy…” I’m not sure who I was trying to convince at this point.

He slid his hands over my shoulders and trailed them down my back at the same time he rubbed his chin against my cheek. The faint roughness made my skin tingle and spark.

“Okay—excellent copy—top notch—bestseller copy—”

I don't know which would have given out first, my knees or my resolution, so it was a good thing I didn't have to find out. My fingers closed over the lifeline of my key and I managed to fumble it into the lock behind me. The door creaked open, sending us staggering into the room.

I had to admire—and enjoy—his tenacity. He stayed with me through the staggers, with a seeming desire to introduce me to all variations of kissing as quickly as he could. I hadn't found one I didn't like, when Addison galloped up. He's too gentle to attack if it's not the rear view mirror of a small foreign car, but he does like to greet me when I get home. And he likes to be introduced to newcomers.

He nudged between us, panting happily. The problem for Kel, being nudged by Newfoundland is no small matter, and if you’re already unsteady on your pins…

Kel went reeling into a chair. Addison took advantage of his lower profile by side swiping Kel’s face with his tongue.

Kel rubbed his face. “Your horse just licked me.”

If I had any doubts he was in a drug induced thrall, that question dispelled them. I gave Addison a hearty thump on the head, then said, “Crate, Addison.”

With a huge woof, Addison padded back to his crate.

“Good dog.” This was a night of many firsts.

I slipped out of my coat and tossed it over a chair. I was tempted to leave him in the chair, but he got up on his own. He swayed again, so I put my arm around his waist and steered him toward my virginal bedroom. I didn’t have a hand free to find the light, so I made my best guess where the bed was, which turned out not be that good. I caught the bed with the back of my legs and went down, bringing him with me.

Kel didn’t flinch, probably because of Mike’s doggy painkiller. He even smiled before he kissed me again.

I sighed, too weary to fight him and my longings. His tongue found the breach in my lips and slipped in, and the caress left my whole body limp with longing. Feeling instead of thinking, my hands slid into his hair and helped his mouth continue to wreak heady havoc on mine. I swear, the bed started to spin, with my heart going counter-clock-wise. I heard a moan and hoped it wasn’t me. I tried to keep my eyes open, but it didn’t help. All I saw was him, all I felt was him.

Then his hands, which had been busy while I was expanding my understanding of the male physique, found an opening in my clothing. The feel of his hands sliding up the bare skin of my stomach heading for a place no man had ever gone before made my eyes cross. I teetered on the edge of giving in to pleasure, to crossing that threshold of knowing, of plunging into the secret world where male met female—when he stopped.

Not just stopped, he went totally limp.

From heady lover to Raggedy Andy in a heartbeat. Doggie painkiller takes down passion. I tried to oust regret and replace it with the more proper relief. It would have been easier if he had rolled off me, since my nerve endings were still sparking with delight.

“Kel?”

He didn’t move.

“Great.” I pushed. He muttered and buried his face deeper against my neck. Even unconscious he felt really good.

It was too much. I was too tired to fight against the comfort of a warm, male embrace on a cold night. I’d just rest a minute, let him get deeper asleep, then I could slip away and curl up all alone on the cold, short, uncomfortable, couch.