Amen to Love

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Grateful the next morning was Saturday, Bond slept in and, after dressing in casual clothes, drove to the next village for breakfast at the New Pines Café. Although the trip was only fifteen miles from Black Bear and via freeway would’ve taken about twelve to reach, it took far longer on the hairpin turns of the mountain roads. His stomach growled with hunger by the time he arrived.

The weather was crystalline clear and what his Catholic mother would have dubbed an “annunciation” sky, the term referring to the day the angels appeared to the Blessed Virgin to tell her she was with child. One glance at the rich blue of the lake beneath it plus the deep greens of a forest splotched with leaves turning red and gold convinced him it was an apt description.

There was a crisp feel to the air, signaling fall was here in earnest. Soon the nights would turn cold. Before they knew it, the first snowfall would arrive.

The cafe was filled with customers. As the smell of coffee, frying sausages and bacon hit his nose, the growl in his stomach grew louder. He found an empty table and ordered. Picking up a circulating copy of the morning paper, he cringed when he saw a profile of his shirtless self speaking with deputies while the patient was being loaded into an ambulance. The word “hero” caught his eye, and he folded the paper so the photo didn’t show and dropped it on the seat next to him.

He’d have preferred to sit on it.

After he’d eaten his fill of bacon and pumpkin pancakes topped by whipped cream, he finished off his third cup of coffee and, feeling a little guilty, stuffed the offensive newspaper inside his jacket. Newton’s Market came next on his agenda for the day.

Pulling into its lot, he searched for and at last found an open parking place on asphalt pitted by years of salting to remove ice. He slid out of his red Jeep Cherokee and headed for the door. As he approached the store, a man crouching on a patch of grass near a wooden ranch-style fence, forearms on his thighs, caught his eye. His dirty jean jacket displayed an American flag patch over his heart, his regulation armed forces boots were scuffed and worn, his desert cami pants stained and dusty. Dark, long hair almost hid his face under a black hat with a crumpled crown and a brim whose edges were tattered. Unexpectedly, his hands and long fingers were clean.

Is he waiting for me? The ridiculousness of the idea jolted Bond. He’d never seen the man before. Then he remembered the news reports and hoped the stranger wasn’t looking for the fake hero in them.

The boots and camis indicated he might be a homeless veteran. One third of all the homeless men on any given night in the US were vets and, having fought for his country in the horrors of combat, that statistic made Bond’s gut ache with the injustice of it.

He turned to approach the man. He wouldn’t give him money, which could be used for drugs or booze, or offer a lift, which might put Bond in danger, but he always carried free tickets for a meal and a drink at the Subway up the road. It was a habit similar to one he’d developed while working in a hospital in the heart of an LA high crime area, where the air was heavy with despair. The area had its share of vets who lived in their cars or on the streets. After retiring from the SEALs and returning to civilian life, he’d resumed the practice.

One step into his approach, the man looked up. Stood. He was taller and more slender than Bond, yet the seams of the jacket could’ve burst under the stretch of the broad shoulders it covered. The jacket ended at narrow hips where the camis began. The natural bulge below them was full but not aroused.

He no longer seemed deadbeat; he looked capable and strong. Dangerous even.

Bond slowed. Now, at some intense and deeply personal level, he thought he knew him. He shook off that idea. He’d never seen him before. He prepared to be asked for money.

The stranger smiled, and out of a face framed by greasy hair and smudged with grass stains and earth, two stunningly arresting emerald eyes caught his gaze. They took his measure, head to toes. And they invited him for s*x.

The look said it all. The man hadn’t spoken a word or made any gesture, but there was absolute certainty in his posture that this would happen.

The hairs rose on Bond’s neck and arms and his pulse kicked up.

It was a look beyond any Bond had recalled ever experiencing with any other man. Not even the initial one from the man who had once been his lover. What he’d felt for that partner and what they’d had together instantly faded from his thoughts as if it had never been.

Good Lord, you’d think I was young again. And still a virgin.

He might have scoffed, but instead he stopped. His mind imploded with visions of being in bed with this man, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, their bodies naked, wet, and slippery with their c*m, the scintillating smell of s*x pungent in the air.

He knew this man’s touch on his arousal would bring searing heat and pleasure beyond bearing.

Bond’s every nerve ending flooded him with sensations and with the knowledge that f*****g this man would be primal, rough and primitive. Cataclysmic. More satisfying than any encounter with any other man had ever been. They would make love and then they would do it again. Simply being together would set off the need, the urgency.

Bond’s d**k threatened to surge in response. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as his breath caught in his throat.

The look also said, I will have you. I am your man. You are my destiny.

The promise and the vision warred with his surgeon’s grounded, rational mind. He definitely did not believe in Vulcan mind meld, so where these thoughts came from he didn’t know.

Veteran or not, the man was nothing more than a hustler. Like ice water on an open flame, disgust killed the s****l fire in Bond’s belly and c**k.

With a slight shake of his head, he turned and took the steps into the market two at a time.

The man didn’t follow.

Bond could’ve sworn he chuckled.

He found that very annoying.

As Bond pulled cans from the shelves and frozen foods from the freezer, he couldn’t stop himself from reflecting on the thing that had happened. Yes, the man had given him the look gay men used to telegraph, I’m interested. Are you?

This man’s once-over had meant much, much more. Bond shuddered, sickened by the thought of having s*x with someone as disheveled, dirty, and possibly infected, as the hustler. The fact he was using s****l advances to stay alive instead of seeking help annoyed him beyond measure.

With an effort, he turned his thoughts away from the encounter. He was going fishing tomorrow with Scott Haldale, one of the surgery’s circulating RNs, and Vincent Napolitano, the director of personnel, who had hired him. He was looking forward to it.

Loaded with his purchases, he started toward his car. He’d convinced himself not to look for the stranger with the amazing eyes and their open invitation, but, in the end, his resistance faded and he did.

The fence railing and the bit of grass were empty. Relief spread through him like shade under a hot Afghani sun. He might lose his temper with the guy and end up shaking him.

The relief didn’t last. Someone had slashed all his tires, even the spare.

Anger flashed through him now, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the man destroyed them because he’d turned him down for a romp in the rough. If so, he wasn’t abiding by the rules for another gay giving him the look. Any man on the receiving end was free to accept or not.

While he waited for the auto club tow truck and a sheriff’s deputy, whose name turned out to be Merrill, and a lead detective named Wilson—who was dressed in a tan suit and an outrageous tie—he talked the market into saving his cold and frozen foods until he could return for them.

The balding owner shook his head, upset for him. “Sorry about that. We’ve suffered from some vandalism lately, mostly spray painting by teenagers, but nothing to this level. I may have to hire security to watch the lot. Slashing tires in broad daylight took some balls, didn’t it?”

“It certainly did.”

“We had customers coming and going. I wonder why no one saw it.”

“Because someone very smart and clever slashed them.”

“I’m with you on that. Don’t worry about your food. We’ll have it when you can make it back,” the owner assured him.

“Thanks. Fact is I feel lucky. I drive a car that’s popular in the mountains and there’s an auto parts shop here.”

The young, lanky clerk in J & D Auto Parts checked Bond’s ID against his credit card. “Man, you just wiped us out on that make and size of tire. I hope the scum who did this is done until we can restock.”

“I hope so, too. It’s damned inconvenient.” Expensive, too, he thought as he slid his card through the processing machine. At least his auto insurance would cover part of the bill.

It was late afternoon before he’d picked up his groceries and reached his house in Black Bear. He found himself seething over the slashing as he put his food away, cooked a meal and sat down to an early dinner. He’d missed lunch entirely.

Shortly after he’d finished his meal, he parked in the lot reserved for doctors beside a three-story building with two wings to check on his surgery patients. Weatherton Mountain Hospital had been designed for the environment. The brown roof was fire repellant shake, and the columns were California redwood. The walls were painted soft beige. Already dressed in a white lab coat, stethoscope in one pocket, Bond used his code to enter through the door reserved for doctors, nurse practitioners, physician assistants, and pharmacists.

He almost collided with an older, graying man who was exiting. “Oh. Dr. James,” he greeted him.

“Oops, sorry,” Barton James said, and recognizing Bond, raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Your patients are fine or I would’ve called.”

Bond responded quickly to avoid the impression he didn’t trust Barton’s medicine. “I know. Believe me when I tell you I appreciate what you do for us. But these patients are new to me, and I’m new and not well known yet. I just wanted them to know I haven’t abandoned them.”

The tension Bond had sensed in Barton’s shoulders relaxed.

Their medical group paid James to check on the in-house patients of the doctors on weekends and notify the attending physician if there were problems. At first, this had seemed to Bond to separate him from his patients, but he’d grown used to the freedom it gave him to have a life—such as it was—apart from all the professional demands.

“I’m going fishing tomorrow, so I may not be in at all. I think Dr. Williams will be around if you need an ortho doc and can’t reach me.”

“Good enough, Doctor Hero,” a grinning James said, as he opened the door and pushed through.

Hearing those last two words, Bond cringed as the door closed behind the other physician. At least James had had the good sense to grin. That put it in perspective—being called a hero was a joke. All of which reminded him he needed to check on the victim. He didn’t know if the man was dead or alive.

As he walked through the hall to the staff elevators, he stepped out of the way of a patient on a gurney headed for radiology. This might be Saturday, but work in a hospital really never ceased. Sundays weren’t much better.

When he reached the orthopedic floor, Bond pulled up the computer records on his patients and read them. Heading toward the first room, he bypassed a housekeeping cart outside a room women were cleaning in readiness for a new patient. He almost bumped into a buxom RN with frizzy hair hurrying out of his first patient’s room.

“Oh, hi, Dr. Bergstrom. I just gave Mr. Stanton his pain medication.”

“Is the dose I ordered holding him?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good. I want him comfortable. If that changes, let Dr. James know. I’ll be back Monday. Thanks for your help.”

Surprise crossed her face, and he wondered how many times she’d been thanked for her care and concern.

She smiled. “You’re welcome. It’s why I’m here.”

“Me, too,” Bond said, and smiled back. “Me, too.”

Paul Stanton groaned when Bond reached him. “I didn’t sleep all night.”

“Oh? Why is that?” It was a common complaint, and he wasn’t surprised by the answer.

“So noisy. Someone moaning, carts rolling, doctors arguing in the corridor. One of them was that plastic surgeon guy. What’s he doing on this wing?”

“I’m sorry about that. Sometimes reconstructive surgery is needed after an accident with bone injuries, especially those of the face. I can order a sleeping pill for you, but on top of the morphine drip, it might make you feel too groggy to get up and walk tomorrow. The sooner you’re up and moving, the sooner you can go home and sleep.”

“Nix the sleeping pill. I want to go home.”

Figured you would, Bond thought with a smile. “The way hospitalization works is patients are here to be observed by professionals, undergo testing and treatments. There’s a bustling life here most of the time, but, trust me, it’s quiet compared to what I experienced in a tent field hospital in Afghanistan with all hell breaking loose around us.”

“You were there?”

“I was.”

Stanton’s eyes drooped as the morphine took effect. “Thank you for fighting for us,” he mumbled and fell asleep.

Surprised he’d shared his armed forces experience with a patient, Bond was even more surprised that he’d been thanked for being there. His spirits lightened. He checked in on his other patients and, believing in the value of it for healing, gave each a reassuring touch on an arm, foot, shoulder, or hand.

As he drove home, he thought again about how much he enjoyed being a doctor. Had loved it, even in that tent in the desert, because his skills could mean the difference for a hostage or a warrior between being maimed for life or dying.

He’d thrived on being a SEAL, but viewed it as rather like being a professional athlete—it didn’t last and you prepared to move in new directions. Medicine full-time was his new direction.