Jacked (25 page)

“You’re overthinking it,” he muttered, sounding somewhat disappointed.

“I’m what? You need to keep the sutures dry and clean and—”

“No.” Adam shook his chin slightly. “Whatever’s rolling around in that pretty little head of yours that has your eyes looking sad. That’s what I’m talking about. Not this.” He held up my gauze-wrapped handiwork.

Could he read my mind?
Oh hell no
. “I’m not sure what you mean.” I closed my med kit. “It’s getting late. I have to be at work soon and traffic is going to be heavy and—”

Adam stood up abruptly, getting right into my space and staring me down. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t overthink it. I’m an open book, Erin. You’ve got questions, I got answers. It’s best if that works both ways.”

I fumbled with a comeback, feeling cornered and dumbfounded. Were my female insecurities that transparent?

He drifted his fingertips down the side of my jaw and, for a moment, I thought he was going to try and kiss me. God, I wanted him to so badly. That would shut down my internal musings.

That feeling of being let down washed over me when he stepped out of my bathroom.

I thought he’d be making a beeline for my front door; instead he lingered, scanning over my spattering of pictures, even picking up the one of me when I graduated from medical school.

“Johns Hopkins?” Adam questioned.

I nodded, stepping to his side. “That’s my younger sister Kate in the blue dress.”

“I see some resemblance. You’ve got the same eyes. How old is she again?” He handed the picture frame to me.

“Twenty-six.”

“She’s Jason’s age.”

I wiped a wisp of dust off the frame, staring at her smiling face. “She graduates from veterinary school in a few months. She’s down at the University of Maryland. God, I miss her. But I’m sure I’ll see her for the funerals.”

“Funerals?”

I put the picture frame back on the shelf, straightening it. “My aunt and uncle were in a car crash a few days ago. The triple fatality on the Schuylkill that happened the night that you pulled me over?”

Adam’s shocked gaze whipped over at me.

“My Uncle Cal is still in ICU but he’s deteriorating and my aunt… my Aunt Karen was killed at the scene.”

He eyed me over with something resembling abject horror, his face turning pallid. “You mean to tell me that the vics were related to you?”

I nodded. “We’re all very close. This house is one of their rental units. They are, um, were like second parents to Kate and me.”

Adam rubbed his forehead before covering his eyes, shielding them from me while his lips rambled a few silent curse words.

When he finally looked at me, his face was pained. “I am
so
sorry, Erin. Oh, God. I had no idea.”

He was touching me, running his hands over my arms, feeling me as if I might be broken somehow. “You okay?”

I actually wanted to eke out a sob but refrained. Death was a fact of life, no matter how hard I tried to intervene. All we were capable of doing as doctors was delaying the inevitable. “I’m dealing. My parents are taking it hard, though. Really hard.” I picked up the picture of them huddled around the slot machines from one of their trips to Las Vegas, smiling at the big “Win a Honda” sign over their heads.

Adam held out his hand for it. “Is that them?”

Just looking at the picture hurt. So many wonderful memories cut short. “Yeah. This is my mom and dad and that’s Uncle Cal and Aunt Karen. The four amigos. She died at the scene.”

A tear escaped the corner of my eye.

Adam seemed to take this information harder than I would have expected. His grip tightened on the frame and the oddest look came over him. “I don’t even know what to say, Erin. I’m sorry you and your family are going through this. So much senseless violence in the world. So much I wish I could change.” His hand shook a bit as he set the frame back down, adjusting it with the tip of his finger as if to put it back exactly where it once was. “…I had no control over it,” he muttered, “God… have no control over any of it. The Manley brothers…”

I thought about all of the people who fought for their lives when they came through those ER doors, wishing I could fix them all, too, work some sort of miracle so that no one would have to experience loss or grief. “Sometimes I think our fate is just out of our control. No rhyme or reason to it. Bad people live; good people die. Innocent children fight diseases or suffer from the… the
malicious
mistreatment at the hands of their parents while drug addicts and gang bangers get to live on. It’s crazy and it makes no sense.”

I met Adam’s solemn eyes. “But then there are people like you to stop them and people like me to fix them. And we do the best we can, knowing that we can’t win them all.”

He gazed at me for the longest moment; it was evident that something was troubling him. “Erin, I’m… Sorry, but I have to go.”

His demeanor had changed so abruptly; I was confused by the sudden turn. But he grabbed his coat, looking lost, confused, and scattered, and hurried for my front door.

Adam barely looked at me before he gripped the doorknob. “See you later,” he muttered and before I could stop him, he slipped out of my house.

And then he was gone. The blustering wind and winter chilled ice crystals swirling in his wake, leaving me just as cold and barren as the dark February sky.

I WAS GLAD
Sarah had finally found other things to obsess about beyond my lack of a love life. Over the course of an emotionally trying solid week, her bubbly and excited, “Did he call yet?” daily questioning morphed into a somber, “Still no word?” with an extended bottom lip to show her solidarity.

No, he didn’t call. He didn’t ask for my phone number before he ran out my front door and unless he had police officer ways of finding my cell number, all points indicated to him never calling.

Believing I’d have a shot with someone so gorgeous—and locally famous as Adam was—well, let’s just say I was fairly certain he didn’t need my number. I’d be willing to bet women tossed their numbers at him daily and, if they got extremely desperate, they could always spray paint their phone numbers on the gigantic billboard advertising his television show that I’d discovered by accident yesterday near the underpass on Grant Avenue.

I was such a sappy ass. I even turned my car around so I could gaze at the ginormous picture of him. Adam was front and center with the rest of his team flanking him on both sides, looking all badass and sexy in their ATTF uniforms.

I parked in a space at the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street, staring at a freaking billboard, wondering if I ever crossed his mind. Lord knows I surely couldn’t get him out of mine. I couldn’t stop the tears once they started.
Silent tears
, my grandmother used to call them—the kind that fall when you think there’s no one who could possibly understand your sadness.

The stress from trying to follow my dreams was taking its toll. I’d achieved becoming a doctor—it was a blur of years mixed with spirit-rending days as a resident, barely existing while studying incessantly, balancing everything on the delicate precipice between killing someone and curing them. I’d made my mark, proved my competence time and time again, and gained the respect of my superiors and mentors.

But love? There was no pill or cure or pathology for that.

After ten minutes of reminiscing over something I never quite had while staring at his enormous likeness, I wiped my face with the backs of my hands, feeling stupid, foolish, lonely, and once again, not good enough.

Which is why on day six of Sarah’s incessant questioning and my feigned happiness, I found myself calling an old friend, Tommy Rizzotti.

Six days of dwelling in my self-imposed misery spiral was enough. What I needed was to feel alive again. To at least feel desired, even if it was for meaningless sex. Tommy was my secret outlet when my limited array of personal pleasure products weren’t enough to bolster my failing self-esteem. He had dropped out of med school his second year, returning to Philly and his first love of music. He was tall and lean, with a tiny birthmark on his cheek that accentuated a gorgeous face. Tommy was the lead guitarist in a rock cover band that was quite popular within the local club scene. He also had the dirty-blond unkempt bed hair and dexterous fingers of a decent musician, which made him one hell of a desirable package. This he used to his advantage, and finding his bed empty was hit or miss. One thing was for certain, Tommy may be a man-whore but he was vigilant when it came to wearing condoms.

And he was my man-whore standby.

And man, did I need his services—badly.

I felt sort of disgusted with myself that I’d have to resort to washing the residual hope of Detective Adam Trent away with a meaningless booty-call, but at least I wasn’t crying inside anymore.

Tommy was unfortunately in Connecticut and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon. He had a local gig Friday night at ten, but was willing to get a quick pre-show fuck in before it at eight. It was either that or I’d have to wait until after the show and then his options for bed partners would quadruple.

Must be nice to be in such demand that you could schedule getting laid.

Perhaps he was onto something; having your physical needs met without investing your heart and soul in the deal. It was actually a brilliant setup now that I’d spent some time analyzing it.

Tommy and I never had that emotional connection that brought about jealousy; he liked to fuck and was always willing to take me in like a sad kitten in desperate need for a meal, which made our encounters safe and manageable for both parties. It helped that he was one hell of a nice guy with the tongue skills of a madman.

I loved how Tommy managed to make the act of requesting meaningless sex over the phone as effortless as ordering Chinese take-out.
“Yeah, hi. I’d like to order the number two sex combo platter with extra cock. Does that come with one or two finger penetration with the oral? Two? Excellent. No, hold the post-sex awkwardness. Oh, can I get an extra helping of CumOfSomeYoungGuy? Thirty-five minutes? Perfect.”

These were the thoughts in my head as I drug my garbage can to my curb for its Friday morning pick-up, while contemplating whether or not I could pull off being a booty call for several men in between studying medical textbooks and reviewing toxicology studies. Would probably solve some of my tension issues without worrying that I might get hurt or have some asswipe do the foot-stomp on my heart.

I needed to get to the hospital and then get on with my clandestine arrangements.

“Yoohoo, Erin!”

Across the street, the widow, Mrs. Shumway, was waiving to me, pulling the front of her beige wool coat over her sunken chest. That combined with her grape purple pants that were too big and quilted black winter boots made for quite the fashion statement.

I put my plastic recycle bin next to my garbage can and waved back, noticing she was actually hailing me. I trotted across the street, avoiding the leftover snow and slushy puddles.

“Morning,” she greeted, straining as she dragged her heavy-duty garbage can behind her. Even when he was in his eighties, that was a job that Mr. Shumway used to handle.

Her bright smile was never quite the same after he passed, forever altered by an irreplaceable loss. “Morning, Mrs. Shumway. Can I give you a hand with that?”

She cinched her coat tighter while I pulled her garbage to the curb. “Oh, thank you, dear. My hands aren’t as strong as they used to be. It sure is cold out this morning.”

I didn’t need my medical degree to see the late stage Rheumatoid Arthritis crippling her. “Yes, it is. I heard we’re getting more snow tonight. I’m ready for spring.”

Mrs. Shumway’s gaze turned distant. “Spring was always Frank’s favorite season.”

I saw her slipping away to some fond memory, one that was bittersweet. “I’m off this weekend so don’t even think about trying to shovel on your own. I’ll be over as soon as it stops so don’t worry. Do you need anything at the store? I have to get to work soon but if I leave now I can run for you.”

Her nurturing smile returned. “Oh, no, dear. That’s sweet of you but I have everything I need.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I should probably get going. I have a meeting this morning.”

“Oh, then I won’t keep you. I was just wondering if you were happy with the handyman you hired the other day. I have some work that needs to be done and I’m not sure who to even call. There are so many crooks these days, all wanting to take advantage now that my husband is gone. Frank used to take care of all of the maintenance around here.” She waived a hand across her snow-covered front lawn. “But the old house has seen better days.” She sighed, her weathered face turning quizzical. “Was he expensive?”

I was completely confused, wondering which one of us was getting Alzheimer’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Shumway. I didn’t hire anyone.”

She frowned at me. “Well, you had a young man over there on a ladder a couple of days in a row. Fixed the loose shingles above your garage door on Tuesday and was tinkering around the place all morning on Wednesday. See my gutter?” She pointed and my eyes instinctively followed. “All that heavy snow is ripping mine off its hinges. If that comes down I’ll end up having to replace the whole thing and I can’t afford to do that. That’s going to cost a lot of money and I’m on a fixed income.”