14
“You let go,” Marc groaned.
We lay side by side on the grass, facing each other. Most of Marc’s disgust was lost on me because of the throbbing pain in my ankle.
“I told you not to let go,” he growled, obviously not hurt.
Actually, it wasn’t just the pain in my ankle. I still couldn’t breathe—which made no sense because I was lying outside in the fresh air. I opened my mouth but it was as though someone had crushed my chest and I couldn’t draw breath.
My eyes rounded in panic and Jay knelt down beside me. “The fall’s winded you. Just try to stay calm and you’ll be able to breathe soon.”
I shook my head. Still no air. But given I was curled into a ball on my side with my shoulder pressing into the cool ground, I wasn’t in the best position for optimal breathing.
I tried to push myself up and discovered I still had air in my lungs after all. Jay flinched as my high-pitched cry pierced the night.
“Shit.” Marc jumped up and crouched beside me next to Jay.
To my mortification, hot tears slid down my cheeks and they were completely involuntary. “My shoulder,” I gasped.
Marc and Jay dropped their gazes. I saw them share a look, then Jay returned his focus to me. His chocolate brown eyes were gentle as they met mine. “OK, Lena. We’re going to roll you onto your back, but let us do all the heavy lifting, alright?”
I didn’t like his tone. Deep down, Jay might have been a big softie, but he never spoke to me like I was delicate.
It could only mean one thing: I was hurt. How badly, I had no idea, but I didn’t need to be a medical professional to know that laying me on my back was standard first aid procedure.
“OK,” I said, then swallowed and directed a hard look at Marc because that felt better than being scared. “Why aren’t you hurt?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “I’m professionally trained.”
“You’re not a stunt man.”
While we’d been talking, Marc had moved to my feet and Jay was now at my head.
They shared another glance.
“Ready?” Marc asked.
I opened my mouth to reply but it turned into a shriek as they rolled me onto my back. A few sobs also escaped so I squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to gather myself. “I wasn’t ready,” I ground out.
“Sorry, Lena,” Jay said. “It was better than risking you trying to move yourself.”
“Does it hurt anywhere else?” Marc asked, his voice unusually soft.
I bit my lip to stop from saying ‘everywhere’. When I didn’t answer Marc started running his palms up my left leg. My eyes fluttered open and I let out a shaky breath—but not from the pain.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Checking to see if you’re hurt.” His eyes reflected the glow from my house, which, up until now, I had totally forgotten was in flames.
I tried to twist to one side to see it, but Marc gripped my hips and Jay’s impossibly large hands cradled my head, keeping me from moving.
“Don’t,” Jay urged. “Wait until the ambulance gets here.”
“Ambulance,” I protested. “I don’t need—”
“Lena.” Jay’s tone broached no room for argument. “You do. Now let us do our jobs.”
I blinked away more tears—more from frustration this time as the pain was so overwhelming I’d actually started to feel numb. “But my house . . . ”
“Is on fire,” Marc finished for me, and my moment of self-pity was lost to anger.
“I got that,” I shot back. “Great job protecting me, by the way.”
I knew instantly it wasn’t the right thing to say and Marc’s eyes flashed with anger. The fire made it look as if sparks flew from his gaze.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“But my house—”
“Is on fire and you’re in one piece. Anyway, I thought you said you didn’t like this house.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. My job is to protect you, not your belongings. And maybe if you’d held on to me like I told you to—”
“Here comes the ambulance,” Jay announced. “And the fire crew too, by the looks of it.”
Jay’s stating the obvious made us pause long enough for the wailing of the sirens to make arguing further pointless.
Jay stood up. “I’ll brief the fire crew and you can take care of the paramedics.”
Marc nodded and watched Jay walk off. The way I was positioned on the grass meant I couldn’t see Jay so I found myself properly taking in Marc’s appearance for the first time since I’d jumped—or was that fallen?—from the window.
He wore an old pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. His face was still covered in soot from the smoke. I imagined I looked much the same, but I was fairly certain I wasn’t pulling it off as well as he was. It made him look like some sort of mercenary and, despite our previous argument, I was glad he was on my side.
Marc strode past me and I heard movement and voices behind me. I couldn’t make out the conversation but it sounded like a male paramedic was talking to Marc.
After a painfully long wait that was probably only a minute, a big, burly guy with sandy colored hair crouched down beside me.
“Hi Lena. I’m Matt.”
If he knew who I was, he wasn’t making a big deal about it. It was actually quite nice for a complete stranger to look me straight in the eye and not exclaim who I was. While Matt’s blue eyes scanned me carefully to determine the extent of my injuries, it struck me that they were really pretty. Or maybe I had inhaled too much smoke.
“Hi, Matt.”
“I’m told you had a nasty fall.”
“It was better than being burned to death.”
“Yeah, it’s better you avoided that. But I think you may have bumped yourself pretty badly when you hit the ground. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“My ankle. Right one.” The one Marc hadn’t touched, thankfully, or I might have tried to kick him with my good leg. “My backside is pretty sore, too, but I think I’ve just bruised myself.”
I winced as he picked up my right foot.
“Yeah, looks like you landed on that one,” he said. “It could be broken, but we’ll have to take some X-rays when we get you to the hospital.”
“Hospital? Do you really think so?”
Matt’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “I think it might be a good idea. Tell me, does your shoulder hurt?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m trying not to think about that. The pain is pretty bad there, too.”
“I’m not surprised.”
I tried to sit up, but Matt pushed me gently back down by putting pressure on my left shoulder. I frowned in confusion. “How did you know that was the good shoulder? And don’t tell me you were taking a fifty-fifty chance.”
Matt laughed, and I imagined he’d had other female patients enjoy the sound of it. “It’s kind of obvious.”
“To you, maybe, but I guess that’s why you’re the paramedic.”
I saw Matt glance up at Marc who was standing beside us and Marc shook his head once.
Before I could question the exchange, another paramedic—female this time—knelt down beside me.
“Hi Lena. I’m Rochelle. I’m just going to give you something for the pain. Any allergies I should know about?”
“What? No. No allergies. Do you really think I need something?”
Rochelle, a redhead with her hair tied back in a high ponytail and earnest light blue eyes, smiled at me. “They didn’t tell me you did your own stunts.”
I went to shake my head and she placed her fingers gently on my forehead. “Keep still if you can.”
“OK, sorry. I’d prefer not to take anything.”
Although it had been over fifteen years, I still remembered the effect the drugs had on my mother toward the end. I knew they were necessary for the pain but I’d hated the way they’d made her distant. At times it seemed like she was a different person and a part of me still mourned those days when she was alive but not really there at all.
“I get where you’re coming from, Lena, I really do, but I’m going to have to pull rank on this one. You need something so we can move you.”
I looked across at Matt and Marc, wondering if I was the only one who thought it was over the top. Matt nodded and Marc’s dark eyes were serious.
“For goodness’ sake, I’m just a little bumped up and bruised,” I told them.
“It’s your shoulder we’re worried about.”
“Yes, you’ve already mentioned that, but honestly, I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Rochelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the men, then fixed me with a firm look. “Seeing as your collarbone is currently protruding from your shoulder, I’d say it’s reasonably bad. Or were they tiptoeing around that?”
My mouth dropped open and I raised my head and tried to twist it so I could get a better look at my right shoulder. A wave of pain crashed over me, but not before I saw the sickening way my bone was pressed against the surface of my skin. It looked like the bone was ready to pierce through at any second.
“Oh.” I dropped my head back onto the ground, nausea mingling with the pain.
“Shock can mask things,” Rochelle said matter-of-factly. “That’s a nasty break. Now, let me give you those painkillers.”
“But—”
“Take the drugs, Princess.”
We all stopped and looked at Marc, but he merely raised a dark eyebrow.
“OK,” I said, feeling defeated.
After that, I stayed quiet unless they asked me a question. They lifted me onto a stretcher and rolled me toward the back of the van. When we reached the open door, without thinking, I reached out and grabbed Rochelle’s wrist with my good arm.
“Wait!”
“Sure,” replied Rochelle easily, and they stopped the stretcher. “How’s things?”
I laughed—painfully. “Where’s Jay? My security guy?”
“He’s dealing with the fire,” came Marc’s deep voice from behind us.
“I’d like him here.”
“He’s kind of busy because your house is on fire.”
I thought I saw Rochelle’s mouth twitch and I dropped my hand from her arm and closed my eyes at Marc’s infuriating dry humor.
There was a beat of silence as they waited for me to respond.
I cleared my throat, which still felt parched and like dry ash from the fire. “I’d like him here with me.”
“I’m here with you,” said Marc.
I opened my eyes and when I did was close to tears. The last thing I wanted to do right now was start another argument, because Lord knows Marc and I seemed to do it so well.
But how could I explain to them, least of all Marc, how much I hated hospitals? I hated them with every part of my being. I knew it made no sense because it was the place where the doctors and nurses had tried so hard to save my mother for two years before she died. But she had died, and all I was left with was the memory of the long hours spent in those stark rooms, by my mother’s bedside. The day she passed away, I had left and never set foot in a hospital again.
So the very last thing I wanted to do right now was to go to one.
“I—” I’d been about to say, ‘I can’t’ but the caress of Marc’s palm on my head, so like my dream, silenced me. His thumb stroked my hairline, once, twice, then stopped.
“I’m here, Lena.”
I had no idea if it was his uncharacteristic behavior, the constant onslaught of pain tiring me, or the fact I was in shock, but I managed to nod my head ever so slightly.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The paramedics took that as their cue and something in me settled. I was lifted into the back of the vehicle, and Marc climbed in behind them.
Where his presence usually annoyed me, now it soothed. This was what he was good at, I realized. Taking charge. I hadn’t had a man take charge for as long as I could remember. My producer ex-husband to-be, Duncan, had been smooth and verbose and manipulating. Not straightforward and practical like this.
As for my father, I had vague memories of him taking charge when I was younger. By the time my mother fell ill, all the decision-making capacity he had seemed to desert him. But I didn’t want to think about him right now. It was bad enough all the pain of my mother’s passing was coming to the surface.
I forced myself to concentrate on Marc instead. He sat beside my stretcher, arms resting on his knees, close enough I’d be able to reach out and touch him with my good arm. I liked the way his presence seemed to command respect and how words weren’t always necessary.
I closed my eyes when the van began to move, ironically grateful the drugs they’d given me were starting to work. Despite my initial reservations, they dulled the pain. It was a good thing because now we were driving I couldn’t help the way my body moved with the sway of the vehicle.
We drove in silence for what felt like a long time, but I couldn’t be sure and I was past caring.
“Almost here,” Rochelle told us when it felt as though I’d been about to nod off.
“Good drugs?” Marc asked as we went over a speed bump.
“Not bad,” I murmured drowsily.
“Why did you let go?” His voice was quiet, but I could still hear a note of exasperation.
The painkillers must have been good because I considered his question through my fog of muted pain. Instead of arguing, I gave him an honest answer. “Not used to holding on.”
“Sometimes you have to.”
“Sometimes you have to let go, too.”
“Not when there’s someone there to break your fall.”
His words cut through my haze. “Is that what you were planning to do? Break my fall?”
“If you’d let me.”
“But wouldn’t you have been injured too?”
He didn’t respond until we’d driven over another speed hump. “Sometimes it’s better to take the fall yourself instead of watching others get hurt.”