Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(157)
Perfect.
So, I’m already thinking about which Netflix series I’m going to binge with a bottle of red wine upstairs as the elevator doors ding open, and it’s right then that the scream freezes in my throat.
The man is slumped against the wall of the elevator, bloodied and out cold. He’s shirtless, his muscled, tattooed body covered in bruises and cuts and blood, and for a horrified minute, I wonder if I’m looking at a corpse. But then the doctor in me kicks into gear instantly, and I’m dropping down next to him to feel for a pulse.
My heart jumps into my throat as he suddenly gasps awake, his hand jerking to grab my wrist and his eyes wide and wild as he stares into mine. I stutter out a gasp as I find myself staring into the most piercing brown-green eyes I've ever seen; eyes the color of the forest, flecked with gold.
His eyes dart around the elevator in wild, jerking movements, and I can see the veins in his neck pulsing as he jerks forward.
“Hey, hey!” I say, putting my hands on his bare chest and gently pushing him back against the wall. The muscles beneath his skin feel like rippling iron under my hands, and I feel myself blushing at how absurdly unprofessional it is to think of this bleeding stranger with those kind of descriptors.
Especially bleeding strangers as staggeringly good looking as this one.
His dark hair is buzzed short, and even with a thick beard covering his chin, I can see how handsome he is from the prominent cut of his cheekbones and the dark, smokey look in his eyes.
“I need you to relax, OK?” I’m pressing him back down as gently as I can; “You've been in some kind of accident, and I'm going to help you.”
He lunges forward again, a crazy look in those handsome eyes; “You-”
“I'm a doctor, OK?”
Ok, clinical virologist, but close enough, I mutter to myself. I didn’t sit through four semesters of triage and two years of late-shift E.R. work not to be able to do something in a situation like this.
“Listen, I’m going to help you while we wait for the ambulance-”
“No.” His voice is like sandpaper on wood; rich and rough, with a touch of something warm there. He momentarily looks much more awake and alert as his face darkens; “No ambulance; no hospitals.”
I'm suddenly very afraid of what that implies, as well as suddenly very aware that I'm alone with a beaten and bloodied stranger who for all I know could have just come from murdering his whole family or something.
He must see the fear shoot through my face, because his look softens for a moment; “Look, just- no ambulance. Please.”
I bite my lip, my hand still hovering near my purse and my cellphone, but there’s something utterly bewildering and unexplainable about the sincerity in his eyes that has me wanting to trust him. He winces, his hand pressing against his ribs, and it's then that I realize how much he's bleeding from some wound there.
“Oh my God, you need to let me call an-”
“You're a doctor you said?” He coughs violently, tilting his head back against the wall and gritting his teeth for a second.
“Yes?”
“Good, you're hired.”
I frown; “Wha-”
“Reach in my left pants pocket.”
“Um, excuse me?”
“Just do it.” He coughs, wincing.
Warily, I lean closer to him, wondering when he's going to tie me up, or ax me to death, and reach into his pocket.
I blink at the fat wad of $100 dollar bills I pull out; dyed rust colored around the edges from his blood.
“Ok, what's-”
“That's your fee,” He whispers out with a grimace; “For patching me up.” He's looking paler and paler by the second as he leans his head back against the wall, and I notice his breathing is coming slower and slower by the rising and falling of his muscled, tattooed chest.
“I'm not taking this money.”
Oh HELL no am I taking a bloody wad of hundred dollar bills from a complete stranger. I want no part of that, actually.
His brow furrows, and I can see him trying to open his lips, but I'm already whirling around and hitting the button in the elevator, the doors closing behind us.
“I'm not taking this money,” I say again, this time yanking my t-shirt off over my head and pushing his hand away as I press the cotton to his open wound; “But I am going to help you. Just don't die on me, OK?”
He momentarily opens his eyes once more, and when he grins, I can't tell if it’s because he’s glad I’m going to help him, or the fact that I've taken my shirt off. Maybe both.
“Top floor,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Wait, what?” As dumb of an idea I know it was, I was just going to drag him into my own apartment on the second to top floor. As far as I knew, the apartment above me was empty.