Trinity(21)

I drive down the hilly road with the white motorcycle ten car lengths ahead. He weaves between lanes and even does a wheelie as he hits a straightaway. What a fuckin’ show-off.

At the next red light, we meet again. And again, he’s way too close for my liking. I can practically reach out and touch the leather of the backpack strapped to his shoulders. I try to keep my focus on the road, but he continually opens the engine as if trying to get my attention. I finally relent and look over at him. This time, his shield is up, and a pair of arresting blue eyes are staring back at me. My heart actually flutters. I swear those eyes have looked at me before. I don’t get much of a chance to inspect them further as the biker is suddenly slammed into from behind. He’s catapulted through the red light into cross traffic. It all happens wickedly fast, while at the same time in slow motion. The bike barrels into the driver’s side of a moving car, and the rider is flung from his seat, flying right over the hood of the sedan. I don’t see him hit the ground, but I do hear the screeching of tires and the blowing of horns. I instantly react, attempting to open my door, but it jams. The car that creamed him is flush against my driver’s side. I see the driver’s head bobbling all over. Drunken cocksucker sideswiped me. His jalopy doesn’t even look like it’s legal.

I rush out the passenger side and book it straight to the mangled man on the pavement.

“I’m a nurse! Call an ambulance!” I shout as I brush past two bystanders. “Out of my way!” I drop to my knees and check his vitals.

He has a faint pulse. “Sir, can you hear me?” I don’t shake him or move him in any way in case of a spinal injury. “Sir!” I yell again with no response. Then I feel warm liquid beneath my palm. Blood. Lots of it. I look him over, finding a small rip on the inside thigh of his dark jeans.

“Shit!” I tear them open to expose the wound. Fuck, he’s bleeding so much it looks like he nicked an artery.

“Does anyone have a belt, rope, cable tie, anything? I shout at the onlookers as I apply pressure to the wound. If I don’t compress it rapidly, I fear he’s going to bleed out.

“Here!” A woman unbuckles her belt. With clumsy fingers, she gets it off and hands it to me. I use the thin leather strap as a tourniquet while keeping pressure on the wound, an active attempt to slow the bleeding. “Hang on, moto.”.” I clench my jaw as I kneel above him for what feels like forever until the ambulance arrives. I shake off the flashback. The blood, the wreckage, the limp, lifeless body. I break out in a cold sweat but hold my position.

Luckily, we aren’t far from Mercy, so the response time is quick. Before I know it, lights and sirens surround us, cops are directing traffic, and the injured biker is getting lifted into the back of the bus.

“Scottie!” I yell to one of the officers on the scene. “Can you move my car? I’m going with! Keys are in the ignition!”

He gives me a salute and continues to take statements. Between my aunt being a well-respected detective in town and me working night shifts in the ER, I know almost every police officer in the area.

The doors close and the ambulance pulls off as the other two medics and I work on John Doe. We start a line and stabilize him. I worry about his blood pressure, which is dangerously low.

The ride back to Mercy takes mere minutes, and when the ambulance doors swing open in front of the ER, Dr. Hale, the attending physician, and two male nurses are awaiting our arrival. One of the medics recites John Doe’s stats, then hands him off.

“Back so soon, Kayla?” Dr. Hale asks as we wheel the unconscious patient down the hallway. She’s a well-kept, middle-aged woman, who quickly became a role model for me when I started at Mercy.

“You know me.” I smile at her. “I just can’t stay away.”

On the way to the exam room, I grab a fresh gown and a pair of gloves. No way am I not seeing this through.

Once in the room, we transfer the unconscious man from the gurney onto the bed and immediately X-ray him. He’s still fully dressed—helmet and all—minus the huge rip in his pants. We can’t remove the helmet until we know he has no spinal injuries.

Dr. Lipschitz enters the room as Dr. Hale examines the X-rays. Dr. Lipschitz is the trauma surgeon on duty and immediately begins to close the gaping wound in the man’s thigh. It takes several heart-pounding minutes to sew it shut, but he does so beautifully. He’s a brilliant doctor, but a grade-A, Ivy League asshole. We all keep our distance. Once he’s done, he drops the instruments and leaves the room without so much as a word.

Freddy and Lex—the two other nurses—and I all exchange the same communicative glance. Douchebag.

“Spine and CT is clear!” Dr. Hale suddenly announces. “But his leg is seriously messed up.” She places the films up on the screen.

Ouch. Both bones in his lower leg are broken and wrapped around each other.

“Get that helmet off, and let’s wrap this guy. Lex, twenty of morphine. Unconscious or not, this is going to hurt.”

Lex, Freddy, and I all take on our respective roles. Lex administers the ordered meds, Freddy cuts the man out of his clothes, and I remove his helmet. After which I nearly drop it.

“Dev?” I gasp.

“That’s not Dev.” Freddy looks at the man on the table, almost star-struck.

“Then who the hell is it?” Dr. Hale demands.

“It’s the phantom.”

“Who?” Dr. Hale and I both respond in unison.

“That’s Reese Dane. Dr. Dane’s twin brother. He’s a legend, on and off the track,” Freddy divulges.

“Track? What the hell are you talking about?” Dr. Hale asks, utterly confused.

“He’s a motorcycle racer. World famous, badass, Moto Grand Prix champion.”

“Why do you call him the phantom?” I ask.

Both Freddy and Lex look up at me and smirk. “Because you never see him coming, baby.” Lex flashes an overconfident smile. “He sneaks up on you just like a ghost.”

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly get lost in my head. Just what the world needs, a second Dane with an even bigger ego.

“Contact Dr. Dane,” Dr. Hale instructs Lex. “I’m sure he’ll want to know his brother has been in an accident. As for you two, let’s get Mr. Dane patched up and into recovery.”

We all nod at the doctor’s orders.

It takes close to an hour to reposition the bones in Reese’s leg and then cast him. On top of his injured lower extremities, he also had a dislocated shoulder that we needed to be popped back into place. All in all, it wasn’t the worst motorcycle accident I’ve seen. He managed to hang onto his life.

“Mr. Dane won’t be doing much racing.” Dr. Hale pulls off her gloves and discards them.

“No, he won’t.” I look down at the unconscious man. The resemblance is uncanny. Every feature the exact same as Dev’s. Dark wavy hair, high cheekbones, strong jaw, long thick eyelashes, and tons of ink. The most intricate designs I’ve ever seen. The entire right side of his body is covered—arm, chest, torso, thigh, calf. It looks like he’s half machine. Just like the Terminator when his fake flesh was pulled off his body.

“See something you like, Nurse Kincade?” Dr. Hale teases me.

“Huh?” I look up realizing I’m inspecting Reese a little too closely. “Oh.” I step back and clear my throat. I feel like I was just caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “I’ve just never seen a tattoo like that before.”

“You’ve never seen Dev without his shirt off then,” Dr. Hale purrs.

My face drops. “Not you, too.” I thought she had more respect for herself.

“Oh, God no. I have my own bad boy at home. I saw Dev changing his shirt in the parking garage after work one night. Lord.” She fans herself. I can’t even. It’s like Dev emits pheromones. “It’s definitely at least worth a peek.”

“I’ll remember that.” I scrunch my nose. The last thing I need is to be looking at Devlin Dane without any clothes on.

We walk out of the room together as Reese is wheeled into recovery. I can’t believe Dev has a brother. An identical twin. He never even hinted he had a sibling. I can’t get over the craziness of it all.

Dr. Hale makes her way back into the ER as I escort Reese. I’m not technically on duty, so there’s no place pressing I have to be. Except the gym. It’s close to ten p.m. by the time everything settles down. It’s a slow night in recovery, so I figure the nurses are probably catching up on charts—or chitchatting. Take your pick. It’s just me, a comatose Reese, and the guy snoring across the room.

As hard as I try, I can’t bring myself stop looking at Dev’s twin. It’s like I’m staring at a carnival attraction.

I lean in closer without even thinking and inspect the mechanical tattoo some more. It’s so detailed. Not one centimeter of skin is showing. I touch the lifelike metal gears and springs, marveling at the 3D effect, when Reese suddenly wakes with a start, latching onto my arm.

“Ouch!” He squeezes so hard I know I’m going to bruise.

“Where am I?” he demands in a panic.

I struggle to get free but his hand is like a steel vise. Maybe he really is part robot.