“Excuse me?” I say, taken aback. “How am I supposed to stop him?”
“I’ll be right back,” Trisha says in a rush. “I just have to get the bloodwork to the lab for Dr. Harris. He needs a tox screen ASAP.”
“Okay,” I reply weakly.
I fidget by the counter and crane my neck for another hopeful glimpse. Maybe I should go over there and say hi.
Without giving it more thought, I scoop up the leather jacket and march my way across the hall. In the doorway, I falter. All my thoughts vanish when I lock eyes with him.
“Ah… Ah…” I stumble, unable to spit out real words when he’s reclining, shirtless, on the hospital bed. There’s an IV in his arm, hooked up to a bag of fluids.
Dax’s eyebrow raises, watching me grow increasingly awkward in the doorway.
My eyes wander over his defined torso, spotting yellow and purple bruises running along his ribs. They’re partly obscured by an eagle tattooed along the base ribcage. My body heat rises when I spy Roman numerals tattooed on the right-hand side of his chest. I force my eyes away and land on the bed in the corner.
“Hello Mrs. Gibson,” I say, stepping into the room. “How are you today?”
“Good, dear,” she replies from her bed. “Have you come to read to me?”
“Yes, I…shoot.” I left the book behind. Now, there’s no cover for my awkward behavior.
The shirtless hunk in the other bed clears his throat, and I turn his way as if he called my name.
He motions to the jacket in my arms. “Is that mine?”
“Umm, yes,” I say, pivoting toward his bed. “You dropped it before.”
I place the jacket on the table by his bed.
“You were…” His voice is hoarse until he clears his throat again. “In the hall… you caught me?”
A nervous laugh puffs out of me. “I guess you could put it that way.”
His expression grows blank. “So, what? Am I supposed to thank you?”
I jolt, frowning hard. “Well, no, you don’t. I just wanted to help.”
“They just took my blood and want to keep me here,” he says in a sullen tone. “I was just looking for a quick out.”
His building aggression confuses me. Squashing the urge to snap at him, my mother’s voice enters my head.“Poise. Grace. Own the room.”
I clasp my hands in front, and my thumb flicks against my bracelet. With an arched back and steeled nerves, I ask him, “What does a quick out mean?”
“I just needed something to keep me awake,” he mutters. “Now I feel woozier after they drained me. How am I supposed to ride my bike now?”
“You were riding before you collapsed?”
He huffs and looks up at the ceiling with a stony expression. “Why am I talking to you about this? Don’t tell me you work here.”
“I’m volunteering.” I gesture at the IV, attempting to ignore the scorpion tattoo on his forearm. “At least you’re getting fluids. They’ll make you feel better.”
“Yeah, whatever. I suppose the doc told you about how I blacked out on the bike,” he mutters. “It’s just lack of sleep, but they take one look at me and think it’s booze or drugs.”
“And it isn’t?” Oops. It just slipped out.
He gives me a heated stare.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
