Aftershock (7 page)

It was just enough to buy them another minute.

“We have to lower him slowly,” Don said.

Lauren followed his lead. He showed her how to let out the
slack in gradual measures so they wouldn’t lose control of the rope. She
mimicked his motions, hand over hand. Working together, the four of them brought
Garrett closer to the ground.

“Cadence, go hold his head,” she ordered. “Don’t let it hit the
concrete.”

The girl released the rope and ran to Garrett, cradling both
arms under his head. They lowered him the last few feet until he lay sprawled on
his back.

Safe.

Lauren rushed to his side, checking his wrist for a pulse. It
hammered against her fingertips, strong and steady.

He moaned, listing his head to one side.

She was so relieved to see signs of consciousness that tears
sprang to her eyes. Cadence held up her hands, showing Lauren the blood on them.
Lauren reached into her medical bag for moist wipes and gauze. She passed the
wipe to Cadence and pressed the gauze to the wound on Garrett’s scalp, stanching
the blood flow.

“Can you hear me?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah.”

“Who are you?”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “Garrett Wright.”

“Remember what you were doing?”

“Something stupid.”

She choked out a laugh that was half sob and continued to put
pressure on the wound. Tears spilled down her cheeks, unbidden. One of them
splashed on his face, leaving a clean mark on his skin.

Your water shall mingle with our
water.

He opened his eyes to stare at her, his pupils normal size. She
realized she was making a fool of herself, and didn’t give a damn. Although she
was the only one bawling, she knew the others shared her concern.

Penny and Cadence exchanged a smile. When Penny elbowed her,
Cadence giggled behind her hand.

While Don escorted them back to the RV, Lauren took the cloth
away from Garrett’s head to check the size of the wound. It was less than an
inch long, and could be sealed easily with tissue glue.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My shoulder.”

“Can you move your arm?”

He did so with a wince. Lauren didn’t think his shoulder had
been dislocated, but she’d give it a closer examination.

“Just rest for now,” she said. “I’ll check it out after your
head stops bleeding.”

He swallowed again, grimacing.

“Are you nauseous?”

“A little. I’ll try to warn you before I hurl.”

She let out another shaky laugh, wiping her weepy eyes with the
hem of her shirt. When his gaze followed the motion, she realized that she’d
exposed her bare stomach and the undersides of her breasts.

“Why are you crying?” he demanded.

She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. “I’m
glad you’re alive.”

“Did you help Don get me down?”

“Yes.”

He scanned her torso once more. “I’m sorry. That was dangerous.
You could have been injured.”

“
I
could have been injured?”

“By the rope.”

Her tears dried up, and annoyance settled in. “You shouldn’t
have gone up there in the first place.”

Too tired to argue, he closed his eyes, surrendering to her
ministrations. Once the bleeding stopped, she helped him shrug out of the camel
pack and climbing harness. Then she put a towel under his head and washed the
cut with a bit of water. After patting his hair dry, she applied the tissue
glue.

“What did you see outside?” she asked.

“Smoke. Blue sky.”

She palpated his shoulder socket and the bones in his arm. He
endured the exam without complaint, and everything seemed to be in its proper
place. There was a nasty scrape on his elbow that needed to be cleaned. She
pushed up the hem of his T-shirt and found another raw mark on his hip.

When her fingertips touched his bare skin, he flinched.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

Frowning, she explored the area around the scrape, applying
pressure here and there. His ribs were striated with muscle, his abdomen
taut.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for broken bones.”

“I don’t have any.”

She slipped her fingertips into the waistband of his jeans,
pressing harder.

With a low growl, he sat upright and grasped her wrist,
removing her hand from his pelvis. “I’m fine,” he said between clenched teeth.
Then his face paled, as if he was light-headed from moving too fast.

“You don’t look fine.”

He brought his knees up and put his head between them, sucking
in air.

She rubbed his back in sympathy. “Let me take you to the triage
tent and give you some medicine.”

“No.”

“You have a concussion. I need to monitor you for twelve
hours.”

“I’ll rest in the semi.”

When he tried to rise on his own, she grasped his elbow,
helping him up. Crankiness and nausea were classic symptoms of head injuries, so
she ignored his resistance. Many strong, capable men were poor patients. He’d
admitted to refusing to see a psychologist, and he seemed very guarded.
Self-critical.

After he staggered to his feet, she put her arm around his lean
waist and guided him toward the semi.

Over the past few hours, she’d been terrified that Garrett
would fall. She’d also worried that Jeb would use him for target practice, or
that Mickey would materialize from the depths of the cavern with new demands.
Don had told her about Owen’s second visit. Now that Garrett was injured, who
would stand up to the convicts?

She didn’t mention these concerns as she helped him into the
Kenworth truck, but they weighed heavily on her mind.

He went straight to the sleeper section and stretched out on
his stomach. The single bed could barely accommodate him. It was too short and
too narrow. Groaning, he let his injured arm hang over the edge.

Lauren sat cross-legged next to him and started treating his
elbow. His skin was streaked with dirt, so she scrubbed a large area before
applying the bandage. When she was finished, he grunted his thanks.

“I need to do the same thing to your hip,” she warned. His
other scrape was the more painful one, judging by his reaction to her initial
exam.

“Go ahead.”

She raised the hem of his T-shirt and pulled his jeans down a
few inches, exposing the area above and below the contusion. It was difficult to
ignore the muscles that bunched across his powerful back. She’d already noted
his hard biceps, and the ropey veins in his forearms. Even his hip was taut and
firmly delineated.

Below the waist, his skin was several shades paler. When she
dabbed the scrape with an alcohol swab, he let out a hissing breath.

“Sorry,” she said, resisting the urge to blow on the wound. She
never did that. It was unsanitary.

Moistening her lips, she moved her gaze from his naked hip to
his tense face. He was staring at her mouth, as if he could read her mind. She
fumbled for a large, square bandage, heat blossoming up her neck.

“I’ll try to hurry.”

“Take your time.”

Flustered, she covered the wound with the bandage and pulled
his T-shirt back down, leaving his jeans alone. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Stiff.”

She suspected that a combination of overuse and blunt-force
trauma had caused the problem. He needed to rest for the head injury, but
immobilizing his arm might do more harm than good.

“I’ll massage it,” she offered.

With an almost imperceptible nod, he closed his eyes.

Rising to her knees, she leaned over him, trying not to bump
his injured hip against hers. She started with his left shoulder, kneading the
tense muscles she found there. Then she moved on to his neck, which was also
tight.

“You must lift weights,” she commented.

He murmured something unintelligible, putty in her hands.

By the time she reached his injured shoulder, he was relaxed
enough to tolerate a deep tissue massage. It was clear that the sore muscles
hurt, however. After the first few seconds, he was no longer drowsy. The
discomfort kept him alert.

“How’s that?” she asked.

He tested his arm, rotating the socket. “Good,” he said,
sounding surprised. “You’re a miracle worker.”

She flushed with pleasure. “Hardly.”

“Thank you,” he said, holding her gaze.

With a little shrug, she sat back on her heels. “I have to
visit the other patients. You should try to sleep.”

“After a concussion?”

“Yes. I’ll wake you up every few hours.”

He straightened to a sitting position. She could tell by the
way he moved that he had a headache. “I can’t.”

“You have to rest.”

“I will. In the front seat, where I can keep an eye on
things.”

“I don’t need you to watch over me every second.”

“Yes, you do.”

Instead of arguing with him, she gathered up the medical
supplies, shoving them into her bag with more force than was necessary. He was
going to drive himself into the ground from exhaustion. He was going to drive
her
crazy.

When she stood to leave, he grasped her wrist. “I have to be on
guard while you’re out there working. It’s not safe.”

“How can you be on guard? You can’t even walk.”

He seemed insulted by the suggestion that he couldn’t protect
her. Scowling, he struggled to his feet without help. She reached out to steady
him, but he skirted around her. Seconds later, he paid the price for his
stubbornness, losing his balance.

She grabbed the front of his shirt to break his fall and ended
up on top of him in the passenger seat.

His hands landed on her backside. He splayed his fingers wide,
squeezing her soft flesh. She looked up at his face, startled. With a low groan,
he let go, but he didn’t try to dislodge her. His hard body was pressed
full-length against hers, her legs tangled with his. She could feel his
heartbeat where her breasts were smashed against his chest.

Maybe if she held him down for a few hours, he would actually
rest.

Or...maybe not. The swelling against the apex of her thighs was
unmistakable. If she kept squirming in his lap, he’d stay up.

“Who’s right?” she asked, watching his eyes darken.

“You are,” he rasped.

“About what?”

“Everything. To infinity.”

Laughter bubbled up inside her, spilling over. She rested her
forehead against his shoulder and surrendered to it. Maybe she was a little
delirious from lack of sleep, because her giggles quickly dissolved into
tears.

She didn’t like getting emotional, or showing any weakness. She
hadn’t cried at her father’s funeral. She’d never broken down in front of
Michael, but she’d done it with Garrett several times now.

Wiping her face, she pushed herself off him.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” she interrupted, avoiding his gaze. She picked up her
paramedic bag and left the truck without another word.

CHAPTER SEVEN

L
AUREN
’
S
BODY
TINGLED
from the contact with Garrett’s.

For several moments after she walked away, she felt the imprint
of his large hands on her bottom, burning through the fabric of her uniform
trousers. He probably hadn’t meant to grope her, but he’d seemed reluctant to
stop. Not that she was complaining; she’d enjoyed his touch. His arousal excited
her.

What bothered her was his carelessness.

She’d lost a friend and coworker. Several patients had died in
her care. She wasn’t sure Mrs. Engle or Sam would pull through.

The traumatic events she’d experienced over the past two days
were too disturbing to process. One convict had sexually assaulted her. Another
had threatened to shoot her in the head. Garrett had almost plummeted to his
death. While he was climbing, she’d been sick with worry, her nerves frayed to a
ragged edge.

The least he could do, after risking his life, was listen to
her medical advice. Instead, he’d disregarded her instructions, and run
roughshod over her emotions.

She tried to convince herself that her tears weren’t for
Garrett. It wasn’t that she couldn’t stand the thought of him getting hurt. It
was more about self-protection. If he did something stupid and got killed,
Lauren would be at the convicts’ mercy.

She entered the triage area, aggravated and...turned on. The
tent she and Don had set up was a big improvement for the patients. It would
stay warm when the temperature dropped. There was a generator for the equipment,
and decent lighting. She had a canvas cot and a stretcher so both patients were
protected from the hard ground.

It wasn’t the Ritz, but she’d done her best to make them
comfortable.

Mrs. Engle needed round-the-clock care. She was in constant
pain and seemed confused by her surroundings. Lauren had stopped recounting the
facts of the earthquake to her. Mostly she patted her shoulder and said they
were waiting on the rescue crew.

Sam Rutherford was the easiest type of patient: unconscious. He
didn’t complain or ask for more drugs. It was a blessing, because she had very
little to give. Lauren found his stillness troubling and she worried that he
might slip from coma to death at any time. If he woke, or incurred complications
like brain swelling, she wouldn’t know how to treat him.

She sat with him for a few minutes. He had dark brown hair, cut
severely short, and a lean build. Young, handsome men like him were popular with
nurses. If he made it to the hospital, they would titter over him. She wondered
whose ashes he’d been carrying around. His mother’s? Perhaps they belonged to
his girlfriend, or even a late wife.

Patients in mourning were often listless and noncompliant. It
was possible that Sam didn’t want to wake up.

Frowning at the thought, she squeezed his rough hand and went
to work on elevating Mrs. Engle’s leg. It was a delicate process involving an
extra dose of morphine, makeshift equipment and a lot of hope.

By the time Don called her to dinner, she was exhausted. She
left the triage tent and checked in on Garrett. He was awake, hollow-eyed,
surly.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No.”

That didn’t surprise her. “I have some over-the-counter
painkillers.”

He shrugged, indifferent.

Sighing, she went to the RV and grabbed him a soda. She hoped
it would settle his stomach. When she returned, he accepted the can and cracked
it open, drinking thirstily. Then he took his medication like a good boy. Maybe
stewing in here with a pounding headache had changed his attitude.

“I’m going to have dinner with the others,” she said.

“Where will you sleep?”

“In here.” The Kenworth was perfect because she could lock the
doors, but leave the window open a little to listen for her patients. “Is that a
problem?”

“No. I can stay outside.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re ready to turn in, I’ll get out.”

Lauren realized he’d rather go outside than sleep in here with
her. Was he afraid she’d trip and fall into his lap again? She shut the door to
the semi and walked away, trying not to feel insulted. If he wanted to keep his
distance, that was his prerogative.

In the RV, Don had prepared a small meal of canned corn and
hot-dog slices. They had crackers and jam for dessert. It reminded Lauren of the
dinners her mother used to make when her father wasn’t home. Hillary Boyer had
grown up dirt poor in Bakersfield, California. Although she’d married well, and
acquired some expensive tastes, she’d tended toward frugality in raising
Lauren.

Cadence cleaned her plate and asked for more. Don indulged her
with a lollipop, sending her off to play Nintendo. Penny picked at her plate,
restless.

“You don’t like my cooking?” Don teased.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, finishing the last few bites.
Lauren guessed that Penny had come from a wealthy family and wasn’t accustomed
to such cheap fare. She had perfect table manners and graceful posture.

After dinner, as Don wiped the plates with a clean rag, they
heard an engine roar to life. Exchanging a startled glance with Lauren, Don set
the dishes aside and picked up his baseball bat. Together, they headed outside
to investigate. “Stay here,” he said to Cadence, following Lauren through the
door.

Although it was too dark to see much, the commotion was clearly
coming from Jeb’s twisted little corner of the cavern. The engine choked and
sputtered before dying out. Then it turned over again and revved up.

A radio had been cranked on. Kid Rock was blaring in the black
abyss.

While they stood, listening, headlights flooded the space. The
driver put the car in gear and punched it across the gap, slamming into another
vehicle with a terrific crash. Jeb’s loud cackle rang out in the air. The car
backed up, tires squealing.

Lauren couldn’t believe it. The convicts were playing
demolition derby
.

Garrett joined them in the doorway, using the crowbar as a
cane. She did a double take at the sight.

“I think they found another case of beer,” Don mused.

“Or a bottle of hard alcohol,” Garrett said.

Lauren shivered at the memory of how they’d behaved under the
influence last night. “What if they blow up the place?”

There was another bone-jarring collision.

“Maybe they’ll knock themselves out,” Don said, hopeful.

“Let’s all get back inside where it’s safer,” Garrett
suggested. “I’ll honk the semi horn if I see them coming.”

Lauren followed Garrett back to the Kenworth truck, bringing
her medical bag and a handful of crackers along with her. Before they retired,
she checked on Sam and Mrs. Engle, who were blissfully unaware of the
mayhem.

Drunk-driving derby aside, Lauren was glad the day was over.
She felt like
she’d
been hit by a truck. Tonight,
she might sleep through any number of car crashes, aftershocks and belligerent
shouts.

She gave Garrett the crackers before she climbed into the
semi.

“Thanks,” he said, popping one into his mouth.

“Are you really going to sleep out here?”

He nodded. “I have to keep watch.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Although she’d rather have him by her side, she didn’t say
anything more. In the distance, Jeb and his comrades were still hooting and
hollering. She couldn’t tell if Owen’s voice was among the others.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She stepped up into the cab and went straight to the bed.
Earlier in the day, she’d found a gym bag with workout clothes that looked
comfortable enough to sleep in. She removed her soiled tank top and uniform
pants. Using a moist wipe, she scrubbed the dirt from her skin. Then she slipped
into the soft gray sweatpants and pale pink T-shirt.

The pillows had been donated to the triage area, but she had a
wool blanket. She covered herself up, put the gym bag behind her head and closed
her eyes.

Though she was emotionally and physically drained, sleep didn’t
come easy. Disturbing images swirled through her mind. Jeb’s cigarette, winking
in the dark. Mickey, tearing open her uniform shirt. Garrett, falling from the
sky.

* * *

G
ARRETT
LISTENED
TO
the chaos for several hours, his stomach roiling with tension.

When the vehicles were no longer in driving condition, the
convicts picked up rocks to finish them off. They broke windshields, and caved
in roofs, and smashed taillights. It was as if they blamed the inanimate objects
for their captivity. Everything inside the structure was fair game. Not content
to destroy empty cars, they started throwing glass bottles at the walls and
making a bonfire out of trash.

The fire wasn’t just stupid, it was potentially deadly. Garrett
didn’t know what they were burning, but it smelled like a mixture of paint and
plastic. A cloud of noxious smoke filled the top half of the cavern.

Jeb and Mickey coughed and hacked and argued about the blaze,
finally extinguishing it with the last of their water.

Garrett wanted to kill them just for that.

He’d found a Buck knife in Sam’s camping supplies. He longed to
crawl across the floor of the cavern, carrying it between his teeth, and gut
them like the pigs they were. But his head throbbed, his muscles were sore from
climbing and he was nauseous. Attacking now wouldn’t be wise.

Finally, at well after midnight, the party wound down.

Again, Garrett considered sneaking into their camp to cut their
throats. He had few qualms about killing as an act of war, and this situation
applied. Launching a preemptory strike was fair game, as far as he was
concerned.

Even though he wasn’t feeling well, he had the edge on them. He
was sober, and trained to use deadly force.

Thoughts of Lauren stilled his hand. He’d vowed to protect her.
If he miscalculated and got shot, she’d be almost defenseless. He’d also made a
pact, after coming out of the PTSD fog, to avoid violence whenever possible. In
his darkest days, he’d done unconscionable things. He could never take them
back. The atrocities he’d committed, both overseas and here in the States, were
the stuff of nightmares.

Maybe that was why he was afraid to fall asleep. He was a
menace to society.

Staying out of trouble and exercising self-control hadn’t been
a big issue for him over the past few years. He’d lived under a strict regimen
and had time to reflect on his actions. Even so, no amount of atonement could
ease his conscience. He was a dangerous man. If he let his guard down, Lauren
might get hurt.

That was unacceptable.

He’d already crossed the line with her. Filling his hands with
her ass hadn’t been very smart of him. He still wasn’t sure if he’d done it on
purpose. He’d been inches from kissing her, seconds from abandoning his good
intentions.

The notion that she might
let
him
kiss her had entered his mind. For whatever reason, she seemed to think he was a
nice guy. Sometimes she frowned at him in annoyance. Other times, she looked at
his mouth and his body in a way that drove him insane.

She might let him do more than kiss her.

Garrett quickly discarded that idea as outrageous. He was
filthy, inside and out. She’d been giving him a
medical
exam
and he’d gotten aroused. Christ, she hadn’t even realized she
was turning him on.

If she wanted anything from him, it was comfort. But he wasn’t
capable of tenderness. Given half a chance, he’d rip off her clothes and bury
himself in her.

He smothered a groan, shifting his legs.

Earlier tonight, he’d seen her reflection in the side mirror.
She’d washed before bed, sliding a cloth along her slender arms. He’d waited,
breathless, for her to unfasten her bra. Instead, she’d covered up with a
T-shirt.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to picture her naked
breasts, but it was a losing battle. There wasn’t much he could do about his
hard-on, either. He adjusted the fly of his jeans, weighing his options.
Stroking himself off would only bring temporary relief.

“Hey,” Lauren whispered.

Garrett jumped at the sound, jerking his hand away from his
lap. She was at the driver’s side, looking down through the half-open window.
How long had she been watching him? He rose to his feet, his neck suffusing with
heat. “Hey.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“No more aches and pains?”

Only in his groin. “Not really.”

She glanced toward Jeb’s hideaway. “Sounds like the good ol’
boys went to bed.”

“They’ve been quiet for a while now.”

“Why don’t you come in and get some rest?”

He wanted to, but he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

“You have to sleep sometime, Garrett. How can you protect us if
you feel half-dead tomorrow?”

She had a good point; he was exhausted.

“Please. We can lock the door.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take the front seat.”

Her teeth flashed white in the dim light as she opened the door
and stepped down. “Great. I just have to pee.”

“In the RV?”

“No, I’ll go behind the semi. Stand right there and don’t
look.”

He turned his back dutifully, smiling a little. When she was
finished, she walked over to the triage tent to check on Sam and Mrs. E. Nodding
with satisfaction, she returned to the semi, climbing in ahead of him.

He locked both doors and rolled up the windows, leaving only a
crack of space. Lauren curled up in the sleeper cab, while he stretched out on
the passenger seat. The reclining position was a hell of a lot more comfortable
than the hard ground.

“Here,” she said, handing him a sweatshirt.