Crash Pad (3 page)

“No. But he seemed so…ordinary before today.” Jamie closed his eyes. “So back to the hospital?”

“Nope. I’m taking you to a private medical facility.”

No way could he afford some hoity-toity recovery facility. Place. Nursing home. Whatever it was. “Not in the cards. I’ll figure something out.”

Maybe he could take a bus to his sister’s. Sixty miles—a ticket wouldn’t be that expensive. He could share a room with his nephews. As long as they didn’t put their pet snake in Jamie’s bed, he’d be golden.

Remy shook his head. “Naw. I got it.”

“So where are we going?”

“My place.”

* * * *

“Don’t say it.” Brett’s voice poured through the phone and jarred Remy’s ear. In the background, the notes of a piano mixed with the low hum of conversation and flatware clinking on china.

Remy could almost smell the grilled steaks and seafood, and his stomach rumbled. “It’s not like I planned this.”

“I don’t want to hear any more excuses.” Ice clinked against glass. “How can you take in a perfect stranger?”

“He’s not a perfect stranger.” Remy stopped by the refrigerator and glanced out the doorway to the living room. Eyes closed, Jamie slumped on the couch, splint-encased foot propped up on the ottoman and draped with an ice pack. The guy looked exhausted. Despite the trials of the afternoon, Jamie still appealed to him.

“What do you know about him, other than he rollerblades? And not very well.”

“More than you’d guess.” After today, Remy had a pretty good idea of who he was dealing with. New to town, new job, no insurance, no local support system. Crazy, intoxicated neighbor. And unless his gaydar had gone on the fritz, Jamie played for Remy’s team.

Those gorgeous eyes.

“Look, Brett. It’s my fault he’s in this predicament.”

“Why is it your fault?”

“I smacked into
him
, not the other way around.” He ran a hand over his hair. Dried sweat had left it unkempt. After the events of the afternoon, a shower sounded good. “His sister will be here on Wednesday to help him.”

“That’s four days from now. Are you going to sacrifice your vacation for him?”

“I’m not sacrificing—for God’s sake, Brett. The guy needs a safe place to stay for a few days. And it’s not like he’s any threat.”

“Is he hot?”

“What?”

“You heard me. He must be, for you to blow off dinner. Because we both know you haven’t gotten laid in ages.”

Heat suffused Remy’s face. “I need to go. Say hello to George, and give my regrets to the date.”

“His name is David.” The snippy attitude came through loud and clear.

“Whatever. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

* * * *

Someone had parked a car on his foot. And it hurt.

Jamie awoke, drifting on the remnants of a dream as he surfaced from a deep sleep. Unfamiliar environment; a place with an übercomfortable couch and the fragrance of something spicy cooking. He rubbed his eyes. Not the motel, not Vince’s place. Not a car on his foot—a splint. He’d gone off-roading on rollerblades at the park. Blown his ankle and met a doctor named Remy.

This was Remy’s house.

He yawned and ran through a checklist of the damage. Sore neck. A low-grade headache. Dry mouth with a metallic taste, like medication. Stiff knee. A dull throb combined with numbness in his left ankle. He stared at his foot. Pale toes stuck out beyond the black Velcro at the end of the splint. His toes.

Through the living room window, the fading pinks and grays of a summer sunset outlined the irregular borders of the trees. Lights shone in windows across the street. A neighborhood.

“Hey.”

Jamie jumped. Remy stood in what looked like the doorway to the kitchen, wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt.

“Hey.” Jamie pushed up on the couch. “What time is it?”

“Close to eight. I was about to wake you. Need to do your concussion check. How’re you doing?”

“Not too bad, I think.”
Not bad at all, considering
. Relieved to be warm and secure and not waking up to Simon and his tipsy caregiver act.

“Thanks for what you did today.” Jamie leaned forward and slid his foot off the ottoman, and it gave him a warning twang. Jamie grabbed the ice pack.

“Keep your foot elevated.” Remy strolled over and gently lifted Jamie’s leg onto the footstool. As Remy reached for the ice pack, their fingers connected. Clearing his throat, Remy stepped back and headed for the kitchen. “Be right back.”

Jamie inspected the part of his foot visible beyond the end of the splint. Despite the ice, the skin had turned shades of indigo, and a peculiar numbness overlaid the rhythmic throb below the surface.

“Can I take a look at that?” Holding a new ice pack, Remy sat down next to him on the couch. “Then we’ll do the questions.”

“Okay.” Jamie leaned back, relaxed. At least the guy asked. Vince would have done what he pleased with no warning and no concern for Jamie’s comfort.

Dropping to one knee by the ottoman, Remy squinted at the injury. Gentle fingertips ran over the splint covering Jamie’s bulging ankle, settled on the top of his foot over the pulse point, and moved on to his toes. Remy pushed on a couple of Jamie’s toenails and seemed satisfied when the pink returned as soon as Remy let up the pressure. He coasted his palms up the sides of Jamie’s calf but stopped below the knee and tucked a finger under the top of the splint. “Does it feel too tight?”

“Nope. What’s the verdict?”

“You’ll live, but it’s going to take time to heal.”

“When will I be able to stand on it?”

A muscle jumped in Remy’s jaw. “Not for a while. Three weeks, probably.”

Jamie sighed. He’d have to call work tomorrow, let his new boss know he’d be out of commission as far as giving massages. Maybe they’d have something available at the front desk, like scheduling. Under his breath, he said, “I’m never rollerblading again.”

“Sounds like a good plan. I see a lot of rollerblading injuries.”

“I’ll bet. I usually run. It was just an experiment.” A failed one, for sure.

“Mmm. I think you’ll be safer without wheels on the bottoms of your feet.” Remy grinned. “Ready for ten easy questions?”

“Sounds like a game.” Jamie managed a smile.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Four

“So is your name French?” Jamie shifted the foot propped on a kitchen chair.

Remy held back a groan.
Anything but the name
. He continued to chop peppers for the salad. “Not French, no. Just a nickname.” He gave the rice a stir and clamped the lid on the pot.
Done
. The curried chicken was ready to go. “Sure you don’t want to eat in the living room?”

“Nope. The kitchen is great. Smells good.” Jamie sucked in a breath through his nose and exhaled in an “
Ah
.”

“You like curry?”

“Yeah, but I’ve never made it.”

“You should like this, then.” With edge of the knife, Remy carried the cutting board to the table and pushed the diced peppers and tomatoes onto the salads. “Do you cook?”

Jamie frowned and ran a finger along the edge of his plate. “No.”

Remy raised an eyebrow. Didn’t sound like a happy situation.

“So what about the nickname? What’s it from?”

Back to that
. Remy scooped up the pepper stems and dumped them in the trash. “It’s short for Remington.”

A sunny grin filled Jamie’s face. “Remington. Wow. Like
Remington Steele
, the TV show?”

“No, like the rifle.”

“Oh. Pretty…powerful.”

He didn’t know the half of it. The power of the name was nothing compared to the power
behind
the name. Remy sighed. Doctor Rosgood Marshall III had run roughshod over his wife’s wishes when it came to naming his only son. No one but an egotist would name a baby Remington Winchester Rosgood Marshall. At least Dad’s dedication to American firearms had allowed Remy to escape the pretention of Rosgood Marshall the IV.

Since the fateful day Remy had said the words “I’m gay” to his parents, the name was Remy’s only connection with his dad. And what a day that’d been.

Remy pulled open the refrigerator door and surveyed the selection of dressings. “What do you want on your salad?”

“Anything is fine.”

He dug in the back of the fridge, coming up with the Balsamic vinaigrette.

“Hey, Remy? I like the nickname.” Jamie smiled.

In spite of himself, Remy grinned and set the dressing on the table. “So, what do you do when you’re not rollerblading?”

“Um, I’m a massage therapist.”

“What made you decide to move here?”

“I needed a change.” Tension threaded Jamie’s voice.

Oops
. Obviously a sore point. Time to change the subject. “Salad first, or would you rather have the curry along with your salad?”

“Whatever the host would like.” Jamie took a sip of water.

“Then by all means, I’ll serve. I’m starved.” Stepping to the stove, Remy grabbed the rice pan.

“Sorry. I really screwed up your evening, didn’t I?”

“Not at all.” The sight of Jamie’s dejected expression made Remy want to kiss away any doubt that he wanted Jamie here. “Gives me a chance to practice my culinary skills on an unsuspecting guest. I’m glad you’re here.”

And why did he want this so much? Guilt. It had to be guilt. Plus the added bonus of getting out of the blind dinner date with Brett, George, and their friend Mystery Man. David.

Getting laid on the first date wasn’t Remy’s style anyway, and Brett knew that. For a best friend, the guy was pushy. Sex didn’t solve everything. In fact, it tended to complicate everything.

Remy scooped rice onto Jamie’s plate. “Say when.”

“When.” Jamie took a sniff. “Jasmine?”

“Yep.” Remy grinned as he exchanged pans for the curried chicken. “Do you like it on top?”

A faint pink colored Jamie’s cheeks.

Aw, hell. Open mouth, insert foot
. Remy’s face heated. He cleared his throat. “The curry. On the rice.”

“That’d be fine.”

Remy piled curry on each plate, poured two small glasses of milk, and set them on the table. “Fire prevention.”

“Made this pretty spicy, did you?”

Remy shook out his napkin and grinned. “Prepare to sweat, my friend.”

* * * *

“He made me dinner.” Jamie juggled the cell phone and leaned back into the patio chaise. The backyard spread out before him in shades of citrine and avocado as the sun dropped behind the Rockies. Remy had urged him to enjoy the atmosphere and privacy outdoors—safely—while Remy finished cleanup in the kitchen. Warm evening air and the faint hum of a lawn mower somewhere in the neighborhood provided domestic background music. Fresh-cut grass, damp concrete, and a patio. Beer optional. It didn’t get any better.

“You sure you want me to come? I’m not cooking Indian for you,” Sarah said. “Maybe I should leave you two alone.”

He rolled his eyes. For an older sister, Sarah could pull off juvenile with the best of them. “It’s not romantic. It’s practical.”

“It’s serendipity. Of all the people you could crash into—”

“Hey.
He
crashed into
me
. I just happened to be on skates.”

“Since when do you rollerblade? Hmm… Oh yeah. Never. Must have been a guy. Am I right?”

Jamie rearranged his leg on the lawn chair. “I can meet someone better than Vince.”

“Honey, you don’t have a great track record with men. You just got rid of one domineering doctor, and now you’ve got another one.”

“Remy is nothing like Vince. Did Vince ever cook? No. Would Vince have brought me crutches? No. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have driven me to the ER.”

Sarah snorted. “Yeah he would’ve. He would’ve hoped you broke your ankle in ten pieces so he could operate on it and get the insurance money, the bastard.”

“Hey.” Sneaking a glance at the back door, Jamie lowered his voice. “I left, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, sweetie. And I’m proud of you. Glad you finally saved your hide and got out.”

Toward the end, the bruises had gotten hard to hide, and Jamie had been scared inside the bedroom and out. Experimenting with domination had gotten way out of hand, gone from novel to abusive. “I’m not going back. Remy is nice, and I can’t see that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing going on with him. Not like Vince.”

“I hope you’re right about Remy. Vince wasn’t good to you, honey, and you deserve good.”

The back door swung open on creaky hinges. Remy started down the steps.

“Hey, Sarah? Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Use good judgment, okay? Please?”

“Bye, Sarah.” Jamie snapped the phone shut.

* * * *

Remy studied Jamie’s profile in the flickering light from the flat screen. After a pain pill and Oreos he’d drifted off during the ten o’clock news. In sleep, he looked like an angel: tousled curls, classic features, full lips parted in sleep. Long golden lashes rested on his cheeks. A bit vulnerable. Remy hadn’t felt this awareness, this pull of attraction for months.

Not a good direction to let his thoughts wander. The guy was injured, for God’s sake, the ankle plus a dozen other aches and pains he’d not complained about. At least he didn’t seem to have any lingering sign of a concussion, other than asking if Remy had any superhero movies.

Remy grinned and stretched.
Better rouse the patient and get him in bed. Er, get him
to
bed
. Talk about innuendo. Wake him up and let him get horizontal. For some sleep. Alone.

“Jamie?” Remy shook his shoulder.

“Hmm?” Eyes closed, Jamie didn’t move.

“Time to wake up.” Remy resisted the urge to grab a handful of curls and kiss Jamie awake. Instead, he clicked on a table lamp.

Sleep dissipated, and like a slow curtain, Jamie’s eyes opened. In this light, they were darker but still arresting. “Hmm?”

“It’s okay. It’s Remy.”
Okay, Doctor, ask him a couple of questions. Appropriate questions
. “Do you know where you are?”

“Your house.” Jamie gave a slow blink, and his eyes closed.

That pain pill had done too good a job. “Jamie.”

“Yeah.”

“Open your eyes, buddy.”