Hot Docs On Call: New York City Nights. Tina Beckett
her to him.
Her nose brushed his shoulder before she realized how close she’d gotten to him. With almost no hesitation—except maybe in her brain—her head turned sideways and she pressed her cheek against him, allowing her eyes to close. To “feel.” Something she hadn’t done in a very long time.
Her days of med school and internship had turned her into an analytical machine, with cause and effect always at the forefront of her mind… her feelings tucked in a distant part of her brain, where they rarely surfaced. Except in instances like with Mr. Phillips, when they’d reemerged without warning and threatened her objectivity.
Maybe she shouldn’t even be a doctor.
Yes, she should. Her mom had been so excited for her when she’d been accepted into med school.
And if it had come with a price—her relationship to Clay—it was still worth it.
If she could help people like Mr. Phillips, then she would continue to make those sacrifices.
The hand at her waist slid backward until it rested on the small of her back. She might have thought he was trying to put some distance between them but, if anything, he was tucking her closer, his chin coming down to rest on top of her head.
Her breath caught at the familiarity that was slowly wrapping her in cords of silk.
Especially with the little hum of vibration that went through his chest, a sound she couldn’t hear but that she could feel. And she felt it all the way down to her toes.
What was one night? Was Clay even thinking the same thing? Wondering if they could set the love machine for a quick tumble cycle that would heat up quickly, shaking out the wrinkles from their daily lives? Afterward they could fold everything up and put it back into a drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind.
Should she say something? Proposition him?
And just where would this sexathon take place? She could drag him back to her unit at the brownstone, where Caren, Holly or Sam might overhear something. Her nose crinkled. No, if they got together, she didn’t want to hold back anything, except her emotions.
They could go to his place—where he’d murmured he wanted to take her when they kissed in Central Park. His apartment was empty—at least according to Clay, who’d said that Molly would be at his parents’ house for the night.
She tilted her head, dislodging his chin. He glanced down, a frown marring his brow.
“Do you think Marcos would mind if we left early?” she asked.
“Marcos?” His eyebrows pulled closer together as he studied her for a second or two. “Feeling okay?”
“Not really.” That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. She hurried to correct herself. “I’m feeling a little…”
Her courage gave out, and she let her voice trail away.
“A little what? You’ve only had a glass of wine, not very much, even for a featherweight like you.” This time a slight smile edged one side of his mouth, although his frown was still there.
“No, it’s not the wine.” Wow, she was glad she wasn’t a man, because she was terrible at this pickup stuff. They could have it. “I was just wondering if you might want to…”
She swallowed and forced the rest of the words out. “Leave. Go somewhere else.”
His face went totally still, and she held her breath, praying that if he was going to refuse he would at least let her down easily.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I was thinking the very same thing.”
“Oh, God.” She sagged against him. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? We shouldn’t. We both know it.”
“Yes. My head knows it.” He hauled her closer, where she could feel the inner workings of a certain body part. “But other areas disagree. Vehemently, I might add.”
“Ditto on both counts.”
His hand slid beneath her hair and held her while his mouth came down and claimed hers.
Lord, she hoped no one in their party could see them now. But if Clay wasn’t worried about it, why should she be?
She kissed him back, stretching up as high as she could in order to reach him better. It wasn’t enough. What they both needed was a surface that put them on a level playing field.
Like a bed.
Something on Clay’s body vibrated again. Only this time it didn’t come from his chest but his waistline.
She broke free. “Clay…”
“I know. Give me a sec.” He unclipped his cell phone with one hand while keeping her tight against him with the other. He put the object to his ear. “Matthews here.”
The frown was back. Not of confusion this time but of concern. “Where are you?”
She thought at first it was his parents saying something had happened to Molly, except his face was up looking over the heads of the people on the dance floor. When she turned to follow his lead she saw a hand waving.
“Got it,” he said. “We’ll be right there. Call 911 as soon as you hang up.”
He let go of her and shoved his phone back in its holder. He leaned down so she could hear him above the music. “Something’s wrong with Marcos. Let’s go.”
Her heart in her throat, she kept hold of Clay’s hand as he led the way toward the place where she’d seen the hand waving. As soon as they arrived, she dropped to her knees.
Marcos was having a seizure, eyes rolled back, muscles twitching in useless contractions. The connections in his brain were going haywire.
Why?
She went back into analytical mode as she tilted the capoeira master’s head to the side in case he vomited, while Clay belted out question after question about whether or not anyone knew Marcos’s medical history. More capoeira folks had evidently noticed that something was going on, because they slowly gathered around them, including the man who’d mentioned sharing a cab with his wife. He was the one who finally spoke. “He has epilepsy.”
What?
Tessa looked down at the man she’d known most of her life. She glanced at his wrist, but there was no medical alert bracelet, something he should have been wearing. But Marcos was a proud man. And Brazilians didn’t like to display weakness. She remembered one of her father’s friends who’d severed his index finger at the second joint. He’d insisted the doctor reattach it, even though the digit would never bend again but would stick straight out. He’d just wanted to “be whole.”
Clay asked their group to form a ring around Marcos just like during practice to keep everyone back and then knelt beside her.
She glanced at her watch, timing the length of the seizure. Two minutes from the time Clay’s phone had rung. If it lasted longer than five minutes, they were in trouble. Right now, though, they were helpless to do anything except wait it out and hope that an ambulance arrived soon.
“What does he take?” Her eyes went to the man who’d voiced that Marcos had epilepsy.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just saw something on the calendar on his desk about a doctor’s appointment. I asked, and he told me. I had no idea until a couple of years ago.”
Marcos went still suddenly, all his muscles going lax. Glancing at her watch again, she murmured, “Just over three minutes from the time you got the call.”
Despite the medical emergency, the music was still playing and there was activity on the dance floor. Not everyone knew something had happened on this side of the room, which was probably a good thing, since she could just barely hear the sound of an ambulance in the distance.
A man in a tie broke through