Medicine Man (Page 20)

I’m contemplating whether to just track him down somehow. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is because I shouldn’t be doing it. I should be more cautious around him.

But he saved her.

That’s the only thing I’m thinking about, in a loop, no less.

My dilemma ends when he strides out the front door himself.

Well, there you have it. I can’t ignore it now. He practically fell in my lap, so to speak. I spring up from my seat, startling the girls.

Without taking my eyes off him where he stands on the stone steps, I say, “I’ll be just a sec.”

I don’t wait to see their reactions as I walk across the lawn filled with patients and techs. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t care. A staff member might have said something to me too. Maybe asked me a question about how I am and what am I doing. Do I need something?

But I don’t answer them. I do need something, but I don’t think they can give it to me.

I’m focused on Dr. Blackwood. He looks at someone beyond me – one of the techs – and dips his chin, probably to say that he’s got me.

My lips part at his gesture. So confident and reassuring. So… heroic.

Then his gaze falls on me. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing on the top of the steps, tracking my movements with slightly hooded eyes.

Something about his utter stillness and the way he’s looking at me brings back the tingling from this morning. It’s not obvious, his stare, but I feel it. Like the heated sun. The thing that I hate, but I’m not hating it right now.

When I come to a stop at the bottom step, he shoves his hands inside his pockets and begins climbing down.

“You should really fix your book,” he murmurs.

I realize I have my book clutched to my chest, and a few loose pages are hanging off the bottom. I shove them back in but the level of irritation I should be feeling at the word fix isn’t there anymore.

Yet some part of me still wants to cling onto my old ways. “My book is fine. And you guys should really do something about your library. There isn’t one Harry Potter book in there.”

There’s no heat in my words. I know it; he knows it.

But he says, “Noted.”

Then I blurt out, “You did a good thing today.”

“A good thing.”

I nod. “This afternoon.”

“You mean that Skype call with Dr. Martin? That was pretty easy to do.”

His voice is casual but everything else is curious, alert – his expression, his body. It’s not like it was in our meeting the other day. This feels more… personal. Like his gaze back in the dining room right when he was leaving.

“Yeah. That too. But I meant something else.”

“What did you mean?”

Now’s the moment of truth. Do I tell him about my fear of needles? About that day in the hospital? Am I really willing to volunteer information about myself?

He can do a thousand things with it. He can bring it up in our next meeting. He can use it to ask other questions, questions I don’t want to answer.

That phantom itch on my hip flares and I decide to fuck it. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I swallow. “You saved Annie.”

“From what?”

“From the needle.”

“I didn’t know I was doing that.”

I swallow again. “Well, you did. She didn’t need that. To be sedated like an animal.”

The itch on my hip increases and I tighten my hold on the book to stop from scratching it in front of him.

“Is that why you were so upset back there?” he asks.

“If I tell you, will you use it against me?”

He rolls back on his feet, his lips stretching in a lopsided smile. “Is that what you think I do? Use information against my patients?”

“How do I know what you do?” I shrug. “But yes, that’s what I think.”

Dr. Blackwood takes his hand out of his pocket and scratches his jaw. “You’ve met some fucked-up doctors, haven’t you?” Sighing, he says, “No. I won’t use it against you, Willow.”

It’s great that he said that. I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t focused on his hand. The one he’s just used to scratch his stubble.

Before I can think about it, I reach out and grab hold of it. His large palm has multiple cuts around the pads of his fingers. One of them is covered in a band-aid. I’m guessing that the cut underneath must be bigger than the others that have been left open.

“What happened?” I gently trace the dark red scratches with my thumb.

God, his hand is so big, large and so fucking warm. My thumb stops moving when I realize that I’m touching him.

I’m touching the ice king.

The heat of his hands. The thrum of his blood. Maybe even his healing power.

I feel his breath, long and hard, almost stirring my bangs, and filling my lungs with his rainy smell. Just as I glance at him, he takes his hand away and puts it back in his pocket. I catch the tail end of his jaw clenching and his nostrils flaring.

“I-I… I was…” I fumble and clutch my book. “What happened to your hand? It looked pretty bad.”

“It was an accident.” After a pause, he says, “I was fixing the stairs.”

“Of your house?”

Another clench of his jaw covered with five o’clock shadow. “Yeah. I just don’t live there anymore.”

It’s very strange but in this moment, I know exactly what he’s feeling.

I know he didn’t like the question, as innocent and without motive as it was. I know that he didn’t want to answer it. I know the reluctance and tightness he felt. It’s similar to when we were talking about his dad, only I was too nervous and stubborn to really appreciate the similarities of our feelings.

Because there are similarities. I’ve felt the same things.

Only I never thought I’d find someone to share them with and he’d turn out to be the man from the other side of the line.

Sighing, I tell him, “I scared my mom.”

He frowns. “When?”

“The day I woke up in the hospital,” I whisper, feeling choked up and all alone. “I was so pissed and tired and so scared. I told them… a-about what happened. And they started saying I needed help. Consultations and meds and my mom wouldn’t stop crying. I got freaked out. I got…”

My eyes fill with tears. “Everybody was talking at once. They were like, talking and talking and telling me to calm down but they just wouldn’t get away from me and… It came out of nowhere. The needle. And then, I just felt a little sting and everything went black. I’d only seen it on TV, you know. Like on all those medical shows. They stab you with a needle when you’re either dying or acting crazy. I was just trying to make them listen.” Sniffling, I wipe my tears. “Tell them that I wasn’t crazy.”

The restlessness that has been building up all day lessens as I tell him this. How can something that goes against my nature – talking – make me feel at ease?

It occurs to me, then. Maybe it’s talking to him.

This man who’s frowning so hard as he looks down at me. Who’s making my heart beat faster and faster with each passing second.

“Do you remember what I told you about the word crazy?” he asks in a low voice.

It’s so low and rough that I have to go on my tiptoes to listen to it.