Worth the Risk

  “That isn’t fair.”

  “Save it, Princess; life’s not fair.” There’s a bite to his tone as he takes in my trembling hands and shivering body, but he never utters the words his eyes say—are you okay?—before they turn cold again. The brief glimpse of compassion is gone. “And it seems to me you’re just fine, so playing the damsel-in-distress thing doesn’t work for me, and it sure as hell isn’t going to get me to sign on as the poster boy for your stupid contest.”

  “The last thing I need is a man to swoop in and save the day.”

  “Huh. And I thought all princesses were helpless and liked to be saved.”

  “I am not a princess.”

  “You just stomped your foot like you were.” He shakes his head before looking to the edge of the alley and then back at me. “Are we done here? Because if so, I’ll just take off, and you can stay here and find someone to take my place in your contest.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  His chuckle reverberates off the brick walls of the bar’s exterior and back to me, causing every part of me to bristle. “You’re not the first to call me that, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.”

  His words grate on my nerves and have my thoughts misfiring so I can’t actually form words. All I manage to get out is, “Grayson.” My mouth opens and closes several times but nothing else comes out.

  “What’s that?” he asks as he holds a hand up to his ear. “It seems that you’re having a hard time thinking of what to say, so I’ll help. The words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’ Then again, I shouldn’t expect it from you now since you never knew how to say them before. I’m old enough to know that people don’t change.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Fair. I know,” he says nonchalantly. “Are we going to stand here and wait for Mick to come back or what?”

  “Mick?”

  “Harmless drunk guy. Oh . . . wait. Is this all a set-up to see who would take the bait? Should I go so Mick can come back and you can wrangle some other sap from inside to rush out and save you, so you can put him in your contest?”

  “This wasn’t a setup. I’m not that conniving or desperate to pull a stunt like that.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Screw you.”

  “No thanks, I haven’t had enough to drink yet.”

  I grit my teeth and fist my hands as every part of me rejects him. At the same time, I hate myself for watching the flex of his bicep as he runs his hand through his hair in frustration, as I remember the heat and feel of his body against mine earlier.

  “Such an ass,” I mutter as I stalk past him with fury in my veins.

  “So that means no thank you then?” he asks above the click of my heels on the uneven pavement only serving to make me step a little harder.

  And then falter.

  Fuck.

  I stop and hang my head. What in the hell am I doing? I’m standing in a dank alley with the neon from the sign at the front of the bar projecting an eerie glow around me and letting my temper get the better of me.

  Is he being a prick? Yes. Is he baiting me so that I hate him and will leave him alone? Hell, yes.

  And I walked right into it.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” My words are quiet, but I know he hears every word because his steps slow and then stop. “Thank you for your help.”

  When I lift my head, he’s staring at me, head angled, eyes unrelenting, bottom lip worrying between his teeth. “No thanks needed. A gentleman doesn’t step in for those . . . but it’s amazing what sincerity and humility can do to a person’s appeal. You should try it more often.”

  Don’t take the bait.

  “What’s your problem, Malone?”

  “You.” He’s so matter-of-fact it startles me.

  “Me?”

  “Yep.” This time with a definitive nod.

  “Hold grudges long?”

  “Nope. Just smart enough to know that people don’t change and too busy to give a rat’s ass if they do.”

  We stand there and stare at each other across the dim light as our wills battle.

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “Good. Then maybe you’ll drop this contest nonsense and stop stalking me to try to win me over.” He lifts his eyebrows as he waits for a response.

  “That’s what this is all about?” I laugh in disbelief. “You’re pissed off because you entered a contest and now you don’t want to be a part of it?”

  “First, I didn’t enter any contest—my brothers entered me. And second, my opinion of you has nothing to do with my saying no to the contest. It’s your holier-than-thou attitude that has me saying no.” He retreats a step, the parking lot of cars at his back now, and then takes a look at my hands and smiles smugly. “Make sure to wash that blue-collar off you. It doesn’t suit you too well.”

  With that, he walks over to a truck parked across the street, climbs in, sends one final glare my way, and then pulls a U-turn and drives off.

  For some reason, I walk to the corner of the street and stare at his taillights as they glow at the stoplight, willing him good riddance while at the same time fighting the urge to chase him down so I can get the last word in.

  It’s probably best he left when he did. I chuckle, clearly hearing the lunacy edging its sound as I wonder how in the hell I’m going to undo all of that. How am I going to step this back so that I can accomplish the one thing Rissa tasked me with?

  “Sidney Thorton? Is that you?”

  I startle at the high-pitched shriek of someone who obviously recognizes me, and there is only one person who has that kind of voice—chatty Cathy Clementine.

  “Cathy? Oh my God, hi,” I say the minute I turn and see that I’m right. “It’s been forever.”

  “Over ten years.” She laughs as she moves in for a quick hug. It’s so unexpected that it leaves me momentarily stunned before I reciprocate it so I don’t look like I’m being a bitch. “And you look no worse for the wear.”

  “And neither do you!”

  “Oh, honey, no need to lie. I’ve gotten rounder and softer, and you’ve gotten skinnier and hotter.”

  I blush, feeling neither of those things after everything that just happened.

  “Was that Grayson Malone you were just chatting with? Or should I say having a lover’s spat with? Things looked a little tense.”

  She hasn’t changed one bit. Always wanting to know everything about everyone.

  “No. We’re not—he isn’t . . .” I pause to collect my thoughts, which are on the far side of chaotic. “He just helped me with something.”

  “Whew. Thank goodness, or there would be hearts breaking all over Sunnyville tonight.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s a hard one to compete for, and you’re a hard one to compete against.”

  “Oh, stop. You’re too nice to my ego,” I say and put my hand on her arm.

  “What brings you back to good ol’ Sunnyville anyway?”

  “I’m just in town to help revive a magazine. Nothing permanent. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. Teaching second grade over at the elementary school. Nothing too exciting compared to the glamorous life I’m sure you’re living,” she says and laughs in a self-deprecating way that makes me sad. “But enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

  “There’s, uh, nothing really to . . .” For some reason, I glance in the direction Grayson’s truck went, and when I look back at her, she has her head angled to the side, studying me with a knowing smile on her lips.

  “Those Malone boys really know how to make you squeeze your Kegels, don’t they?”

  “Jesus.” I all but laugh.

  “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” A lift of her eyebrows. A playful punch to my shoulder. “They are one hot trifecta.”

  “Since Grayson’s the only brother I’ve seen since I’ve been back in town, I can’t agree or disagree.” I
figure I’ll play it safe with that response because if Cathy is still the same as she was in high school, anything I say can and will be used against me in the court of local gossip.

  “Agree. Just flat-out agree because, let me tell you, those men were not created equal.”

  “Fine, I’ll agree, but I have a feeling their wives might take offense to your strengthening your Kegels while thinking about them.”

  She purses her lips before they spread into a wide grin. “Emerson and Dylan are cool. I’m sure they’d be okay with it for the greater good of man.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” I ask, more than aware that chatty Cathy Clementine has not changed a bit—talking in nonstop circles that are sometimes hard to decipher.

  “Their wives. Grant, who’s a cop now, is married to Emerson Reeves. And Grady is married to Dylan McCoy, who you’ve probably heard on the radio,” she says, and I nod because I do, in fact, know who Dylan McCoy is.

  “And then there’s Grayson,” I murmur, thinking about the colander on his head and the way his body just felt against mine.

  “Single as a Pringle.” She laughs at her own joke. “And a man who knows how to reel the women in but kick them out of bed before the sheets get too warm if you know what I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “’Player’ isn’t exactly fair. How about . . . discreet? He has a line of women a mile long who are all willing to be his plaything, but he keeps any relationship—if you can call it that—on the down low because of his son . . . or so they say.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The women in line waiting before and after me for a chance at him, who may or may not have friends with firsthand knowledge if you catch my drift.” She winks and then startles when her phone texts an alert.

  She pulls it from her purse and looks down at it before meeting my eyes again. “I’m so sorry, but that’s my friend I’m meeting, and she’s wondering where I am. I’ve gotta run and catch her . . . but we should go for drinks sometime and catch up. I could fill you in on all the town gossip—heavy on the Malone part if you’re thinking of stepping in line with the rest of us.”

  That’s ten years’ worth of gossip that no doubt Cathy has memorized and is ready to repeat.

  “Catching up would be great. I’d like that.” My smile is genuine despite her offer being a blatant reminder of why I steered clear of her in high school—her knack for gossip. The fact that everyone knew everyone else’s business was one of the main things I couldn’t stand growing up here. So why is it now that I’m kind of looking forward to meeting up with her again?

  Maybe it’s because she doesn’t seem to judge me by my past like so many others in town have.

  Either way, I have to take friends where I can get them these days.

  I stare at the lights that are on in the old Kraft house on Olympic Street and debate whether to go knock on the door or not.

  She deserves an apology.

  I was in a shitty mood after leaving the station and seeing everything I’m being shut out of. Then she pushed my buttons when all I wanted to do was sit at the bar and enjoy my goddamn beer before going home to a quiet house. I don’t want to be part of her contest, let alone be the goddamn poster boy for it. I don’t want her friendship. I don’t want an apology for the inconsideration she showed me in high school.

  But I stood there in that bar with her body so goddamn close to mine, and all I wanted to do was kiss her. How is that possible? How can I despise her . . . not want anything to do with her, yet, have to force myself to walk away just so I wouldn’t kiss her?

  Then there was fucking Mick. Regardless of how harmless the drunk bastard typically is, he only served to complicate the matter. Forced me to be near her when I purposely made myself walk away. Of course, it wasn’t all her fault. Any sane man knows that, but the way she acted—the way she lifted her chin in defiance—or superiority—just like she used to do, and fuck, if my buttons weren’t pressed.

  Hell if I didn’t cling to that reaction to push her the fuck away when the adrenaline coursing through my body was begging for it to be my hands on her instead of Mick’s.

  Christ.

  It’s a bad sign when you want to fuck the person you have determined you hate. When you’re sitting outside her house second-guessing your reaction.

  But here I am.

  It only took a few calls to find out where she was staying. The Kraft house is a good choice; although, it’s probably far from the high life I’m sure she’s used to outside of town.

  My intentions were to march up there, knock on the door, and apologize for being a dick. For accusing her of setting the whole situation up. And to let her know that I will not be her trophy to put on display to save her magazine. If it’s Sidney Thorton, then there has to be something in this for her. The girl I used to know did nothing unless she got something in return.

  But I haven’t done shit. Instead, I’m sitting here realizing the excuse I made to myself—to make sure she’d made it home okay—has been surpassed by my need to apologize for all of the above.

  Fucking manners.

  I’d make Luke apologize. That would be the right thing to do.

  So why am I hesitating?

  Her silhouette moves across the window and holds my attention. Her hair is down and falling over her shoulders. I stare at the shadow and hate that I’m picturing her from earlier. Those shocked brown eyes. Those parted lips. The heat in her cheeks. The undeniable shape of her body.

  I hate myself for staring at her. I despise that I’m wondering what those lips feel like and how those nails of hers would feel raking down my back.

  Sitting here and thinking these thoughts makes me no better than Mick.

  And that’s why I start my car without knocking on her door . . . because fuck dropping myself to Mick’s level. Fuck Sidney Thorton. Fuck the girl who used to push my buttons as a teenager and who is hitting a whole hell of a lot more as a grown woman.

  She’s the type of woman I steer clear of. Materialistic. Shallow. Selfish.

  It doesn’t make me want her any less.

  I pound my fist against the steering wheel because that isn’t fair. That’s the teenager she used to be. I have no clue what she’s like now.

  Goddamn gorgeous is what she is.

  Shit. I’ve changed leaps and bounds since then. A lovestruck twenty-year-old who was so busy with himself and the day-to-day he missed every sign that the mother of his son wasn’t planning to stick around.

  How fair would it be for someone to judge me as that man for the rest of my life when now I know it’s the little things you have to pay attention to? The frustrated sighs. The lack of responses. The back facing me every night in bed when it used to be lips nuzzled against my neck and fingers linked with mine.

  Christ. My hands grip the steering wheel as I hit the red light.

  People change, Grayson Malone. Look at yourself.

  So why am I having such a hard time believing Sidney can, too?

  Because she’s trouble with a capital T.

  That’s a fucking fact.

  The light turns green, and I rev the engine a little harder than I should. So much for apologizing.

  And so much for not thinking about her, either.

  The rain whips viciously against the windshield.

  Cochran’s voice fills my head. “Goddammit, Malone. It’s too dangerous to fly in this storm.”

  The thwack, thwack, thwack of the blades overhead is like a metronome to the sights and sounds.

  Ignoring Cochran, I turn to my crew. “Who’s with me? You don’t have to fly, but I can’t leave them out there to die.” The concerned looks on the faces of my crew as I give them the option while dispatch frantically sounds off in the background.

  Drunk driver in head-on collision. Four patients in serious condition. One more a trauma alert.

  “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Bullshit. They need us. I’ll fly on my own if
I have to.”

  The ambulance’s lights cut through the darkness of the night. Red flashes over and over as precious seconds tick down, each one another moment less to save the patient we’re about to transport.

  “ETA Spiderman to Sunnyville General?” Dispatch’s voice crackles in my ear as I watch the ambulance doors open and my lone flight nurse help pull the stretcher out of the bus. A medic is straddling the patient, hands occupied somehow trying to save the life as they move across the grassy field. Their progress is hindered by the mud, but they push on. The rain is thick, the air is cold, and it’s frigid as fuck.

  “We should be airborne in about five minutes.”

  “Be careful, Malone. There’s an aircraft advisory.”

  “I’m aware.” I squint to see through the rain.

  “You shouldn’t be fly—”

  “Our ETA is roughly thirty minutes out.”

  “Ten-four. Keep us apprised. Staff will be on standby.”

  “Will do.”

  The doors open on the chopper and a burst of cold wind whips inside as the crew yells codes to each other above the roar of the rotors. I look back to Alyssa, my flight nurse, who looks wary as she glances at the weather whipping around us before looking at the patient that she’s helping to load. She meets my eyes briefly, and the subtle shake of her head tells me that the patient is worse than she thought. The medic from the ambulance doesn’t move from astride the patient as the stretcher is secured, and I overhear something about fingers holding the femoral artery.

  The doors close as more codes fly between the crew in a symphony of chaos we all understand.

  I look back, and for a split second, the crew parts, revealing the face of our patient. Fucking Christ. Blood covers every part of her except for a small section of her face, a face I know. Her petrified eyes are wide open and unresponsive.

  Reese Dillinger.

  I clench my jaw and turn forward, my hands gripped on the cyclic stick so I can take off as soon as everyone is clear.