Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

Against all logic, I slip my hand into his, if for no other reason than to be touched by someone who understands.

His thumb smooths over mine as he leads me upstairs.

CHAPTER TWO

GREG

One week after the accident, I finally let Asher convince me to go out after work.

I’ve been preoccupied all week, mostly with convincing myself that I should — under no circumstances — try to contact Amanda Parks.

Or Amanda Young, as she had so delicately pointed out.

But also with a full week of surgeries, especially since the pile-up delayed some of our scheduled ones to make room for the amount of trauma patients we had coming in.

It’s been a busy week, and I like busy. Busy means I can avoid the thoughts racing in my mind. Busy means I can keep my head down, lose myself in my routine, and not face the fact that I desperately want to get on social media and search out my high school best friend’s hot mom.

“It’ll be fun,” Asher promises for the fourth time as we walk the small stretch between the hospital and Shipwrecked, our favorite local dive bar.

Or should I say, his favorite dive bar, along with Beck and Larsen, who are waiting for us there. Being that I don’t drink, I don’t really have an affinity toward one bar or another. I do appreciate the classic rock and warm wood that always greets me when I walk through those doors, though, and the fact that I can always depend on them to have the Tampa Bay Lightning on the big screen when there’s a game.

I slap on my happy face as we push inside.

Just as expected, Beck and Larsen are leaning against the polished-wood bar when Asher and I join them.

“Uh-oh,” Asher mutters under his breath, elbowing my side. “Looks serious.”

I assess the tightness in Beck’s shoulders, the furrow of Larsen’s brows as she listens to whatever he’s rambling on about. “It does, indeed,” I agree.

Asher and I share a shit-eating grin, and without a word, vow to change the mood.

I toss an arm around Beck’s shoulders just as he mutters something to Larsen about not having time for a relationship. “I hate to break it to you guys, but we’re at a bar — not the hospital morgue.”

Larsen smiles at me, her brown eyes sparking a bit with amusement as she mouths a thank you. Poor girl, she’s a psychiatrist for at least sixty hours a week if not more, since she loves literally nothing and no one as much as her job. Still, my bet is on the fact that she’d like to just relax and enjoy the vodka tonic in front of her right now.

Beck elbows me. “Get off me, kid.”

“I’m older than you, asshole,” I remind him with a shove of his shoulder. “And nowhere near as broody.”

“What did the bartender say to the horse?” Asher chimes in as I signal to the bartender. It’s Harold tonight, and he knows my order without asking, sliding a soda and bitters in front of me moments later.

“What?” Beck deadpans.

“Why the long face?” Asher delivers his punch line with pride as he sidles up next to Larsen, who wrinkles her nose at the lame joke.

Even I give him a look that says he could do better.

“What?” he asks, thanking Harold as he slides Asher his drink of choice — Irish whiskey, neat. “Is this about that pile-up last week?”

“Here we go,” Beck groans. “Asher’s dick is so big—”

“It was an intense morning,” Larsen interrupts, giving Beck a look like she can see right through him.

Beck has struggled with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since I’ve known him, and though he doesn’t speak about it to me much, I know he’s opened up to Lars about it. And she can see better than any of us that a pile-up like the one we faced is harder for him than we know.

Asher is oblivious, moving over to nudge Beck’s arm next. “You’re getting soft, Becky. That pile-up was just another Tuesday morning for me.”

The nickname earns Asher a soft laugh from Beck, who seems to relax a bit. He’s been wound a little too tight since I met him, or perhaps closed off is a better way to describe him. I don’t know much other than he went through something young in his career that stuck with him, like a repeating nightmare that never quits. But since he’s got a permanent fuck off look on his face any time he’s not dealing with a sweet little grandma patient, I choose to wait until he comes to me before I ask any questions.

“I know you’re not using a female name to imply Beck is weak,” Larsen challenges Asher, one of her perfectly manicured brows rising with the dare. “You’re insufferable, but you’re not ignorant.”