“You’ll regret that.” Scarlet pushes her long blonde hair back.
“You’re not running?” I ask her.
“I don’t like to break a sweat. Walking is good enough for me. Though I do like yoga. Mostly because my husband likes to watch me do yoga.”
“Gross,” Quinn says, wrinkling her nose.
“Quinn said she had four brothers. I know Dean, and then two others own the bar, right?”
“Right,” Quinn pants, putting her hand on her side. “Weston is my oldest brother, who Scar is married to. Logan and Owen are the ones who own the bar.”
“That’s a lot to keep track of,” I say with a chuckle.
“Hah. Tell me about it. It was a lot to put up with as a kid.” She looks at Scarlet. “Rory has three older brothers.”
“I couldn’t handle a fourth. I feel for you.”
“My brother is younger than me,” Scarlet says. “I miss that little asshole.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Scarlet waves her hand in the air. “He’s not dead, and he’ll be home soon. Well, I hope. He’s in the army.”
“It’s hard having a brother in the military. Mason, one of my brothers was a marine. He’s an FBI agent now.”
“Weston was in the army,” Quinn says. “He’s the oldest and I’m the youngest, but I still remember the day he left…and the day he came back after his first tour. We were all so relieved when he finished his second and decided to go into law enforcement here in town instead of going back again.”
I bob my head up and down. “Mason is only a few years older than me, and it was so hard.”
“FBI is cool, though,” Quinn slows down, and the color is fading fast from her face. “Though I don’t think all those FBI shows are that realistic, are they?”
I let out a snort of laughter, mind flashing back to the many times Mason went on a rant about how untrue those shows were…or how they hit too close to home.
“Not really…are you okay?” I ask, recognizing the look on Quinn’s face. She’s about ready to pass out. I quickly throw out my hand, catching her before she falters.
“Whoa, Quinn.” Scarlet grabs her other arm and we help her to the side of the track.
“I’m…I’m…okay,” Quinn pants, sinking down to her butt and leaning against the wall.
“Do you want me to find Archer? Shit. He’s not here. Maybe there’s another doctor.”
“I’m a nurse,” I tell her and find Quinn’s pulse. Despite running, her skin is cool to the touch. “Do you have a history of low blood sugar?” I ask, gently opening her palm to see if her hands are clammy.
They are.
“Only when I’m—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Quinn’s eyes fly open.
“What?”
“Only when I’m pregnant.”
“Oh my God.” Scarlet’s hand flies to her face. “You’ve been feeling sick on and off for days.”
“Your heart is racing, which could just be from running, or it could be from low blood pressure,” I go on, looking at my watch and then feeling her pulse again. “Which is common in pregnancy too.”
“It was really low last time around.” Quinn brings her hand to her head and closes her eyes, and I notice her fingers are trembling.
“Take some deep breaths, and I’ll find you something to drink. You need sugar and protein, and I have a protein bar in my bag.” I get to my feet. “Stay with her,” I tell Scarlet.
I hurry around the track, not stopping as I rush through the gym area to get to the lockers. I’m not even thinking about Dean as I breeze past him. I have exactly three dollars in my wallet—I never carry cash on me—and grab my wallet, the protein bar, and then sprint to the vending machine. I get a red Gatorade, leave the change, and run back up to the track.
Quinn has her head in her hands now, and Scarlet looks up as I sprint back over. An older woman has stopped as well to check on Quinn.
“Here,” I say, twisting the cap off the drink. “Take a small sip. You don’t want to overload your system, but once your sugar goes back up, you’ll feel so much better.”
“Are you diabetic?” the older woman asks, spinning her fanny pack around and unzipping it.
“No,” Quinn replies, looking like she might throw up.
“I think she’s hypoglycemic right now,” I reply, gently taking Quinn’s wrist in my hand to check her pulse. It’s still racing, and the anxiety of feeling like shit isn’t helping.
Quinn takes another small drink and leans back, resting her head against the wall. The older woman steps closer, and now that I’m wearing my nurse-hat, I’m not afraid to tell while you might mean well, you’re not helping. Back the fuck off, lady.
But I’ll say it nicer than that.
“Should I get someone from the front desk?” the older woman asks.