Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

Jerome crouched. "Breathe, buddy. Take a breath. Flip?" He didn't move him, but he laid a hand on his ulna. Yep, broken. "Keep your eyes on me now. You're okay, buddy. Huh? Just stay there."

Flip hiccupped and coughed but stayed still. "Hurts." He was going into shock.

"I bet it does. You're okay, though. Promise." Jerome ignored the fidgety, terrified third graders crowded around him.

The stage manager (Jerry? Larry?) was already in motion.

"His arm's broken. He needs a doctor. I'm a friend of the family." Sorta. Jerome looked up.

"Dad?" Keisha appeared from the wings in her mouse costume.

"A boy fell." He turned to the chaperones. "Someone needs to run him to an emergency room. Someone needs to call his dad. Wendell Farley." He wasn't a practicing doctor, but he knew what to do. Back to Flip's dilated eyes. "Flip? All good, buddy. We're okay." He took charge without meaning to.

And somehow an hour later, Jerome found himself in the Mount Sinai West emergency room waiting for Wince. Keisha had ditched her first-act mouse head and steered them through the maze backstage, holding the costume's tail in one fist. Wince's office must've made a call to the hospital because no one said diddly about him carrying in some white kid with a busted arm. Flip stayed relatively calm, all things considered. The break looked clean, and the resident on duty had set his arm quickly. Watching doctors work always made Jerome feel lazy and lucky at the same time. He'd hated his ER rotation.

Keisha hovered by the door, needing a task to calm her down. Like her mom. He gave her a twenty and sent her to the cafeteria.

"J'rome." Flip sounded groggy and hoarse on the gurney. "Is my dad here?"

"Not yet, buddy." Jerome flashed a smile he didn't feel and glanced at his daughter's retreat. "You're okay."

Flip tried to smile. His cast looked comically huge: a hard white flipper in a sling.

"It's like a big hard Band-Aid." Saying the word made him grin.

Growing up, Jerome couldn't ever figure out why bandages were beige. Why did all medical stuff come in that same neutral putty color? He didn't put it together until he was older than Flip. He said as much one day studying for a trig midterm: they weren't flesh-colored to him.

Wince had laughed until milk came out of his nose, then put his tan arm over Jerome's dark black. "Band-Aids are mutt-colored." Their skin slid together, feeling a little too good to be safe. "Oughtta call 'em Bland-Aids, f'sure. Bland-ages."

"What's that about?" Jerome had taken his arm away before the nerves got to him, "Brown Band-Aids. Black Band-Aids. Man, we'd make a fortune."

"I'm so in. Fuck the blands." Wince had laughed and shoved into him, unselfconscious and affectionate as a stray dog until Jerome stepped back because his best friend didn't understand.

"Flip?" Without warning Wince pushed through the ER curtain like a hurricane. "Oh buddy. You scared the ... crap out of me." He turned. "Jug, thank you so much."

"I just stayed with him."

"That's not true and you know it." Wince looked about ready to faint. He hugged Flip, kissed his head, and then let go abruptly. "Is that--? Did I hurt you?"

"Nope. I'm cool." The boy glanced at Jerome, exhausted and brave, and shifted the cast. "Big hard Band-Aid."

Jerome nodded at them. "Brave."

Wince sat on the edge of the bed, eyes shining at his son. "Life saver. I mean it. You being there." He wiped his mo

uth shakily. "Thank you."

"Me? Wasn't a big deal."

"Bullshit." Wince frowned and glanced at his son. "Sorry, boss." He kissed Flip's head again and squeezed him.

Jerome held in a smile. "He's had a rocky day."

Flip sighed, quiet against his father's chest.

"Conked out." Wince peered at his son. "And I'm gonna freak the fuck out if I stick around here much longer. Whatsay we jam? Dinner maybe. I'm buying."

"Umm." We? "Keisha's in the cafeteria killing time. I uh ... and I gotta run her over to rehearsal in a bit. Lemme text her."