Return of the Italian Tycoon

“You were wearing a leather jacket and chaps. Where’s your motorcycle?”

Thump! Thump!

He lifted his arm to lay it across his forehead. He gnashed his teeth at the show of weakness, but he had the desperate need to hold his head on, like if he didn’t brace it in place it might explode.

“Are you okay?” Her voice hovered right above him and he smelled the freshness of peaches. She’d obviously moved closer.

“Can we do this another time? My head hurts.”

“I’m going to check your wound,” she warned him, the warm breath of her words blowing over his forearm. “It’s possible you’re hurt worse than we originally thought. This may hurt.”

Her body heat warmed him as she loomed close. He shivered. With the pain racking him, he hadn’t noticed how chilled he’d grown.

Thump! Thump! Sharp pain shot across his head.

“Ouch.” He flinched away from her probing, all thoughts of the cold chased away.

“I’m sorry.” She softly ran her fingers through his hair.

Yes. That felt good. He leaned toward the soothing touch.

“I need you to move your arm. I’m going to check your pupils.” She suited action to words and he suffered the agony of a flashlight scorching his retinas.

“Irregular pupils. You have a concussion. I think we need to get you to the hospital,” she declared.

“I’d be fine if you’d leave me alone.” He dismissed her claim, waved off her hand. “I just need to rest here for a while.”

“It’s not up for discussion,” she stated simply. “I’m obligated to see to your care. It’s up to you whether we go in my cruiser or I call for an ambulance.”

“I’m not riding in any cryptmobile.”

“Then we need to get you on your feet.”

“I think I’ll just lay here for a while.” Just for a bit, until he could breathe without pain and the room stopped spinning.

“I can’t allow that. You have a concussion. You’re disoriented. You need to be seen by a doctor. It’s department policy.”

“Well then.” She wanted to disrupt him, ratchet up the pain, all to meet department policy? Right. He had fifty pounds on her. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“How did you get hurt?”

Thump.

“Where’s your motorcycle? Your wallet?”

Thump, thump.

“What’s your name?”

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Will you stop? Your talking hurts my head.” So a few details were missing. It would come back once the pounding stopped.

“That doesn’t really reassure me. Tell you what, if you stand up, look me in the eyes and tell me your first name, I’ll consider leaving you alone.”

“I don’t want to stand up.” Why wouldn’t she just go away?

“Don’t want to? Or can’t?”