Tell Me It's Real (At First Sight 1)

“I spent twelve years going to medical school,” Doc Hal said to me. “And I still have over a hundred grand in student loans. I’m allowed to say things like that because if I didn’t have a sense of humor, I’d be sad.”

“You’re not funny,” I retorted.

“I still don’t get it,” Vince said. “But now I’m really fucking tired.” He looked at me, and I could see all the humor had fallen away. “Can we go home now?” he asked me quietly. His words seemed a bit slurred, whether from exhaustion or narcotics, I didn’t know. All I knew was that my heart thumped a little beat in my chest at the sight of him like that. I tried to fight down the urge to wrap myself around him and shield him from everything and to take care of him forever.

Jesus, I’m such a fucking girl sometimes.

I looked to the doc, who nodded at me. “Yeah,” I told Vince. “We can go.”

He looked at me gratefully before looking down. “Don’t have a shirt,” he mumbled, as if suddenly embarrassed. “They cut off my cycle jersey ’cause it hurt too much to pull it off over my head.”

“I can get you some scrubs,” Doc Hal offered.

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. I unbuttoned my dress shirt and took it off, almost but not quite self-conscious about only wearing the white T-shirt underneath. I walked over to Vince and hesitated for a moment, but then I found some bit of resolve buried deep in me and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He sighed softly and pressed his forehead against my shoulder as I fussed with the collar. I grazed his skin with my fingers and he was warm. I had to stop myself from going any further.

“Here’s a scrip for some muscle relaxers,” Doc Hal said. “Only have him take them if he absolutely needs them. He should try to stick to over-the-counter stuff if possible.”

I nodded and took the scrip and shoved it in my pocket.

“Ready?” I asked Vince.

He moaned softly but nodded, and I helped him to his feet. With my arm around his shoulders, I steered him out.

Chapter 7

My Two-Legged Dog Is A Big, Fat Traitor

I WALKED him toward the car, though part of me wondered just how much he really needed to be hanging onto me like he was. He was acting like he could barely walk and kept leaning against me, his face going into my neck, brushing his lips against my skin every few steps. I tried to ignore the sassy black administrative professional as we walked by her desk, but she narrowed her eyes as she watched him “accidentally” kiss my neck again, and she shook her head as we passed by. I thought about saying something snarky to her (“I’m gonna have me a piece of my brother, sassy-face!”), but then Vince squeezed against me a little bit tighter and I forget about everything else as I focused on being able to put one foot in front of another.

I got him in the car slowly, carefully, and then walked around front and got in the driver’s seat. I closed the door behind me and silence fell. It hit me then that this was the first time he and I had been alone, actually truly alone, that didn’t involve supply closets or ambulances. I thought of about six or seven different things to say, each one involving some kind of apology for putting him in the hospital and also trying to make myself sound cool at the same time. But then the silence stretched into minutes and became awkward because I could feel his eyes on me as I stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel.

“So,” I said.

“So,” he said.

I cleared my throat and willed myself not to blush. I failed. “Your place? Or….”

“I want to go to your house,” Vince said. I could hear the smile in his voice, but I didn’t turn to him because I knew that his dimples, even if they weren’t out in full force, would most likely cause me to do something sexually stupid. Like ask him if I could touch his penis. I didn’t think that would be polite.

I squeaked. Or grunted all manly like. I don’t know which, though if I had to place a bet on it, I’m sure I sounded like Mickey Mouse getting anal. “You do? Why?”

“You have to watch me, right?”

“Uh. That’s what the doctor said.”

“And you’re shy and shit?”

I winced. “That’s fun.”

“What?”

“That my entire being can be reduced down to ‘shy and shit’.”

He waved his hand at me. “Well, you are. So I figure we go back to your house because you’d be more comfortable there.”

I thought on this for a moment. “You’re the one who’s hurt, and you’re thinking about what would make me comfortable?”