Only Trick Read online

  ONLY TRICK

  by Jewel E. Ann

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jewel E. Ann

  ISBN: 978-0-9961564-1-7

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Designer: © Regina Wamba, Mae I Design

  Formatting: BB eBooks

  Dedication

  To my best friend, Jyl

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Epilogue

  Also by Jewel E. Ann

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you readers for giving my art meaning. It’s a beautiful gift to have the opportunity to share my passion with you.

  A special thank you to bloggers for reading and sharing my stories with your trusting followers. It is an honor to make it onto your long TBR lists.

  A special mention and thank you to Lori Chomyk, the winner of my Name a Character Contest. Tamsen Cross is a beautiful name and I hope my character did your name justice.

  To my patient and hardworking editor, Maxann with The Polished Pen, thank you for your continued encouragement and mentoring.

  Thank you, Regina Wamba with Mae I Design, for another creative and very HOT cover! You are such a talented artist. And a special thank you to the very handsome, Gabriel Charles, for finding the essence of Trick.

  Thank you, Paul at BB ebooks, for your outstanding formatting and the best service. It’s always a pleasure to work with you.

  My “girls” aka, my beta readers. Thank you for combing through hundreds of pages of gibberish text laden with crazy and sometimes laughable errors and still loving the story and being my most enthusiastic cheerleaders. Leslie, Kambra, Sherri, and Jyl—I love you!

  Finally, to my husband and three inspiring boys, you are my whole world and to say I live a charmed life is an understatement. You own my heart and Every. Single. Beat.

  The mind speaks with reason and logic. The heart … it doesn’t speak, it just feels. But here’s the thing about feelings … they are the unspoken truth.

  ~Darby Lucille Carmichael

  Chapter One

  Health n: absence of disease and lack of stupidity.

  My morning starts with a frequent flyer who hasn’t been able to find his pulse for over a week. His previous visit was for chest pain during masturbation after smoking crack, so I suggested he give up either the crack or masturbating. Next up, removal of a rotten tampon, followed by an examination for “chicken pox on a penis.” Hello herpes! Finally, while everyone else is actually saving lives, I’m given the old guy complaining of a tick on his butt, which turns out to be a Brach’s butterscotch stuck in his ass hair. The funny part … I’ve seen this patient numerous times and he has the most timid personality—a real “candy ass.”

  I crack myself up!

  The truth: I love my job. Puzzles for me over TV any day, but none have ever been as challenging and addictive as the mystical human body. My nana has an old cedar chest she calls the graveyard. It’s filled with baby dolls and stuffed animals that look like they’ve been maimed by a pack of wolves. Limbs that were cut and torn off then sewn back on, eye patches, bandages, toilet paper casts, and red fingernail polish aka dried blood—I received my calling early on.

  As the piercing sirens draw near with a gunshot wound victim, my senses heighten. I feel stronger and faster while my vision sharpens and my skin tingles, like a numbing that makes me feel invincible to pain. I’m nearly panting like a dog waiting for its dinner; it’s possible I’m even drooling a little. Adrenaline: It’s my favorite drug.

  “I’ve got this.” Dr. Ellis shoves two charts into my chest before strutting his authoritative, pompous ass toward the ER entrance like God has crowned him king for the day. “Abdominal pain in room one; sutures in three.”

  Even in the adult world, bullies pop balloons. If I were a guy, I’d be grabbing my crotch looking for my balls. Yep, they’re there, shoe marks and all.

  “He’s just pissed you’re with Ashby and not him. His shift ended ten minutes ago.” My straight-talking nurse, Jade, hands me a pen to sign off on a chart.

  I huff out a fiery breath of evil contempt for all men. “Cute hair.” I glance up, forcing a small smile. She fluffs her short, bouncy, black curls.

  “I decided to embrace my African-American heritage.”

  I laugh, walking past her to the sutures in three. “That or you decided to try a new look for Doctor … What’s his name? Oh yes, Dr. I Buy Coffee For All The Nurses In Exchange For Blow Jobs. Please tell me you’re not falling for Creepy Creighton.

  “You’re just bitter because you don’t drink coffee.”

  “Well even if I did, it would never be that flavor. Sutures?”

  Jade clears her throat. “Yeah, about that …”

  I turn, a cliff’s edge away from the door to room three. “What about it?” Flipping open the chart, I read the medical history of Patrick Roth, age twenty-eight.

  “He cut his hand, working on his bike.”

  I glance up from the chart. “And?”

  “He’s … intense.”

  “Are you sweating?”

  Jade swipes her fingers across her brow then looks at them. “No. Well maybe.” She steps closer, glancing around as if we’re surrounded by spies. “He’s a squirrel.”

  I pull my head back, reclaiming my personal space. “He brought in a squirrel?”

  Jade shuts her eyes, shaking her head. “No. He is a squirrel. Seriously, Darby? You don’t know that a hot-ass guy is called a squirrel?”

  I close the chart. “What moron came up with that?”

  “I’m getting you an Urban Dictionary for Christmas. How can you work in the heart of Chicago and not be well versed in streetwise lingo?”

  Jade receives my best stink eye as I open the door.

 
Oh hell!

  Jade walks on my heels like an unexpected speed bump, nudging me a step farther into the room than what my legs would voluntarily go on their own. She pinches my arm. “Told ya,” she whispers.

  “Good—”

  Good what? Good morning? Good afternoon? Good evening? Good God!

  “Day … good day, Mr. Roth. I’m …” This is that moment, the one when you’re jogging down the sidewalk with a strong stride feeling fit, confident, and then it happens—trip. Maybe no more than a quarter inch crack that catches the toe of your shoe sending your legs into a flailing panic to keep your body vertical. That’s all it takes. One second to go from dauntless to dazed.

  This “crack” and its colorful collage of ink canvasing skin over lean muscled arms holds my gaze captive, stopping time for a few awkward seconds. He’s just so …

  “Ahem!” An elbow rams into my arm, jerking me out of my reverie—okay, flat out gawking. “Patrick, this is Darby Carmichael. She’s going to stitch you up and get you on your way.”

  Dark, that’s the word. Dark hair strategically styled in at least a dozen conflicting directions. Dark brows and lashes, dark stubble, and hazel eyes pinning me with a piercing dark look.

  “Uh … huh.”

  The most kissable lips twitch, not a smile—more of an amused acknowledgment of me … Yes, me staring and using sounds like “uh … huh” instead of real words that an educated medical professional should use. Then I notice a pearly faded scar above his eye, one of those perfect imperfections that give character and story to a person.

  “Darby?” Jade holds up a pair of blue nitrile gloves, ticktocking in front of my face.

  Her voice muffles like an echo from underwater, the eerie world of submersion when you feel like you can hear blood running through your veins against the cadence of your heart. I suck in a breath, more like a gasp. Scrubbing my hands at the sink with thorough intensity, I try to find my stride again—my voice. If there is a God, I pray he will grant me a small shred of dignity to go with it. “Tell me what happened.” I dry my hands.

  He holds up his hand wrapped in a blood-soiled towel. “Cut my hand … tightening a bolt.” Yep, his voice is just as dark as the rest of his suffocating sexiness. It’s deep with a slight raspy edge that allows me to actually feel it, not just hear it. He might as well have said, “I just dropped by to suck on your nipples.” Either way, I’m Frosty on a warm day—a guaranteed puddle on the floor by the time he leaves.

  Fuck the threat of measles … I’ll take spots over this nasty case of stammering poppycock. Give me a vaccine for that!

  I unwrap his hand then glance up to see his reaction to the deep cut. He cannot pass out. I’ve already reserved that right and it has nothing to do with his hand, just self-preservation. But he’s not looking at his hand; he’s looking at me.

  Shit! Breathe, Darby, breathe.

  He smells good. Is it his soap or cologne? Or is it just sexy? I didn’t think sexy had a smell—until now.

  Shit! Don’t breathe, Darby, don’t breathe.

  Patrick is not my first squirrel, but my professionalism has never wavered. Patients are puzzles waiting to be pieced back together, nothing more. But dear God, all I want to do is nuzzle my nose into his neck and inhale like I’m taking my first breath.

  “I’m going to clean the wound then you’ll need a few stitches.”

  “You’re the doctor.”

  Jeez! That voice …

  I look down and get to work putting him back together. “I’m not actually a doctor. I’m a PA—a physician assistant.” Voilà! With those words, my hands takeover what my brain has struggled to remember. I’m a physician assistant. I’m a professional and this man is nothing more than my patient.

  His hand becomes just that—a hand. It no longer matters that it’s attached to a body that … that … God, there are no words, not even in my head. I convince myself it might as well be a cadaver hand. I’m not sure what my glitch was a few moments ago. Maybe Jade’s ridiculous squirrel comment messed with my head. But I’m back.

  Good mental pep talk, Darby!

  “Change the bandage every twenty-four hours and try to keep the wound dry for forty-eight hours. You can set up an appointment to have the stitches removed in eight to ten days. I noticed on your chart that you can’t remember the last time you had a tetanus shot; I recommend one before you leave. Jade can get that for you.” I peel off my gloves and wash my hands. “Do you have any questions?”

  He shakes his head, I hope in response to my question and not my cringe-worthy behavior. My dignity sure is shaking her head as she frees herself from my smothering libido. It took years to get my degree and only minutes for my brain to melt into a pile of mush. I restrict my gaze to the sink, the floor, then his chart—anything to keep from looking at him. “Okay then, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Roth.”

  I risk a glance with a nervous smile. Those eyes flick to mine then fade along my body like a sheet being snapped over a bed, floating through the air until landing in its place. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. Shit! Now I’m sweating.

  I leave the room in desperate search of my missing confidence and professionalism. It was with me before I entered room three, so it has to be around here somewhere. From the computer at the nurses’ station, I take a quick look up as Mr. Roth saunters out, leaving a wake of self-combusting females along his path. Sure enough he’s staring at me, no smile. Ducking my head, I swipe my tongue along my teeth. Do I have something in my teeth? Why the look?

  “Is it wrong that I gave him his tetanus shot in the butt?”

  My head whips up from the computer. “What? You gave him—”

  Jade giggles and plops the chart down in front of me. “Kidding. But holy hell, did you see the tats on that guy? A body like that could leave you speechless. Oh that’s right … you were speechless.”

  Focusing back on the monitor, I shake my head. “I was just distracted by the GSW that Ellis stole from me, that’s all.”

  “Mmm hmm,” Jade hums with a smirk that matches my own.

  *

  The five mile commute to my condo in Lincoln Park takes twenty minutes to navigate in the massive crush of people, cars, and busses. Keeping with my normal routine, I strip then pull on my shorts and sports bra while listening to phone messages.

  Darby, Cal wanted me to remind you about the fundraising dinner this weekend. I’ll send over your dress, and I can also arrange to have your hair and makeup done. Will Steven be picking you up, or shall I send a car for you? Call me, darling.

  “Call me, darling!” Sarcastic contempt leaks from every cell in my body. Darling? Seriously, at forty-one, Rachel, my “stepmom,” is closer to my age than my father’s. I think that’s why she refers to him as Cal instead of my dad or father. She’s caught in the middle—not quite old enough to be my mother but young enough to be Calvin Carmichael’s daughter. What can I say? My father has Hugh Hefner Syndrome. He had it when he married my mom. She was twenty-two years his junior. He’s my father and genetically I’m programmed to love him, but Calvin Carmichael doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body.

  I hop on my bike and spin out my legs because I love exercising! Who doesn’t? It’s good for my heart and I love the neurogenesis, mood enhancement, and endorphin release. Just kidding! I do it because I love food as much as boots and skinny jeans.

  To take my mind off the sweat and burn, I channel surf. Dating Naked is on; I roll my eyes at the stupidity of it. Speaking of stupid relationships, I remember to call Steven.

  He answers on the first ring. “I’ve got thirty seconds, Darb, go.”

  Yeah, that’s our sex life too—lucky me!

  “Are you still planning on going this weekend?” I ask like I actually care … which I don’t.

  “Oh crap! The fundraiser. I’m on call so I might have to miss it or leave if there’s an emergency. Is that a problem?”

  I laugh. Fifty-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner that your parents
are paying for … Nah, it’s no problem for me. “Hey, you’re saving lives.”

  “You know it, babe. Gotta go.”

  Dr. Steven Ashby, sole heir to Ashby Communications, drives a yellow convertible Corvette and calls himself a metrosexual. That pretty much wraps up his personality. Our relationship is convenient and approved by both his parents and mine—well, my father and evil stepmother.

  “Hey, Rachel, sorry I missed your call. Steven is planning on attending the dinner this weekend, so I’ll ride with him. However, he’s on call, but I have the know-how and resources to figure out my own transportation. I look forward to seeing the dress you picked out for me. Tell my father ‘hi.’ See you Saturday.”

  I press End on my phone and crank up the resistance until my legs feel the fire. Skinny jeans, skinny jeans, skinny jeans. I hate lying, but with my family it’s necessary for survival. The truth? I’m not sorry I missed Rachel’s call, and I’m not looking forward to seeing the dress she picked out for me.

  Rachel Hart founded Hart Designs in her mid-twenties. She has the look and the money my father likes. He has the clout and connections she likes. I may be bitter, but I’m not blind. She has insane talent and celebrities around the world flock to have her design one-of-a-kind gowns.

  I have a closet full of them, mostly in hues of green. Rachel says purple, blue, and red are other suitable colors for my ginger hair and fair skin, but green is “stunning on me so why mess with perfection?” The problem is it feels too perfect. I have a Saint Paddy’s Day birthday, and I’m not sure if it’s because or in spite of it … I don’t like green.

  After an intense, sweat-dripping workout and a shower, I inspect the reflection in the mirror with a scrutinizing eye, then I call Gemmie.

  “Is this a 9-1-1 emergency?” she answers with her usual snarky attitude.

  I laugh. “Yes, Gemmie, it is.”

  “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the ritzy fundraiser this weekend, now would it?”

  “You know me so well. I was going to do my—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you were going to do your own hair until you took a break from saving the sin-filled city of Chicago one stab wound at a time and looked in a mirror. Then you realized there’s only one person who can transform your flaming mane into a work of art. Enter, yours truly.”