Page 2 of Dark Medicine

Kicking her run up a notch, she picked up the pace and raced toward St. Andrews Church, her halfway point. The rain was pelting her skin, stinging the sensitive fair freckles of her face. Her jacket, which normally kept her dry, was starting to feel a bit heavy and damp, the cold seeping into her skin. Frowning, she decided to cross the street and head back to her apartment.

Crossing Church Street at St. Andrew’s Street, she turned and smiled at the Molly Malone statue as she always did, something her mother taught her to do.

She was a hard-working Irish girl, Fiona. She deserves a wave or a smile.

As she crossed back over to Church, music blasting in her headphones, she never saw the motorcycle heading toward her. His dark helmet and jacket made him nearly invisible in the rainy evening light, his headlamp dim at best.

Speeding toward her down the tiny, cobblestone street, his front tire clipped her heel and sent her sailing into the air and down hard against the pavement. Startled, she shook her head and leaned up on her now scraped hands. She shook her head again and then felt her legs and arms for any broken bones, pressing her hands carefully against her limbs. The motorcyclist stopped long enough to see that she was sitting up and okay, and then sped away.

“You arsehole!” she screamed. Fiona looked around to see if anyone was close by to help when a tall black shadow fell across her body. Long, strong fingers reached out for her, and they were attached to the richest, deepest, most alluring voice she’d ever heard.

“Are you alright? Can I give you a hand?” he asked. Fiona craned her neck, looking up at the rain-soaked stranger. His black hair was plastered to his head, his blue eyes glowing in the streetlight. She looked down at his hand and back up at him.

Gingerly, she took the masculine hand, and he easily lifted her to her feet. Her backside was soaked through, her hands stinging and burning from the concrete. She wiggled her ankle and felt the twinge of pain but knew it wasn’t severe.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I saw everything if you’d like to make a police report,” he said smoothly.

“You’re American.” She said the words as a statement, not a question, and he nodded ever so slightly.

“Guilty,” he smiled.

“Sorry, no guilt intended.”

He was still holding her hand, and she looked up into his face. His eyes almost appeared as though they were calculating something. Fiona thought she should be nervous, but all she felt was warmth and security.

“It doesn’t seem that you have any serious injuries. Is your ankle painful?” he said.

“So, you’re a doctor then, are you?” she smiled jokingly.

“Actually, I am,” he replied. “I’m here on vacation for a friend’s wedding, but yes, I’m a doctor. A surgeon, actually.”

“Impressive. Yes, I mean, no. No serious injuries. The ankle will most likely be bruised and sore, but nothing I can’t live with.”

“I’m Adam, Adam Thorn,” he said, still holding her hand.

“Hello, Adam Thorn, and thank you again. I’m Fiona Graham, and I suppose I should probably take a taxi back home. That is if you’ll give me back my hand.” Fiona smiled at the giant of a man. It wasn’t often she had to look up at a man, her own towering height intimidating. She looked up and down the street. No taxis to see within a hundred miles on this night.

“Why don’t I buy you dinner first so you can warm up and dry off? By that time, most of the evening traffic will have died down, and you can catch a taxi home.” Adam reluctantly released her hand as she eyed him suspiciously and looked up and down the street again.

Why not? She had no plans, no prospects, and she was definitely hungry now that the adrenaline had died down in her body.

“Alright, O’Neill’s is pretty good. Good Irish pub food, if you’re okay with that,” she said.

“I’m more than okay with that.” He held her elbow as they crossed the street, and the warmth of his hand traveled up Fiona’s arm at an alarming rate. It was as if his hand was on fire, and her body instantly warmed.

“You’re quite tall, aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at him. His eyes grew wide, and a small grin escaped his beautiful lips.

“I suppose I am. I’m six-foot-two, but you’re pretty tall as well. Most women don’t reach my shoulders.”

“Aye, I am. Five-feet-nine in my bare feet. My parents were both tall. Da was six-feet-three, and mam was five-feet-eight. I suppose it’s a curse and a blessing.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a curse. It’s a nice change for me.” Perfect change thought Adam. To be able to dip my head just slightly and kiss a girl. Where the fuck did that come from?

“Well, thank you. It’s harder for a tall woman, though. Most men don’t want to have a woman as tall or taller than him. I have to be careful with my shoes.”

He laughed a sincere, warm laugh as they stepped into the crowded pub. He pointed to a small table in the corner, and she made her way through the crowd, people turning to stare at her drenched clothes.

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