Page 27 of Playing Doctor

“Vehicle versus pedestrian,” she answered without hesitation. “He ran out of a bar, into the street, and into the path of an eighteen wheeler. The truck won.” She felt him cringe. His soft grunt of commiseration puffed across her cheek.

“Damn. Running, like…from something?” His voice took an upward lilt at the end. Clearly you didn’t often hear of anyone running out of a bar, unless it was either on fire or a big-ass bouncer was after you.

“Law enforcement—they were arresting him for assault and battery. Why did you feel it was your fault Rita died?”

His chest rose against her back with a quick indrawn breath, held there, and then came out in a chuff that breezed past her ear. “Well, hell, those women obviously know my life story. Maybe you need to look one of them up for that answer.”

She’d put him on the defensive, the last thing she’d wanted to do. She turned on her knees, braced one hand on his chest and cupped his cheek with the other. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me to ask.” But she wanted to know.

Gabe tilted his head back and stared up at the tray ceiling. He scrubbed his hands over his face, as if doing so would erase the memories.

“Sorry. No, it’s okay.” He rested his forehead against hers, closed his eyes briefly, then leaned back again and took a breath. “I used to have a private practice as a pulmonologist. I was ass deep in office visits, admissions, consultations, my on-call schedule sucked—you know the routine, especially when you’re building your practice.” Beth nodded, so he went on. “When the accident happened, I was so wrapped up in my practice that I didn’t see what was happening right under my own nose, with my own wife.” He tipped his head to the side. “Who did your husband assault?”

“Me. What was happening that you didn’t see?”

“What?” Gabe bolted straight up in the tub, splashing water over the rim. “Whoa, whoa…back up. What do you mean, you?”

And here we go.

“He was abusive.”

The shock always came first, and Gabe was no different. No matter how many times you read about it in the papers, saw it on the news, or dealt with it at work, learning that domestic violence had touched someone you knew or cared about was difficult to absorb. Beth understood the shock, had seen it on her coworkers’ faces when the ambulance brought her to the ER. It was there when Jamie’s parents arrived and learned what their son had done. The anger came with her own parents when they saw the sutures on her face, the bruises, the blood on her clothes the ER team had cut from her battered body. So much blood…

Gabe reached for her. She scooted back to lean against the other end of the tub and pretended not to notice. It would be easy, so very easy to go to him, feel his arms fold around her and hold her against his big warm body as she recanted the horror of that night, but as much as she craved that warmth, that solace, she had to remember what this night was about. She didn’t want his pity, his empathy—she’d had her fill of that over the years. To allow his touch, accept the comfort he offered would indicate an emotional bond, a connection that went beyond their agreement of no strings, no relationship, no complications. Tonight was about sex, and nothing more. Cloaking herself in indifference, Beth took a fortifying breath and continued.

“He wasn’t always. Please don’t give me that look. I’m not defending him, I’m telling you how it was. It began when he came home from Afghanistan.” Once she started, it all spilled out.

“We were your typical high school sweethearts—head cheerleader, captain of the football team. He was a year ahead of me and in his first semester of college on an athletic scholarship when I got pregnant.” She drew her knees up, hugged them close to her body and focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“We were married during fall break. Money was tight. Jamie worked part time, attended classes, and trained with the football team the rest of the time. He was the only married player and got razed a lot by his teammates. He began hanging out with them more, partying. His grades began to drop and it wasn’t long before he was booted off the team and lost his scholarship. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he came home and told me. Jamie ate, lived, and breathed the game. He was all about the team, had played since Pee Wee League in grade school. Football was his ticket to college. College ball was his chance at the pros, and yes, he was that good. Then it was gone.

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