Page 91 of Heal Me

“Believe it or not, an attacker isn’t going to give you the courtesy of allowing you to change into practical clothes before attacking you,” he says smartly.

I’m starting to think marathon training with Tom and his run club while discussing my period would be more enjoyable than this. I kick off my heels, and Sam puts me through a vigorous workout using the various strikes I’ve been practicing with on a training dummy. My arms feel like jelly, and I’m drenched in sweat by the time we’re finished.

Oh, but we’re not finished. He then leads me through a grueling weightlifting workout. I can barely move my arms by the time he decides to end my torture. “We need to tell Gabe about me training here. It doesn’t feel right,” I say, doubled over, catching my breath. Gabe’s never asked me, but it still feels like a lie by omission.

“Do that, and he’ll end your training, and you’re not ready,” Sam says, having knocked my feet out from under me so quickly I didn’t even see it coming.

“Fine,” I grumble, looking up at him, my ass on the mat, knowing he’s right. I excuse myself to a small bathroom, splashing water over my face and cleaning up as best I can. “Where is she?” I hear Gabe call out.

I step out of the bathroom, and he appears before me and gives me a once-over, and I do the same to him, as I have no idea what the code red emergency was all about. “Are you okay?” we both ask over each other. “Fine,” we both rush to say.

“Sam, Charlotte needs a lift home,” Gabe says, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Of course,” Sam says, smiling at me like he didn’t just kick my ass for the past three hours.

Returning home, we step inside. “Working out with Sam,” I answer Gabe’s question before he can even ask. Again, not a lie, but not the whole truth, and I hate the way it feels. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but Sam is sort of an asshole.”

“He is an asshole; there’s no other way to take it,” Gabe agrees with a smile. He grabs my face. “I don’t like you being there, especially without me.”

God, I feel so bad now for not telling him I’ve been training there with Sam for weeks. Courage is being scared shitless and doing it anyway. I’m not courageous at the moment, because I change the subject “Where did you go?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Attorney-client privilege I get. Doctor-patient privilege I get. This, I do not get.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

“They all want you back in that world,” I say, leaning my face against his chest.

“Too bad. You’re my world now. And those worlds don’t mix.”

Chapter 38

Charlotte

Entering the Thomas A. Cooper Blood Center on the fifth floor of the hospital, I do a double take, stopping at the name placard and photograph of the center’s namesake. This has to be either Tom’s father or grandfather. No wonder donation is so important to him.

Grabbing a clipboard, I take a seat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, filling out the forms and returning them to the front desk. I made sure to double up on iron rich foods the past few days, and I also did a protection spell of my blood before I came.

A woman calls my name a few minutes later and leads me to a small room where we go over my paperwork. She pricks my finger to confirm my blood type. “We’re glad to have you donate today. I’ve never met someone with golden blood,” she says excitedly. “Your blood will save so many lives.”

“Glad I can help.”

She leads me to the donation room with multiple reclining chairs, and I’m passed off to a nurse who instructs me to sit, then discusses the procedure with me.

The nurse leaves to grab a stress ball for me to squeeze, and I look around the room, surprised to see Tom escorted to the reclining chair beside me, a different nurse attending to him. “This center is named after your father or your grandfather?” I ask him.

“Grandfather,” he says, his lack of arrogance a nice change of pace.

“That’s really great. Now I know why this is such an important issue for you.”

“Dr. Cooper is one of our regulars,” the older woman says with pride.

My nurse returns and we begin. I close my eyes, squeezing the ball. Feeling eyes on me, I open mine to catch Tom staring, a distressed look on his face. Both of our nurses leave, as the process of collecting a pint of blood begins.

Worrying he might secretly be afraid to give blood, I talk to him to keep his mind occupied. “How’s the marathon training going?”

“I can’t talk right now,” he snaps, closing his eyes.

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