Found.
In her eyes.
BAM!
His face felt it first, the smack of unexpected resistance against his head a ringing sort of annoyance, turning his eyes from Josie and rocketing him into a stellar shock. What the f**k? And then the pain seeped in, slow at first but roaring as his head ricocheted back, his breastbone striking something slim and hard, feet flying out from under him.
Instinct made his arms go back to catch himself, but then training overrode instinct. Surgeons needed to prize their hands above all else, so he held his hands up, still unaware of what was happening, but knowing he needed to save the hands at all costs. Pivoting in mid-air, he came down not on his back but instead on his hip, then shoulder, and finally the resounding thump of a melon hitting the ground.
That, he thought, would be my head.
A scream. His name.
Then nothing.
“Alex!” Josie screamed, sprinting from the porch out into the street. Holy f**k. Please let him be okay. Please please please. Those few seconds of eye contact had given her more serenity than she’d had in ages. A contract of promises in one yearning look had been initiated and she couldn’t have it all fade away now. Please please please.
“Alex?” Darla shouted. “The Alex? Hey, Josie! Watch for cars!”
Trevor and Joe flashed past her, legs pushing harder, athletic prowess beating out her under-fit form. Alex was bleeding from his cheek, lying motionless, but breathing.
“Don’t move him!” she screeched. “Darla, get my first-aid kit. Under the bathroom sink.” Treat him like a trauma patient, she told herself.
Because he was.
He was so damn still, the rise and fall of his chest as he took a breath and the steady trickle of blood from his face wound both the only signs that he was alive. Legs rested on the debris-covered sidewalk; he’d fallen a few feet short of a big stretch of bottle-green glass, someone’s litter from a beer binge gone wrong. Had he fallen in that…
Blood flowed from a cut right along the top of the cheekbone, tearing the soft flesh that framed his eye. Grabbing the edge of her shirt, Josie pressed hard against it, giving it pressure but avoiding moving his neck.
“What can we do?” asked Trevor, Joe standing beside him. “Anything?”
“Should we call 911?” Joe asked. “My phone’s back in the apartment, but I can run and—”
“No 911,” Alex moaned.
“Here!” Darla rasped, placing the frustratingly inadequate first-aid kit on the pavement. She needed to focus, and as she ripped through the kit, she found gauze to press against his gash and staunch the bleeding. Alex rolled from his side onto his back, groaning, changing the pressure she applied, making a small flap of skin peel back. Repositioning her hand, she made sure she pushed hard enough to stop what she now saw was a half-inch rip in the skin.
“Don’t touch him,” Alex whispered, eyes closed. Josie’s heart did a salsa beat in her chest as her mind went into triage mode. He was moving his legs fine, knees up, now resting on his back. His hands and arms seemed safe as he rested his palms against his flat belly. The faded blue t-shirt he wore was yanked up, his bare back against the cracked pavement, and his skin glistened with sweat against the hair covering his muscled belly.
“Don’t touch who?” Was he delirious?
“I think we should call 911,” Joe declared.
“Ah, God, no.” Alex struggled to sit up as Josie gingerly pulled the gauze back. The bleeding was slowing down. “No 911. I’m fine.”
“Dude, you are so not fine,” Trevor said, bending down to help Alex sit up.
“They say doctors make the worst patients,” Darla announced.
Her guys looked at her, puzzled.
“You know him?” Joe asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“Josie does.” Darla smirked.
“Shut the f**k up,” Josie hissed. Darla’s smile drained, and she pulled Trevor and Joe aside.
Alex couldn’t balance in a sitting position, and his left arm stretched down in a funny way. Eyes closed, he rested with his head between his knees. Josie hadn’t seen whether he hit his head.
“Alex? Did you hit your head?” Waving Darla over, she gestured for her to take over with the pressure. Carefully, Josie pulled Alex’s head up to make eye contact.
“Alex? Honey? Open your eyes so I can see you,” she crooned, the voice natural and flowing. The last person she called “honey” was probably some ass**le who’d cut her off on Western Avenue, adding in a one-finger salute for good measure. Terms of endearment weren’t her specialty.
Yet it felt right.
Hazy and unfocused, his eye contact was poor but improved within seconds. “Josie? Shit. What happened? Did I run into a car?”
“Parking sign,” Joe explained.
“Not you,” Alex groaned.
“What did I do?” Joe asked, palms up.
Alex’s eyes shifted from Joe to Josie. “Don’t touch him,” he said.
“Why are you talking about yourself in the third person? Are you the Queen of England? Bob Dole?”
“I’m not,” Alex growled.
“He’s talking about Joe,” Darla whispered.
“Joe? What? I—” And then it hit her. The long, soulful look from Alex. His repeated loops around the park. He was checking out the situation on her porch, worried she’d moved on and was dating someone.
He was worried.
That meant he hadn’t written her off.
“You’re fast for an old guy,” Trevor said, a tone of respect in his voice.
Alex winced, trying to steady himself without using his hands, but needing Trevor to support him. “Uh, thanks.”
“Pain that bad?”
“No. Being called an ‘old guy.’ How old are you, anyway?” He gave Trevor a resentful side-eye.
Josie pulled the gauze back and searched for antiseptic solution. Alex gingerly moved his right arm, trying to wave her off. “You can stop. I’m fine. I’ll dress it at home.”
“You’re not fine,” she said, relief flooding her. “I got the bleeding stopped, but you need to go to an ER. It looks like you hurt your shoulder and maybe your hip.”
“You called me ‘honey,’” he said, smiling, then frowning, then struggling not to move his face muscles.
“I do that to all the guys who run into No Parking signs around here.”
“I like it.”
“You like hurting yourself?”
“Josie,” he said softly, exhaling slowly. Was that a begging, a pleading in his voice? Or more of a reproachful tone? Was she ruining this moment—or should there even be a moment when he was injured and bleeding?