Author: Kristan Higgins

I’ve never been in trouble at work before. This feeling of sheepishness, of letting down the team, is new and not at all welcome. I stay late, check the new firewalls and passwords, then head for the river. Though I rowed this morning, I need to burn off the bad karma that’s been floating around me all day. Besides, this morning had been Ernesto’s lesson, and I didn’t get my usual workout.

I keep a change of clothes at Old Man McCluskey’s shed. Pulling them on, I lift Rosebud out of her sling and carry her out to the water. A few pulls on the oars and I’m out on the Hudson. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the river is clear of any traffic, and I dig in. Feather…and square. Feather…and square. I don’t bother warming up today. I need the punishment. The image of Aragorn and Legolas refuses to be deposed, though. Damn it. Was it personal? Who hates me that much? Could it be a brotherly joke? I dismiss the idea as I pull on the oars, leaning back with all my strength. No, the boys wouldn’t—and probably couldn’t—hack into our system. Lucky might have the technical knowledge, but my brothers would never jeopardize my work. And there’s no way this can be seen as anything but sabotage.

Feather…and square. Feather…and square. Catch and drive…catch and drive. I bury the blade of the oar in the water and pull back, but my stroke is off tonight. My movements are jerky, the run of my boat not nearly as long as it usually is. First I’m rushing, then I’m slow, my seat threatens to jump the track. A shitty row, all in all.

Just then, I commit what is referred to as a crab. Because I’m distracted and off tempo, I don’t pull my portside blade out of the water in time. It drags, acting as a brake, and my oar jolts back at me. I struggle for a minute, trying to keep the boat from tipping, then wrestle the oar back into position. I pause, catching my breath. Even if this has been a crap outing, I’m panting like a Labrador in August. Glancing at the shore, I can see that I’ve drifted to about twenty feet from the riverbank, right by the park that runs along the river. Anyone watching me would have seen my graceless gaffe, which doesn’t do any more for my self-esteem.

I pause for a minutes, letting the current pull Rosebud. The park is lovely, one of the town’s finest graces. There are benches scattered about, and lots of people are enjoying this beautiful May evening. Couples hold hands, kids run around shrieking. Someone’s flying a kite.

I wonder if anyone there saw Legolas and Aragorn this morning.

Someone’s waving to me from a bench right alongside the river, a little upstream of where I am. I wave back before I can discern who it is, then pull on my oars and pull a stroke or two, drawing closer. There are two people, actually. Oh, great. Trevor.

He’s with Perfect Hayden.

“Hey, guys,” I call gamely.

“Looking good, Chastity,” Trevor calls back.

“Shows what you know, dummy,” I answer.

“Hi, Chastity,” Hayden says mellifluously. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” And then, yes, she scootches a little closer to Trevor. Not seeing each other, my ass. I’ll have to have a little talk with him. Wasn’t he out with Angela the other night, after all? And didn’t Perfect Hayden walk all over his heart with her tiny high-heeled shoes once already? Here they are, cuddled up on a bench on a gorgeous spring evening, but hey, they’re not seeing each other, are they? Of course not.

Without further thought, I turn Rosebud around and row back to the shed. If I’m stomping a little, who can blame me? It’s been a piss-poor day. I pat my boat apologetically as I put her back. “Sorry, pal,” I say. “I’ll do better next time.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WHEN I OPEN THE DOOR THE NEXT night, I find Trevor, Jake and Lucky standing before me.

“Oh, my dear God in heaven!” I cry. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Chas,” Lucky says, shoving his way in. “Hey, Matt.”

“Hi, Chastity,” Trevor says as he passes me. Without further ado, they fling themselves on various pieces of furniture.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “You’re here to renovate my bathroom. You are. Tell me you are.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. We really need to schedule that in,” Lucky says. “Matt, you got any beer?”

“Then why are you here?” I ask him. “Not in an existential sense, because the answer is sheer random perversity, but why are you here in my living room?”

Buttercup launches herself onto Lucky’s lap, rendering him momentarily incapable of speech.

“Yanks-Mariners,” Jake answers, giving me a quick, automatic once-over. “Matt, I’ll have a beer, too.”

I gaze sternly down upon Jake. “Since you’re already here, boys, how about you take a few tools upstairs and get going? Everything’s down cellar. Take the radio upstairs, listen to the game, do a little installation, hook up some plumbing…please? Pretty please?”

“We really don’t have what we need, Chas. Sorry,” Lucky says, cracking a beer.

“And yet you cashed my check three months ago,” I comment.

“So I did,” he admits. “And it will be done. Eventually. Can you move? The game is starting.”

“Please, Lucky. You’re still my favorite brother. Don’t make me keep sharing a bathroom with Matt. He eats a lot of Mexican food.”

“Ouch,” Jake winces.

“Want a beer, Chas?” Matt offers, ignoring my pleas.

I sigh. “I’m going out,” I say. “I have a date.” No one seems to care.

On the TV, Michael Kay’s familiar voice begins lauding the superiority of the Bronx Bombers. “A date?” Lucky asks distantly.

“Yes. A date with Ryan. The surgeon.”

“Great,” Lucky says. “Maybe he can fix the bathroom.”

“Is he picking you up?” Trevor asks.

“No,” I answer a little smugly. “He had an emergency consultation at the hospital.”

Lucky moves Buttercup and frowns at her. “Shit, Chas, your dog’s bleeding on me.”

“What?”

Lucky lowers Buttercup down to the floor, where she immediately offers her stomach for a scratch, her ears spilling out behind her head like wings. Trevor pushes the coffee table back, and the men crowd around her, checking for wounds, running their hands down her legs and gently ruffling her fur.

“It’s okay, honey,” I tell my dog, stroking her ears. “These guys are professionals.”

“Roooroooo,” she croons, her tail whipping Jake in the face.

“Watch the tail,” Matt says. “It’s a lethal weapon.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jake mutters, rubbing the welt.

“I think I found it,” Trevor says, grinning up at me. “Looks like your little girl’s becoming a woman, Chastity.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, still petting Buttercup’s head.

“She’s in heat.”

“Yuck,” Jake offers, rising quickly and resuming his position on the couch.

“But she’s spayed!” I protest. “They said she was spayed!”

“That explains why she’s had a little life in her lately,” Matt observes. “Love is in the air and all that crap. No more dead water buffalo, right, Buttercup?”

The guys take their seats again, but I stay on the floor with my dog. Poor thing. Do dogs get cramps? Should I stay home and offer a hot water bottle, the way my mom used to do for me?

Damn that pound. I’ll have to call them in the morning and ask them to check her file. “What should I do about the bleeding?” I ask. “Any ideas?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Matt says, gazing at our dog. “You go, Chas. Have fun. Buttercup will be fine.”

Buttercup does seem fine…she rouses herself to bury her sizeable snout in Jake’s crotch. “Come on, dog!” he yelps.

“She’s looking for a mate, Jake. Just relax and let her finish,” I say, grinning.

“Makes you feel so dirty, doesn’t it?” Trevor says, his eyes laughing.

“She’s bleeding on me! Come on, guys, this is gross!” As Buttercup attempts to mount Jake’s leg, I decide yes, Matt can handle this. Checking my own jeans for blood and finding them clean (thank heavens), I stand up. “Okay. Thanks. Just make sure she stays inside. The last thing we want is for her to be knocked up.”

“SO, RYAN, ARE YOU A YANKEES fan?” I ask an hour later. My gaze keeps flickering to the TV in the bar half of Emo’s, but alas, I can’t see the score. Damn.

“No,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “I don’t really watch sports.” Problem. “But my father has season tickets at Yankee Stadium.” Problem solved! “Maybe we can go sometime, since you’re obviously a fan.”

“I’d love to,” I murmur demurely, already mentally reviewing the home-game schedule.

We’re sitting at a prime table overlooking the street. Emo’s is packed, the food is lovely, and Ryan kissed me when I met him here and apologized for not being able to pick me up. He’s very polite.

“I really enjoyed the article,” Ryan says.

“Great! I’m glad you liked it,” I reply. The truth is, I’d kind of forgotten about that article, being preoccupied with the hacking incident. So far, nothing else has happened. But Ryan’s article was pleasant if I do say so…no mention of any groin injuries and a nice picture of Ryan in his (yum) karate uniform. “It’s gotten good reviews.”

“And it’s part of a series, correct?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine.

“That’s right. We’re doing firefighters next.”

“A predictable choice,” he murmurs.

My head jerks back a fraction. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right, in the sense that everyone identifies firefighters as heroic.” I pause. Ryan doesn’t say anything, just smiles a little, encouraging me to continue. “After that, I’m doing a story on a pediatrician who goes to South America to treat kids down there. She goes every year. Maybe you know her, Dr. Whitman? Jeannie Whitman?”

“I don’t really deal with pediatricians unless I’m getting them up to speed on a trauma patient who happens to be a minor. Usually, though, we fly those patients to Children’s in Albany.”

“I see. Hey, you must run into my brother Jack from time to time. He’s a chopper paramedic. Jack O’Neill, tall, black hair, looks a lot like me…”

Ryan shakes his head. “Can’t say that it rings a bell.”

“Oh,” I say. Our dinners arrive, and we eat and smile at each other. I try to think of something witty to say. I come up empty. Probably, I’m just too used to being one of the guys. And of course, I’ve been avoiding the subject of his career, but I can’t dodge it forever. Finishing my wine, I decide to go for it.

“So, Ryan, tell me about your work. Did you always want to be a surgeon?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he corrects, leaning forward. “Yes, I did, Chastity. My father is also a surgeon, as I believe I told you, so I was lucky to have someone show me the ropes.”

“Is it hard—emotionally, I mean? Obviously, your patients are in pretty bad shape.”

“Emotionally, no, it’s not hard,” he replies, taking another bite of his salmon. “Obviously, there’s a high level of skill involved.” He smiles modestly. “The more common cases are splenectomies, damaged bowel from a GSW…gunshot wound, that is…oh, bleeding control, muscle repair. And of course—” he leans forward with relish, grinning “—the more severe the traumatic event, the more fascinating the case.”

I swallow.