My Front Page Scandal

Bile rose in his throat. He pushed through the thick water, spitting out the poison as he reentered a harsh, cold world.

“Christ,” said a distant voice. “I’ll never get the smell out.”

“How does a twenty-dollar tip sound?” asked a second voice. Female, nearby.

“Fifty’d be better.”

“Fifty,” she agreed, without conviction.

David moved his tongue in his mouth, checking for loosened teeth. The taste was as foul as biting into an old raw beet. “Ackkk.”

The woman’s face appeared near his. “You’re conscious.”

“Urgh.”

“What’s your name?”

Jaden. Jaden David Jackson.

She gave him a pat. Had he spoken? “Never mind,” she said in a voice as gentle as a breeze whispering through the loblolly pines. “We’re almost at the hospital. They’ll take care of you.”

“Hospital?”

She leaned over him again. “Your motorcycle went out of control on Newbury Street. You’re in a cab, on the way to Mass General.”

David struggled to line up the sequence of events in his muddled brain. “So who are you?”

“Brooke Winfield. I work at Worthington. I saw your crash from the window.”

He didn’t know what Worthington was, but he figured the name of a street corner sounded about right, given her style of dress. If she leaned over him one more time, a nipple would pop out.

He gave an especially pained groan, but she didn’t lean any closer. Shucks.

“I’m feeling better,” he lied.

“Can you sit up?”

“If you help me.” Her bare arms encircled him and he put his face in the nook of her shoulder and neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of female flesh. His mind cleared another few degrees.

Maybe not a street corner. She was too…clean.

She put the flat of her hand against his skull and pushed his lolling head upright. He caught a glimpse of black night and neon city lights before closing his eyes again. The rhythm of the cab’s wheels thrummed beneath him. Comforting, except for the acrid whiff of fuel. His stomach churned.

“Better?” Brooke cooed.

“Sure.” He squinted, focusing on her face instead of the pounding in his head. He’d been in an accident. He remembered it now: Leaving the hotel for the bar where he and Rick raised a few in lament of a broken marriage. Word of their presence buzzing, spreading. Paparazzi arriving, chasing him down. He’d opened the throttle of his bike, not caring about the danger, as long as he got away.

Killing himself was one way to do it.

He looked at Brooke’s long bare legs and swallowed the grit on his tongue. “Did they get pictures?”

“One or two.” She tugged at the hem of her dress, which was hovering at indecent-exposure level. “Are you famous?”

“Notorious.” He tried to grin at her, but the effort felt sickly rather than cocksure, so he let his face drop into the nook again. She was soft and silken against the abraded skin on his cheek.

“We’re here,” the cabbie said, slowing to make the turn toward the emergency entrance. A siren blasted a two-second warning nearby.

Brooke pushed his head back up and smiled with encouragement. “Can you walk, or should I ask for a wheelchair?”

With fuzzy eyes, he studied his rescuer. She seemed beatific. A heart-shaped face held shining eyes and pink lips that stretched wide when she smiled and puckered when she frowned with concern. Strands of caramel-brown hair curved against her cheeks and the long, graceful neck that smelled like powder and sunny meadows.

Above the neck, an angel of mercy. Below…

Born to sin.

“You don’t look good,” she said, putting a palm to her chest as she moved away. “I’ll get help.”

“No, no, I can walk.” He followed her out the car door—hell, he’d have followed her anywhere—wobbling only a little as he stepped onto the pavement and got his feet under him. The lights were too bright and the sounds too loud. He winced and clutched at Brooke for support.

She was as tall as him in her high heels. Maybe taller. She had to bend slightly to fit her shoulder solidly beneath his outstretched arm. Behind them, the driver had gotten out to circle the cab and shut the door. He cleared his throat as he handed over the helmet.

“Oh, yes,” Brooke said, taking it. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money with me, but if you’ll give me your name—”

“My wallet.” His voice sounded as raspy as his face felt. “Back pocket.”

The helmet pressed against his ribs as she reached around. Her fingers felt along his backside until they found the wallet. He grunted, enjoying the groping just a little despite his pain.

She got him straightened out again before flipping the billfold open. The thick wad of cash made her hesitate. “Umm…”

“Give him a hundred.” David waved at the cabbie. “Sorry, pal. Thanks for your help.”

An emergency room attendant wheeled a chair toward them. Brooke was still staring into the wallet. “David Carerra,” she read off his license. “I’ll be damned. You’re David Carerra, the baseball player?”

The attendant pried David loose and guided him into a wheelchair. He raked back his tangled hair. When his hand pulled away, blood glistened on his fingertips.

Brooke’s mouth was agape. He winced, knowing he was losing her. “That’s right, David Carerra. Like I told you—I’m notorious.”

“IS IT TRUE?”

Brooke gave her head a shake. She’d dozed off, huddled inside the injured man’s denim jacket, his helmet nestled in her lap as she sat up in one of the hard plastic chairs of the emergency room. She pulled back the sleeve to check her watch. Ninety minutes, it’d been, and still no sign of him. A nurse had told her to wait, but for how long?

“Yo, there. Is it true?” asked the man across from her. He was grizzled with several days’ growth of a beard. The ice pack applied to his left wrist leaked onto his Patriots jersey and moth-eaten gray sweatpants.

“Is what true?” Brooke tightened her knees, then lifted her hand to brush away the hair hanging in her face. What do you know—she had tendrils.

“You came in with David Carerra.”

She grimaced at the splotches of blood on the jacket cuff. “I guess so.”