Page 125 of Detectives in Love
“Now please take off your shirt,” the female paramedic says. “And lie down.”
Xavier unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off without even glancing at her. Then he lies onto his coat, and she begins pressing gently around his stomach. He stays perfectly still, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere off to the side, but his body stays tense—coiled under her hands.
“Does it hurt here?” she asks, pressing just above his navel.
“No,” Xavier says flatly.
“And now?” She presses lower.
“No.”
“Then why did you flinch?”
Xavier looks at her evenly. “I don’t like being touched.”
She quirks an eyebrow, flicks a quick glance my way, but doesn’t comment. Next, they pull out a portable ECG machine and begin attaching electrodes to his chest, abdomen, wrists, and ankles. The machine hums softly for a minute before spitting out a strip of pink paper with his cardiogram. The woman reads it while her partner peels the electrodes off Xavier.
“Your heart looks good,” she says, looping her stethoscope from around her neck. “Now sit up—I need to listen to your lungs.”
Xavier sits up stiffly while she listens, then she nods and reaches for a glucometer. She takes his hand, pricks his ring finger, and checks the reading, flashing it to her partner, who jots it down.
“Nothing to worry about,” she says, turning back to Xavier. “We’re going to give you a shot of glucagon for the hypoglycemia, and a bit of diazepam to help calm the nervous system—looks like you’ve had a rough crash from chemical exposure. Make sure you eat something solid as soon as you’re home, drink some water, and stay in bed the rest of the day.”
“Alright,” Xavier says, eyes narrowed—like he doesn’t quite buy that he got off this easy.
She snaps on a pair of fresh gloves while her partner fills the syringes, then passes them to her.
“Both go intramuscular,” she says. “Turn a bit to the side for me and pull your pants down.”
Xavier stiffens. His eyes flick to me, and I get it instantly.
“Uh—sorry,” I mumble, turning my head away as heat creeps up my neck. God, why am I blushing? I’m not in high school. It’s just his ass.
He shifts, rolling onto his side, unbuttons and unzips his pants, then tugs the waistband down.
“Relax,” the paramedic says gently. I hear the crinkle of a disinfectant wipe wrapper, then a quiet pause.
A few seconds later: “Done,” she says, rising from the floor. “If you don’t feel better in the next couple of days, get a full checkup at the hospital. But you should be alright. You can get up now, but take it slow. The shots are going to kick in soon.”
As I help Xavier to his feet, the paramedics start packing up.
“You’re going to feel a little high once the diazepam hits, so don’t be alarmed,” the woman adds, then looks at me. “Can you make sure he gets home?”
“Sure,” I say, leaving out the part where we live together. “Will do.”
Once the door clicks shut behind them, I help Xavier dress. He doesn’t protest or try to do it himself—just watches me with a strange expression.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask, glancing up at him.
Xavier nods, then clears his throat. “Sorry for, erm, making a scene. I actually thought I was going to die for a second there.”
I smile, my heart skipping at the fact that kissing me made the cut on his hypothetical bucket list. I know it doesn’t mean anything—not really—but I let myself feel it anyway. Ireach up and brush his hair off his forehead. Xavier’s gaze drops, and he exhales—quiet, almost soundless—like he wants to say something but doesn’t.
Thankfully, we hardly pass anyone on our way downstairs. Xavier’s already looking better—color coming back into his cheeks—and the relief that floods me is almost dizzying.
Once we’re in the backseat of the cab and pulling away from the station, I feel his eyes on me. When I turn, he’s staring, gaze locked on mine.
“Hey,” I say, remembering the conversation we never finished outside Willand’s office. “You said Mrs. Bridge told you she found something on her husband’s laptop. But you have his laptop. So you lied to Willand.”
