Page 144 of Asystole

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A trauma surgeon who can’t process his psychological pain crosses paths with a motocross racer who can’t feel physical pain.

What could go wrong?

doctor x patient

age gap

forbidden romance

ONE

Casey

I’m in the lead as we start the last lap under a hot May sun. Revving my engine as I crest the hill before the final turn, I blow a kiss to Neil Barton over my shoulder. We’ve been leap-frogging each other all season.

He and I are it as far as the competition goes, and I respect the fucker as much as I hate his guts.

My bike whines as I push it faster into the last turn, because a victory is sweeter if there’s more than two seconds separating you from the next guy.

Except instead of being behind me like he was a second ago, Barton takes the inside of the lane, dropping low into the turn.

He’s about to fucking pass me.

Where the fuck did he come from?

His visor is down so I can’t see his face, but I swear I hear his laugh on the wind.

Doubling my efforts, I push my bike beyond its limits.

Fuck, I want this race.

I get too close to him in an effort to scare him off my path, but he, like me, wants to win at all cost.

We’re only inches apart, and this dickwad turns the front wheel of his bike just enough to clip me. The next thing I know, I’m airborne. My bike lands before I do, but I follow its flight path, and I already know I’m going to land directly on it.

I hear my body break as it thuds against the machine in the dirt before rolling to the side like a ragdoll.

By now, I should be used to lying face down in the dirt with the medical staff rushing toward me, but every time it happens, it’s just as annoying as the first time.

“Mr. McIntyre, my name is Jesse. I’m the on-site EMT. Please stay still. You most likely have a couple broken ribs, and I need you stay calm.”

Rubbing my eyes to clear the dust from the track, I look at the man, poking me in the side and ask, “Do I look like I’m freaking out to you?”

Jesse pauses his movements and I watch as it hits him: I’m lying perfectly still. No signs of distress mar my features. I’m not cussing his name or crying out in pain even as the purple telltale signs of internal bleeding bloom across my side.

Shit, that’s faster than the last time.

“Sir, I think you’re going into shock, but please don’t worry. We’ll get you the help you need,” he says, delivering the well-rehearsed lines despite his shaking hands.

Poor Jesse is freaking out worse than I am.