K Stewart - A Devil in the Details

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“Hey, Jess? Did you happen to send a new patient my way?” Papers shuffled in the background, the good doctor multitasking up a storm.

“Um… no?”

“I didn’t think so.” There was a definite grumble in her voice.

“Why, what’s up?” I eyed my offending leg, idly wondering if I should skip the ice packs and go straight to moist heat. I was a fast healer, usually. That should count for something, right?

“Had a guy in here yesterday afternoon. Said he was new in town and that you’d recommended me as a doc. He started off asking questions about the practice and all, but it turned into asking more questions about you. I finally got pissed and threw him out.”

She had my total attention, suddenly, leg be damned. “Let me guess. Young looking, suit and tie, clean-cut, slimy?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Did I do wrong?” She suddenly sounded uncertain.

“Oh hell no. He comes back, you call Cole and get his ass arrested for trespassing. He’s just… a jerk giving me some trouble.”

“Oh good. I didn’t think he seemed like the kinda guy you’d be friends with.”

“As usual, your instincts are spot-on, Doc.” I managed a smile, hoping Bridget wouldn’t hear the barely contained anger in my voice. Verelli had officially stepped over the line. “Did you tell him anything? About me?”

She snorted into the phone. “What do you take me for, Jess, a rookie? Patient information is privileged.”

There was a small bit of relief there. I don’t know what Skippy the Chihuahua could have learned from her, but I didn’t want to chance it. He was being a bit too persistent.

“Jesse, you know I’m going to tell Mira about your leg, right?”

Aw crap. Distract and evade. “No, you’re not. Doctor-patient privilege, remember?”

“I hate you sometimes.”

“You love me; you know it.”

“Please come in and see me?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not hurt.”

“Argh! You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m incredible.” I grinned as I hung up the phone. Bridget was so going to make me suffer at my next appointment. The smile faded, though, as I pondered the latest developments.

Verelli had to have followed me. I wondered briefly if he was the culprit in the blue Escort, but I dismissed that quickly. Men like Verelli didn’t drive Escorts, and even if he was going to kill me, he’d hire someone professional to do it. I’d worked with professionals, and the guy in the car wasn’t one.

Dear God and Buddha, how many people did I have tailing me? I was going to need a parade permit if this kept up.

And if Verelli had followed me to my doctor’s appointment, had he also followed me to Seventh Sense? I toyed with the phone, debating whether or not to call Mira and warn her. I finally decided against it. Mira was a she-wolf in a den, fierce when provoked, and Dee… Well, rumor had it that Dee had played middle linebacker on her high school football team. I don’t know if it was true, but I believe she could have if she wanted. The ladies could take care of themselves. If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have even felt sorry for Verelli.

In fact, I had gone past mildly annoyed and straight into freaking livid. It was one thing to be a pain in my ass, but it was entirely another to start accosting my friends and associates-especially those who had no idea what I did in my secret life. Mr. Verelli and I were going to have a long and intimate conversation about boundaries and personal space.

The only outlet for my anger at the moment was exercise, and I headed out to the backyard for my usual morning workout. I wasn’t sure if my katas counted as “gentle exercise,” and you will notice that I didn’t ask the good doctor. Ignorance is bliss. I went through them as best I could while favoring my right leg, and I convinced myself it did feel a bit better. I just needed to limber up some. That was it.

I attempted to meditate afterward, but my mind kept wandering in other directions. I lingered under the nagging suspicion that I was in the doghouse with Mira, and even if I wasn’t, I probably ought to be. She should be home resting, not chasing Anna around the store. Not for the first time, I wondered if I should so easily take her at her word.

Maybe I’d get her something, too, while I was out shopping tomorrow. I had no idea what, though, and asking her seemed counter to my purpose. The puzzle of that, on top of my sheer pissed-off-edness at Verelli, kept me from concentrating, and in the end I gave up, frustrated.

Thankfully, Axel was a no-show for our usual morning discussion. I didn’t think I could stand his smug jibes, and I’d probably end up doing or saying something rash. I wasn’t sure if I was more pissed at him for… well, for being himself… or at myself, for being surprised by it.

I burned off the last of my anger in a rather enthusiastic mopping of the kitchen floor, erasing the last traces of grape jelly, and I even hummed a little as I made my way toward Marty’s house to meet the guys at the agreed-upon hour.

As much as I love my truck, she’s only a two-seater, and until I could get the rear-end damage assessed, I didn’t want to drive her too much, anyway. So we piled into Will’s brand-new cherry red PT Cruiser for the ride to the ball game. Being the shortest, Marty got stuffed into the back and didn’t even complain.

The highway was jammed with carloads of fans, and I had to wonder that none of those people had to be at work on a weekday afternoon. Somewhere, there were a lot of businesses with employees playing hooky. But that was the great thing about summer; the great thing about baseball. Everyone was a kid again, and it was okay.

The parking lot shimmered with reflected heat, and the truly hot days wouldn’t even hit for months yet. The smell of baked asphalt mingled with the aroma of grease from the deep fryers, and I inhaled deeply, grinning ear to ear despite myself.

A few years ago, someone had come up with the brilliant idea of making ballpark food healthier. They tried offering veggie burgers, salads, and fresh fruit. It was a spectacular failure. People came to ball games for the hot dogs, the cotton candy, the popcorn, grease-coated French fries and nachos with reconstituted cheese, huge cups of lukewarm beer-sweet bliss. I was a firm believer that all food consumed inside a stadium was automatically absolved of all caloric sin.

My buddies and I made an interesting trio: short, stocky Marty with his shaved head and ragged jean shorts (no kilt today) and the white tank top that displayed his fully tattooed arms; lanky me in my cargo shorts and a T-shirt (witty saying of the day: IF YOU WERE ME, YOU’D BE THIS COOL, TOO), ponytail hanging out from under my ball cap; Will, whose brown hair was as thick and curly as Mira’s and twice as long, slightly overweight and squinting at the world behind his glasses.

If we looked strange, no one noticed. We walked into the stadium next to men and women in business suits who had obviously come straight from their nine-to-five office jobs. There were families with kids, couples on dates, and elderly men with a Little Leaguer in their hearts. Variety was the spice of life, and the game was the great unifier.

It didn’t matter that none of us knew any of the others. It wasn’t important that our hometown boys had a really poor showing last year. We were here to cheer them on regardless. That’s baseball.

Although it was early, and a weekday, the stadium filled up nicely. I waved and grinned to a few people I knew in our section, fellow season-ticket holders. After a while, you got to know the people in your section, like neighbors from down the block. You may not know their names, but their faces were familiar and welcome sights, friendships renewed each spring and missed come fall.

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