Rochelle Alers - Here I Am

He snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

Her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her black plastic frames. “You think not? If I walk out of here and file my report with the agency my recommendation will be that you see a psychotherapist and go to an inpatient rehab facility. I’m also certain you don’t want to remain on injured reserve next season. And I’m sure you’ve been cautioned about blood clots. We’ll begin by showering and washing your hair. If you want, I can help you shave or you can continue to look like Grizzly Adams.”

Brandt sat up straighter. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a very unusual bedside manner?”

Ciara’s expression did not change although she wanted to laugh. “So you noticed. Do you like it when I talk tough?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “That’s something I have yet to decide. One thing for certain is you did get my attention.”

“Now that I have your attention, Mr. Wainwright, what do you plan to do?”

“Do about what, Nurse Dennis?”

“It’s Dennison. And there’s no need to be so formal.”

“How shall I address you, miss?”

“Ciara will do.”

“Since we’re becoming so familiar with each other, then I insist you call me Brandt.”

Ciara felt as if she’d scaled one hurdle. Brandt was talking to her instead of yelling at her. “I think it’s best that you shower and wash your hair first.”

His hand went to his face, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He’d grown the stubble to conceal the bruises on his face from the impact of the air bag. He wasn’t certain whether they’d faded, but not having to shave was one less thing he had to concern himself with. Getting out of bed and into the shower was not only difficult, it had become all but impossible.

Brandt’s mood changed like quicksilver. “I can shave myself.”

“Good,” she countered. “I’ve been known to have a problem with the blade getting a little too close to the jugular.”

“Don’t tell me you’re auditioning as a stand-up comic.”

“Very funny, Brandt,” Ciara drawled sarcastically.

“You’re the one with the jokes. Let’s just call a truce.”

“You’re in no condition to negotiate. Your mother is paying top dollar for me to be your nurse until you’re able to take care of yourself. I’ll help you with the day-to-day stuff and follow up with the therapist as you progress. I’m required to write up daily reports and give you pain medication, so it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

Brandt continued scratching his face. There was something about Ciara Dennison he liked. There was fire under the dowdy exterior. When he’d yelled at the other two nurses, they’d scurried away like frightened mice. The last one had turned on her heel so quickly she’d almost lost her footing.

What everyone, including his mother, had failed to understand was the feeling of helplessness. Without having the wheelchair at his disposal, he was unable to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom before embarrassing himself. The ultimate humiliation was having to use a bedpan.

During his two-week stay in the North Carolina hospital, he’d believed he would never leave alive. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness from the sedative, unaware of any visitors. When the head of orthopedics recommended his transfer to the hospital’s rehabilitation unit, Brandt knew it was time to leave.

He’d returned to New York City, not to a hospital or rehab facility but to his own home. After his personal physician and a leading specialist reviewed his medical records, they approved his convalescing at home with round-the-clock nursing care and physical therapy three times a week for a period of three to four months.

“Are you going to stay here 24/7?”

Ciara hesitated, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. She decided on the former, because she had to know for certain that Brandt would become a cooperative patient. “No. I’ll alternate with another nurse. Twelve hours on, twelve off.”

“I don’t want another nurse.”

Ciara took a step closer to the bed, her expression reflected surprise. “You want me to work a twenty-four-hour shift?”

“Will that pose a problem for you?” Brandt asked.

“Not really. But I hadn’t planned to work around the clock.”

“Well, tell your man that he’s going to find something other than you to occupy him while you’re at work.”

There was no way Ciara was going to admit to Brandt Wainwright that she didn’t have a man, husband or boyfriend. After dating Victor Seabrook for two years, she’d decided to not get involved with another man—at least for some time.

“Let’s not get personal,” she warned softly. “After I help you get cleaned up, I’ll have your mother call the agency to change my hours. Then, I’m going to have to return to my place to pick up enough clothes to last for at least a week,” she said, lying smoothly. Her carry-on bag contained enough clothes and toiletries to last several weeks.

Unaware that Ciara had skillfully manipulated him into doing something he hadn’t wanted, Brandt said, “I have a cleaning service that comes in several times a week. They do laundry. If you need them to take care of anything for you, then leave your clothes in the laundry room.” He reached for the sheet, uncovering his legs. He’d changed from wearing boxer-briefs to boxers in order for them to fit over the casts. “I need you to bring the wheelchair closer to the bed so I can go to the bathroom.”

Ciara walked around the bed and pulled the wheelchair closer before applying the brake, while Brandt braced his hands on the mattress and pushed himself into the chair. The muscles in his chest, arms and abs were magnificent. She had to remind herself that her patient was a professional athlete, and being in peak physical condition was a major factor in his earning an astounding amount of money for throwing a ball down a football field. He earned as much for one game as most people earned in ten years. She had little interest in sports, especially in jocks with overblown egos.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

Brandt pointed to a door on his right. “It’s over there. I don’t need you to watch me.”

Releasing the brake on the chair, Ciara pushed him toward the en suite bath. “I’m not going to watch you. I just want to make certain you make it inside.”

“I’ve made it okay before you got here, and I’m certain I’ll make it after you leave.”

“Why don’t you try dialing down the tough-guy talk, Brandt. You don’t frighten me.”

“What does frighten you?”

She pushed the chair into a bathroom that was larger than the kitchen and dining room she shared with her roommate in a two-bedroom renovated apartment in West Harlem. There was a free-standing shower, double sinks, a soaker tub with jets and a dressing area. The doors to an antique cupboard were removed to reveal shelves filled with an ample supply of towels and bathrobes.

Ciara wanted to tell Brandt he didn’t frighten her in the least. In fact, she found his outbursts rather amusing. There was no doubt he was an imposing figure on the gridiron, but she wasn’t a professional football player, and whether or not she was scared of him was irrelevant.

“I’m not afraid of anyone or anything,” she stated confidently.

Brandt smiled for the first time in weeks. “I’m impressed.”

Pushing him closer to the commode, Ciara positioned Brandt where he could easily get out of the wheelchair. “Are you certain you’ll be all right?”

“Yes. I’ll let you know if I require your assistance.” His words were dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring his comments, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Standing next to the door, she exhaled deeply. Going toe-to-toe with Brandt Wainwright was exhausting—it always was that way with a stubborn patient. Dealing with difficult patients always took a lot out of her.