Joanne Rock - One Night Scandal

He stabbed at the touch screen, wondering where the home button had disappeared to.

The door to his room opened and one of his attending physicians entered—a tall, genial guy with a thick Eastern European accent. Brock slid his phone onto the bedside table, anxious to be released so he could get home and wait for his head to clear. The whole world felt off-kilter, but if there was some kind of scandal brewing that could hurt his family, Brock needed to be with his brothers and sisters, not sitting in a hospital bed.

Brock straightened, sliding his feet to the floor.

“Whoa, Mr. McNeill.” Dr. Kreshnik hurried closer, his clipboard clattering to the tile as he reached for Brock’s arm to steady him. “You’ve had head trauma. We don’t want you moving too quickly on your own.”

“I’m fine,” Brock protested, knowing he would feel better at home. “I don’t know who decided I needed the ER visit, but I’m definitely ready to be discharged.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. McNeill.” The physician frowned as he retrieved the chart from the floor. “We want to evaluate you further.”

“I’ve been here for five hours.” Time might be fuzzy for him, but he’d messaged his sisters from the ambulance so he knew he’d been at the hospital that long. The room spun a bit, but then stopped. He was still wearing his street clothes and they’d already done a CT scan. He could have the results sent to his specialist.

“You’re exhibiting signs of amnesia...” The doctor continued speaking, rattling off words like “short-term episode” and “more tests.”

But Brock’s brain stuck on that word. Amnesia.

Was that why he couldn’t recall what was going on in his family? Why he didn’t remember the accident that brought him in here? But he knew his own name. Could remember his friends. His family.

His head throbbed harder.

While the medical expert spouted something about care plans, a soft knock sounded on the exam room door. One of his sisters, maybe?

“Come in,” Brock called, needing an ally to bust him out of the facility.

But the woman who stepped into the room juggling two steaming foam cups wasn’t a sister. And he thanked his lucky stars for that.

Her generous curves and platinum waves were the stuff fantasies were made of, although her outfit made her look like she’d just stepped off the prairie. Her long, flower-dotted skirt was something from another era and modest in the extreme. But the shirt she wore with it was another matter altogether, the stiff fabric as tight as a corset, nipping her waist and drawing the eye upward to her breasts.

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