“Oh god, Mason. You’re going to make me come.”
“That’s the idea. Come for me, baby.”
I pump my hips up into her harder, aware that something feels off, though I can’t pinpoint what. The sensations are dulled, like I’m wearing a condom even though we never bothered with the things. Still, the mere sight of her coming apart at the seams, her hands at her breasts and her head flying back, is enough to send me over when she hits her peak.
Her muscles continue milking me for several seconds, and I keep lightly stroking her clit until she twitches and sighs, grabbing my hand and twining her fingers through mine. She slides off me, and my flaccid cock smacks against my pelvis, spent, though every cell in my body feels alive with the desire to make love to her again. To never stop.
But when she curls up at my side with her cheek pressed to one pec, I decide I want nothing more than to hold her like this because the hours we have together are numbered now.
I move to curl around her, but my body protests, so I sigh and just tighten my hold on her while remaining flat on my back. Having her arm and leg draped over me is heaven in itself, and I drift off in contentment with her nestled against me.
32 Callie
I’m not sure if it’s a dream I’m having, or some external stimuli that first triggers my sense that something isn’t right. In my years as a resident, I’ve developed a pretty keen sense of impending crisis, and my gut has never steered me wrong. So when Mason’s voice reaches past the layers of delta waves, I’m awake and sitting up in what feels like an instant.
“What’s wrong?” I’m already turning on the light as I ask, and when I turn back to him, his face is ghostly pale and his eyes wide and terrified.
“Callie . . .” his voice cracks and he grips the blanket in one fist, yanking it off his body and staring down. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Instinct and years of training kick in as I run down the list of questions. Is he in pain? Did he have any other symptoms? Any warning signs? He got into two altercations yesterday, but I only witnessed one. Was that tussle with Barnaby enough to damage his spine?
I can’t draw a concrete conclusion without seeing an MRI, but knowing his history, it isn’t a stretch to assume his old injury is the culprit.
The last thing I do after my litany of questions is lean over him and cup him by the jaw with both hands, looking into his eyes. “Everything will be okay, I promise. Look at it this way: at least you didn’t wet the bed.”
He barks a laugh, but otherwise doesn’t look all that amused. His eyes follow me as pick up my phone and dial 911 before swiftly getting dressed. Deep inside is a tiny little ball of panic telling me I should have known something was wrong hours ago. But he’s safe and comfortable right where he is, in no pain, and rushing things isn’t likely to help matters. The best thing I can do for him is keep him calm, which means putting on a solid front of calm myself.
While we wait for the paramedics to arrive, I take time to give him a brief sponge bath so he’s not coated in the remnants of our lovemaking when they get here. He emits a pitiful groan as he watches me wipe down his groin, and I glance up at him.
“Any sensation at all?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“What the fuck am I going to do if this is permanent?”
I set my jaw and look him straight in the eyes. “You keep going. You have family who love you, who need you, no matter what state your body is in. And between my mother and me, we’ll figure out a way to get your daughter home. But don’t jump to any conclusions yet, okay? You have an old injury. This could be nothing.”
“Do you think that’s all it is?” he asks.
“You said you felt a few twinges, that your legs felt unusually fatigued. Your sensory reactions are diminished from the nipples down. It’s consistent with the prior damage. We’ll do some tests to be sure. I know this is no help, but try not to worry.”
We arrive at St. Joseph’s less than fifteen minutes later, and their neuro attending is there to meet us. He listens intently as I give him the rundown of Mason’s symptoms and his history, all the while keeping my hand solidly twined with my patient. The surgeon sees this and frowns, then looks at me again.
“You know the case well. Can you request his records from the original case? Any imaging reports will be helpful.”
I start to nod when I remember those old records were incomplete. They say Mason died. Instead I just say, “I can try. If nothing else, I can reach out to the original surgeon.” If Dr. Yao is really as good as I’ve always believed, he has those old records, even if they never made it into the chart of J.J. Santos.
It’s the middle of the night, but I dial my attending anyway, feeling more than justified in waking him up.
“Nicolo?” he answers in a groggy voice. “Aren’t you on vacation?”
“J.J. Santos didn’t die,” I blurt. “And I hope to fuck you kept records of his recovery, because I need them. Tonight.”
Silence stretches on the other end of the call, lasting so long I have to pause and look at my screen to make sure I’m still connected. Finally he says, “I think I might need you to elaborate just a little. Where are you, and why do you believe this is the case?”
“I know about Flores,” I say, then sigh. “Listen, there isn’t really time. Mason Black is the patient’s name.
