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Grace felt ill. She didn’t know Sophia had even considered having a plastic surgeon implant anything in her naturally perfect figure.
“He can tell if a girl’s had implants during sex. He’s so impressed that I haven’t had any work done yet.”
Grace wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and say not listening, just as she had when they were children and Sophia had explained the birds and bees to her. “I don’t want to hear about his sexual turn-ons.”
“Then stop being obsessed with my phone calls. Get your own sex life. When’s the last time you got any?” She shoved Grace’s tote bag with the toe of her spike-heeled sandal. “Back when people still used the term booty call, I guess.”
Grace had to look away. Her sister, of all people, ought to know that she had no social life. Managing all the little daily details for Sophia was a never-ending job. Sophia’s career dictated where they lived, who they saw, what they did—even what Grace wore. Her wardrobe consisted of dozens of outfits like the gray sweater and slacks she wore now. Years ago, she and her sister had figured out that wearing all black made Grace appear like a noticeable blot of darkness when she was caught in the background of a candid photo of Sophia, so Grace wore earth tones with a bit of heather, or sometimes gray with specks of beige and black. That was the best way to disappear into the background.
Not that Grace was complaining. She loved her sister. She only wished her sister would go back to being her normal self. When they were a sisterly duo, she hadn’t minded living Sophia’s life. This new phase was making her question everything.
She pretended the view outside the van was interesting, but the restored health clinic was only a normal-sized building in a normal suburb of a normal city. The ribbon-cutting ceremony was about to begin, so the men and women of Texas Rescue were taking their places.
She’d bet those people were married and had children and rewarding jobs. Grace and Sophia had once had that kind of normalcy, back when their parents were still alive. How could Sophia go from seeing their parents’ loving marriage to jumping at the beck and call of a no-talent egomaniac like Deezee?
Of the two of them, Sophia had always been the bigger sucker for true love and weddings and happily-ever-after. She’d put all that on hold for her acting career, until this winter with Deezee. Maybe this phase meant Sophia was lonely. Maybe Grace could help her find a better man. A normal man.
Grace gestured out the window. “Check out these Texas Rescue guys. This looks like a casting call for an action movie—but they’re real. I bet not one of those guys has chin implants or hair extensions. Real firemen and real doctors and paramedics and, um, police-looking guys. Rangers? What do you think that uniform is?”
“Like I care.” Sophia sat up straighter, ready to talk business. “Listen, Deezee is opening a new club tonight. He needs me there to help him get more press.”
Grace looked away from the handsome men of the real world. If Sophia wanted to talk business, they’d talk business. “Deezee could have his people contact me with a little more notice next time, and maybe we’ll be able to schedule an appearance, if his career needs help.”
Sophia’s expressive blue eyes narrowed angrily, but a fresh round of her club cough kept her from saying whatever retort she’d been about to deliver.
Poor Sophia really did look tired. It was up to her personal assistant to help her look good for this photo op, so Grace dug in her tote bag and came up with her sister’s very expensive, very red lipstick, the one Grace ordered for her and always kept on hand. “Here. And spit out your gum. It looks tacky when you speak.”
Sophia’s cough subsided. “Being with Deezee can do more for my career than this charity gig. Everyone will be in LA at the new club. No one is here. If you want me to stay visible in the industry, I need to be where everyone is. Duh.” Sophia plucked the lipstick out of Grace’s fingers.
Grace dropped her hand to her lap. Couldn’t Sophia see that Deezee’s club would attract the celebrities who were famous only for their ability to shock the public? Actresses would get out of their limos in a way that let the paparazzi document whether or not they wore underwear. Stars who were claiming sobriety would arrive drunk.
A man in a shirt and tie opened the door to the van. “Miss Jackson? Are you ready for your tour?”
Sophia ignored him as she gave Grace orders. “Book me a flight. Get me back to LA now. I’m going to cut this crap short.”
Grace closed her eyes, but it didn’t matter. She heard the man at the door suck in his breath.
Surprise. She’s a little more crude in real life than she was in her award acceptance speech, isn’t she?
Grace opened her eyes and looked at the man’s face. Yep. They’d just alienated another fan.
For the past two years, Sophia had been so gracious in her interviews, so fun on her television appearances. She’d set a goal to be as well thought of as Audrey Hepburn someday, and she’d pursued her dream with unwavering perseverance until now. Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t have told a Texas Rescue volunteer that she wanted to cut this crap short.
DJ Deezee Kalm would have, except he wouldn’t have used the word crap.
Sophia replaced the cap on her lipstick and tossed it so that it landed on the bench seat next to Grace.
“Your gum,” Grace reminded her gently, under her breath.
“Get me a limo to the airport. This van blows.” Sophia tilted her head back, pursed her lips, and with a poof of air, spit her gum to land on the seat, as well.
She got out of the van. Grace watched out the window as Sophia shook back her hair in the Texas sunlight, looking like a million dollars in a classic coat dress that cost eight thousand. Grace had secured it at no cost. The publicity Sophia could bring a designer was worth more than the price of the dress. For now.
The adults applauded, the teenaged girls who crowded against the plastic barricades screamed and cheered, but Sophia didn’t walk over to her waiting fans. Grace wished she hadn’t suggested it. Maybe her sister would have done the obviously right thing if she hadn’t felt like Grace was ordering her to do it.
Grace picked up the lipstick and returned it to the tote, then dug out a tissue and cleaned up the gum. What’s a personal assistant for, right?
Not this. She’d been her sister’s support, not her sister’s servant. But her sister was no longer acting like her sister. Sophia was turning herself into something she was not, all in an attempt to make a man love her.
Deezee didn’t love her—but Grace did. She’d dragged her from LA to Texas for her own good. Surely Sophia would come to her senses. Grace just had to find a way to keep her in Texas a little longer.
She sighed and looked out the window again, at the group of handsome men who were all shaking her sister’s hand. What if, instead of a Hollywood bad boy, Sophia fell for one of these men? Maybe one of the doctors, someone who was caring by nature, someone whose profession meant he was successful and respected, independent of her sister’s success. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Sophia fell in love with a guy like that? It would cure all their ills.
A handsome man from Texas Rescue could be just what the doctor ordered.
* * *
“Hi, I’m Dr. Gregory.”
Alex Gregory, MD, held his hand out to shake with the young boy who’d come to his emergency room with a sports injury.
The child’s father grabbed Alex’s hand instead and squeezed. Hard. “What took you so long, Doc?”
“I’m sorry for your wait. Things are unpredictable around here.” Alex extricated his hand from the bone-crushing grip. To restore some circulation, he made a fist and used one knuckle to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. Then he spread his fingers out wide, and made a second attempt to engage his young patient.
“So, I’m Dr. Gregory, you’re Justin, and I hear that you came in because you got hurt. Can you tell me where?”
“It’s his leg, Doc. He’s got a big game tomorrow. We need you to patch him up to get him through. Maybe a cortisone shot and a knee brace.”
Alex kept his expression neutral for the sake of the little boy on the gurney. According to the chart, the child was eight years old. This parent was acting like his kid was an NFL superstar. “Justin, can you tell me where it hurts?”
The child looked up at him silently and pointed at his left leg.
“Okay, I’ll check out your leg. Anywhere else I should look?”
“My chin hurts, too. I hit it right here, and—”
“Just tell him the important stuff, son. Shake off the little things, like a man.”
Take it down a notch, Bubba. That was what Alex wanted to say. As Dr. Gregory, of course, he didn’t. Part of every accident evaluation included screening for head trauma, particularly since this child had just reported that he’d sustained a hit to the chin. The screening could be as simple as listening to the child relate his injuries logically and with clear speech.
In other words, the father needed to shut up.
Alex crossed to the sink and washed his hands in preparation for an exam. His little patient was so miserable and tense, manipulating that injured leg was going to be an ordeal, unless he could get the child to relax at least a little bit. Confronting his father would only make the child more tense.
Alex began drying his hands on rough brown paper towels. “So, Justin, how’d you hurt your leg?”
“S-s-soccer.”
“He was playing an aggressive forward position and he—”
Enough. Alex turned abruptly to face the father. In silence, he held the man’s gaze. It helped that Alex was as tall as the father. He certainly lacked the beer belly, but he looked ol’ Bubba in the eye. With his back to the boy, Alex let his expression show his disapproval as he dried his hands.
“—and he cut the ball back to this rookie, who...ah...” The father’s monologue came to a confused halt under Alex’s glare.
Alex crushed the paper towels into a ball and pitched them into the trash can. Deliberately, taking his time, Alex pointed at the chair in the corner. The father sank slowly into the empty chair.
Alex turned back to Justin. He started with the child’s arm, knowing it was uninjured and wouldn’t cause him any pain while he lifted it and bent the elbow, testing the range of motion, a way to let the child get familiar with the exam. “Do you play any other sports?”
The child darted a fearful glance at his father, making sure it was okay to talk. “Dad coaches me in basketball, too. Right, Dad?”
Dad hesitated and glanced at Alex before answering. “And baseball. We’re doing baseball this year.”
Justin looked from his father back to Alex. “And b-baseball.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of sports.” Alex hadn’t missed the child’s fearful glance. He took his stethoscope off his neck. It gave him the perfect excuse to lift the boy’s shirt to listen to his heart. He’d be looking for bruises, too. Usually, an overbearing soccer dad was just that, but sometimes that overbearing personality became violent, and children could be the victims.
“What sports do you do?” the boy asked.
Alex smiled a bit. Kids only knew their own worlds. If their world was an endless cycle of practices and games, they assumed everyone was involved in sports. Thankfully, little Justin had no bruises. His life with his dad centered on sports whether he liked it or not, but it appeared his life was free of physical violence. Not like Alex’s had once been.
“I’m not on any teams like you are. I ride my bike a lot, though.”
He could’ve felt the father’s derision even if he hadn’t heard the snort of disgust. Alex was used to it from a certain type of man. Alex had been raised in Europe, in the dangerous, crumbling Soviet Bloc. The best moments of his grim childhood had been seeing the professional cyclists in their brightly colored kits go whizzing through his town, training for the Tour de France. When Alex had escaped to America as a teen, he’d been shocked that his new schoolmates didn’t know any pro cyclists by name.
“I can ride a two-wheeler,” Justin said.
“Yeah? That’s great.” Alex started palpating the child’s good leg, picking up the diminutive foot in his hand and rotating it to test the ankle. “Do you have a favorite movie?”
The kid lit up like a lightbulb. “I like Star Wars. Do you know that one? And I like Guardians of the Galaxy. And I like Space Maze.”
“I’m going to bend your knee now.” Alex wanted to keep Justin focused on something else. “Who’s your favorite character out of the whole Maze world?”
“I like Eva. You know, Princess Picasso.”
Dad snorted again. “A princess? Goya the Destroya, that was the best guy in the movie.”
“But Dad, Goya was a bad guy. Eva was the good guy.” Justin looked ready to cry, and Alex didn’t think it was because his leg hurt him.
“So what? Goya kicked azzz...uh, butt.”
Justin showed a little spark of defiance. “Eva had a cool laser gun. She kept it hidden in her boot.”
Good for you, kid. You’re going to need that stubbornness with a father like yours.
Alex had liked the Eva Picasso character, too. “She was really brave. She saved her people from the maze. I’m going to need you to be really brave for a minute. I’m going to move your knee as far as it will go.” It was a matter of millimeters before Justin responded in pain and Alex stopped. He patted the kid on his good leg. “Do you remember what the princess kept in her other boot?”
Justin’s grimace relaxed a bit. “Yeah, that really cool knife that could cut right through anything. Even metal.”
“You’re talking ’bout the chick who wore the boots?” His father sat back, sounding relieved. “She was hot. Sophia Jackson, that’s the one. Okay, yeah, the boots chick was hot.”
“And brave,” Justin said.
“And brave,” Alex agreed as he stood up. “I don’t think the bone in your leg is broken, but I need to get an X-ray to be sure. It won’t hurt. An X-ray is a special kind of camera.”
“I know,” Justin said. “It can take a picture right through your clothes. Princess Picasso could get one with her boots on.”
Dear old Dad couldn’t help himself. “I bet the doc would love to get a picture of Sophia Jackson right through her clothes. Who wouldn’t? Am I right?”
Alex didn’t reply. What he’d like to see was Princess Picasso giving this Neanderthal one of her go-to-hell looks.
A brave princess in his ER?
That would make his day.
Chapter Two (#ulink_b213ee34-e902-5365-89d5-80194458fc05)
Grace was a coward. She darted a glance around the van, petrified of getting caught.
Don’t be such a scaredy-cat. All eyes are on Sophia, anyway.
Grace pulled her sister’s phone out of her bag. What she was about to do was for Sophia’s own good. When the lock screen lit up, she tapped in the four-digit access code.
It was rejected.
The code was supposed to be the year Grace had been born. Although it surprised the few people who learned of it, Grace was actually the baby sister, only twenty-five to Sophia’s twenty-nine. Her big sister loved her. Her big sister used baby Grace’s birth year as her code. Only it didn’t work now.
How old was Deezee? Grace typed in his birth year. It worked.
The stab to her heart was starting to feel too familiar. With jaw clenched, Grace began deleting photos, horrible shots of her sister’s bare breasts covered by Deezee’s hands, shots that would never, ever end up on Instagram, not when she could prevent it.
Delete, delete, delete.
The van doors opened with a sudden rush of air. Grace dropped her sister’s phone like a hot potato.
A woman about her own age poked her head in. “Hi. You’re with Sophia Jackson, right?”
“Yes.” She blinked in what she hoped was an innocent way.
“There’s been an accident.”
For one horrible moment, the world stopped.
An accident. Careers and reputations and idiot boyfriends evaporated before the image of a hurt Sophia.
“Oh, my God.” The words were a whisper, but inside her head she was screaming. My sister, my sister! Their parents had been killed in a car accident. A stranger, a woman like this one, had come just this kindly to tell them there had been an accident. Grace had been fifteen. Sophia had been nineteen.
“It’s nothing life threatening, I promise. We have so many Texas Rescue doctors and paramedics and firefighters here, she’s being well taken care of, but they do think she should go to the hospital to have things checked out.”
