Page 37 of The Groupie

Rylee

“I’ll meet you there,” Suzie says as she leaves for dance practice. She’s smiling, but there’s a crease of worry on her forehead.

We’re meeting at the doctor’s office near Mass General. Mamma Cass frowns at me.

“You sure this is necessary? So what if I cough?”

I shake my head. There’s no sense in answering her because she already knows and doesn’t want to acknowledge there’s a problem. I kind of get it. After all, I haven’t bothered to get the MRI for my ankle yet, have I? No news is good news. Ignorance is bliss.

Fuck. I know better. All the ignorance in the world won’t change the reality when the hammer comes down on your head, will it?

“Let’s get you dressed and ready to go,” I cajole.

“I can dress myself fine.”

“Then do it. I’m ready now.” I’m wearing clothes I left behind from when I was in high school, but jeans never go out of style. Even if they are tighter than they should be for my circulation. The sweater fits well. It’s red-white-and-blue. Very patriotic. I should take it back to Utah to the Olympic training camp when I go.

* * *

I’m pacing around the waiting room while Mamma sits watching me when Suzie finally shows up.

“What took you—” I stop talking because she’s not alone.

Nowicki follows her in, which is unexpected but not outrageous. But the last person I expected to see following him into the waiting room was Zak. My normal cool rattles, and I feel the cracks in my resolve to remain detached before I stiffen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m not usually an ungracious bitch, but doubling down on my defenses calls for drastic measures.

His smirky half-grin falters, but only for a millisecond. Long enough to turn my gut inside out and make me feel like a fucking miserable queen bitch, the kind of person I least want to be even in my wariest people-avoiding state. Mamma always said you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Right now, I taste pure revolting vinegar in my mouth as it rises from my churning gut.

“Don’t mind her,” Suzie says, stepping between me and the two men and greeting them each with a hug as if they’re family members and belong here. Shit.

Mamma stands and joins Suzie, not bothering to give me the glare of disapproval she usually does if I’m rude. That hasn’t happened since my hormone-ridden adolescence, the time in life when every newly minted teenager is at their confused angry-at-the-world peak. My only excuse now is stress and confusion.

I wish I could say that the stress over Mamma’s health and my Olympic-threatening injury were the biggest part of my problem. But no. I’m staring right at the fucking motherlode of the biggest problem threatening my well-being right now.

Unfortunately, he looks so good that my traitorous body melts down, making it tougher to be tough, to resist the pull of him beyond the scope of fling status. Shit.

He hugs Mamma, telling her he’s glad to meet her and has heard wonderful things about her, all of which sound more sincere than most people when they utter the same trite words. I watch and feel like I’m being torn into two pieces, fear forcing resistance, and at the same time, need pulling me into his orbit.

But what kind of need is this? I’m not a boy-crazy needy woman. And I’ve never depended solely on men for sexual satisfaction either, thank you very much to my trusty vibrator.

When Zak turns to me with a confident, warm smile firmly in place, my heart leaps to my throat, but I immediately calm myself as if I’m at the top of a halfpipe and ready to jump in, about to attempt risky, injury-defying tricks where I need a cool head detached from emotional turmoil like fear or hope, allowing only the thrill of the moment to register with my icy cold concentration.

“I thought I’d come by in case you wanted company,” he says.

I sweep a pointed glance in the direction of my sister. “You didn’t need to bother. I hope you didn’t have anything else—”

“Nothing that couldn’t wait.” He steps closer as the others take seats on the other side of the room. He lowers his voice. “I know this is important and stressful for you and thought you could use moral support.”

I snort. “Since when does being my sex toy qualify you to provide moral support?” I mean the words to cut him, so I’m taken aback by his response.

“Sex toy, eh?” His mouth twitches at the corners, and his eyes go dark with that heavy-lidded sexy look that undoes me—or would undo me if we were in a bedroom or any other place besides a fucking doctor’s office.

I’m about to issue a scathing retort about the sorry filthy state of the male brain—never mind that I was the one who called him my sex toy in the first place—when a nurse comes in and calls my mother’s name.

“Cassandra Mooney, please come this way with me.”

Suzie helps Mamma to a stand because she’s visibly shaken, and all my focus shifts to her. Zak Tomas could be a stick of furniture right now for all the attention I pay to him. Every nerve I have is on alert with fear, determination, and goddamn useless hope that these doctors can help Mamma.