Wicked Release by Katana Collins

partner? Wouldn’t you wait until I didn’t . . . I dunno, accidentally pair port with salmon?”
    His chuckle was an erotic rumble, deep and throaty. “Very well. My place, tomorrow night. I’ll send a car for you at seven sharp.”

13
    T he next day passed slower than molasses through a straw. Sam’s eyes were getting heavy as he pulled his car into the hospital employee parking lot. Normally six p.m. wasn’t the sort of time that he would be getting drowsy, but he’d had a long day . . . a long week since his injury, and it was only Wednesday. The pain meds weren’t helping with his alertness, either.
    He moved quickly up the stairs to the neuro unit on the fourth floor and slid easily down the hall. He knew exactly where he was going. He also knew what Dr. Adams’s schedule was that day thanks to a quick peek he had taken at the calendar on his office wall before leaving yesterday. And right about now, Dr. Adams would be finishing his last appointment of the day with just enough time to squeeze Sam in.
    He got to the doctor’s office and poked his head in. “Hey there, Doc. Got a minute?”
    The older man had graying hair that was verging on becoming entirely white. He was startled, dropping some folders of paperwork onto his desk. “Detective, of course. Come on in. How are you feeling?”
    â€œSo much better,” Sam lied, ignoring that throbbing ache at the base of his neck.
    â€œReally? No headaches?” Dr. Adams grabbed his flashlight, holding it up to Sam’s eyes. “Follow the light,” he said.
    â€œNope. Weird, right?”
    Dr. Adams said nothing, tucking the light back into his pocket and moving his hands to the base of Sam’s neck. Sam caught his breath, praying that the doctor hadn’t seen him wince.
    â€œVery strange,” Dr. Adams murmured.
    Above his desk there was a framed family picture of Dr. Adams with a woman in her fifties and a large group of what Sam suspected were his kids and grandkids. Sam scanned the image. One of the younger women . . . he knew her. And beside her was Dr. Moore. They all sat on an old train like the one down near the water at the train museum. “Your family?” Sam asked, gesturing to the image.
    Dr. Adams smiled, nodding as he turned to look at the picture. “Sure is. Most of my kids live down in Vermont or Portsmouth now. All except my daughter and her husband.”
    â€œDr. Moore’s your son-in-law?”
    The doctor turned back to Sam, beaming. “He is. You know Marc?”
    Sam shook his head. “Not well. We’ve crossed paths a few times.”
    Dr. Adams pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Well . . . you can probably imagine that I’m more than a little surprised to learn you’re having no pain. You’re still taking the Percocets?”
    â€œI am,” Sam said, not wanting to lie about drugs currently in his system. “But less than I should. Since I haven’t needed them, I didn’t want to overmedicate.”
    â€œHm.” The doctor eyed Sam in a way that suggested he was onto his lies. Or maybe Sam’s own paranoia was surfacing. “And why’d you feel the need to come tell me this?”
    â€œI thought that since I’m feeling better, maybe I could go back to work?”
    â€œI can’t let you do that yet. Not without another CAT scan to make sure the swelling in your brain has gone down. And even then, I would suggest inactive duty for a week and a slow progression back into your field work.”
    â€œWhat about studying crime scenes and desk work?” Sam flashed the doctor a grin. Damn, that smile would go a lot farther if his doctor was a woman. He had a feeling his hundred-watt grin would have zero effect on Dr. Adams. “No chases or hunting down criminals. Just initial crime scene investigation and paper pushing.”
    Dr. Adams rubbed a hand along his wrinkled brow.