Page 70 of Sexting the Cowboy

I blink yes. “Church bell. Bucket.”

“Cute,” she says with a ghost of a smile. “Neck pain?”

I shake my head, and the bell complains, so I stop. “No.”

“Headache?”

“Yeah.”

“Dizzy?”

“Some.”

“Any double vision?”

“Just one of you. Damn shame.” I can’t help it. It’s physically impossible not to flirt with the person trying to keep your skull together, and this one is particularly delightful.

Her mouth curves and then flattens back into work. “Let’s keep him down for ten and repeat. I want him still. Brick, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” I say, which is a lie. It’s not clear. It’s loud. But Annie cuts through like a lighthouse. The rest is fog.

She’s the only thing that rings true.

“What hurts?” she asks.

“My pride.”

“Anything else?” she deadpans.

“Ribs,” I admit. “Left side. Shoulder. Not like break-bad. Like I lost an argument with a door.”

She palpates with hands that know the map and don’t get lost in their own opinions. It makes me grunt, but nothing more. “Tender. No crepitus.” She taps, feels, listens. “Breathe in.”

I do. It’s a symphony of complaint, not a scream. “Not likely broken. Bruised, most likely. Bruised and pissed off and loud about it,” she says, hearing something I can’t. “Lungs sound good. Abdomen soft.”

“There ain’t a part of me that’s soft, and I think you know that.”

She ignores my comment, then checks my skull, fingers careful. “No step-offs. No lacerations. You’re going to have a headache that will make you beg me to remove your head. Otherwise, you’re okay.”

I close my eyes for a second and let the wordokayfill places I don’t admit are empty. I’d rather she filled them.

“Don’t sleep yet,” she says, testing my pupils again, light and dark, left and right. “I want you awake until I’m bored of your face.”

“Best line I’ve heard all week,” I mumble.

“Don’t get cute.” She looks at Jaden. “Get Ford.”

Jaden slips out. The tent breathes. Annie’s hands keep doing their work—glove squeak, soft rip of tape, the shake of a thermometer she doesn’t need because my skin tells her thestory already. My ears keep ringing, but it’s lower now, a reminder instead of a siren.

“Doc,” I say, because I’m bad with silence when it sits on my chest like a heavy cat.

“Don’t you dare try to sit up and make this worse,” she says without looking up. “You are not impressing me by hurting yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I just want you to know that what you just said about strapping me down was the nicest thing anyone’s threatened me with in years.”

Her eyes flick to mine. They’re both worried and laughing. “You’re concussed. You don’t get to be charming.”

“It’s a chronic condition.”