More Than Meets The Eye

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, I was brought out of a deep sleep by an annoying tapping on my arm. When I finally raised a lid, the first thing I saw was Cam, dressed in a suit with every hair in place.

He was standing back and frowning while prodding me with something.

“I’m not dead,” I growled.

His frown deepened, but the poking stopped. “I’m well aware of that. As a physician, I think I’d know if someone had died in my bed.”

“Then why are you poking me with a stick?”

“You’re a very sound sleeper. When people are awakened from a deep sleep, they can sometimes behave unpredictably. I once had a patient wake up and punch me in the face, purely as a reflex.”

I sat up and muttered, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why he punched you -- reflex. Not because you were bugging the living hell out of him.” Then I asked, “Were you using a fireplace poker on me?”

“Well, yes. But just the handle end.” He held it up to show me he was grasping the sharp, sooty end, which he’d wrapped in a washcloth. He changed the subject with, “I have to go to work, so you need to leave.”

Just as I’d predicted, he was fully back to being Doctor Cameron Albrecht, which meant there was absolutely no sign of the sweet, vulnerable guy from the night before. It was like going to bed with Doctor Jekyll and waking up with Mr. Hyde.

I climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. “No worries, Doc. I’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”

When I returned to the bedroom, I was fully dressed with my backpack over my shoulder. I held up my phone to show him the numbers on the screen and grumbled, “It’s not even six-thirty!”

“I know. I want to get to work early,” he muttered. He didn’t look at me. I suspected what he actually wanted was to get me out of his house, but fine. Whatever.

We went downstairs, and when we reached the foyer I asked, “Can I get a ride home? It’s on your way to the hospital.”

Given how close my house was, a ride was hardly necessary, but he didn’t know that. After a moment, he muttered, “Alright,” and I followed him through a connecting door to his garage.

His car was interesting. It was a bronze-colored, four-door sedan with curved lines and a long front end, and it probably dated from the 1960s or 70s, judging by the style. It was also immaculately clean and well-cared for. Of course it was. He took it to work and out in public, so it was part of his façade.

Once we were both seated and waiting for his garage door to rattle open, I said, “This is nice. What is it?”

“A 1973 Citroen DS23.”

“Is it English?”

“French.”

“Ah.”

I knew fuck all about French cars, so that conversation instantly hit a dead end. He started the engine and pulled into the street, and as the garage door closed behind us, he asked, “Where am I going?”

I pointed and said, “Go that way, past the park. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

He followed my instructions wordlessly. I didn’t have much time, so I turned to look at his profile and asked, “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine.”

“No hangover?”

“No.”

Wow, he was really determined to give me the bare minimum. “Do you remember what we said last night?”