“What are you going to do about it?” She purposely drops a bottle of body wash. “Oh no. I dropped the soap. I should bend over and pick it up.”
“You know what dropping the soap implies, right?”
“I do. And I’ll totally be your prison butt-bitch.”
Laughing, I take Quinn by the waist and turn her around. She locks her arms around my neck. I kiss her, and the need to be inside her takes over. I push her against the shower wall, being careful not to slip. Quinn puts one foot on the edge of the tub, aligning her pussy with my cock.
And then someone knocks on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Weston calls from behind the door, “but I need the kid soap.”
Quinn and I untangle. “Right now?” Quinn asks.
“Yeah. Jackson threw up all over himself and he has a thing about getting shampoo in his eyes.”
Quinn picks up the bottle, shakes off as much water as she can and tosses it by the door. “You can grab it,” she calls. The bathroom is a jack-and-jill style, with doors going to both Quinn’s old room and the one Jackson stays in. Wes opens the door just a crack and grabs the soap for Jackson.
Something isn’t right. The kid inhaled water. Now he’s throwing up.
“What’s wrong, Arch?” Quinn asks, picking up her own shampoo. I make a face, not wanting to worry her just yet.
“Probably nothing.”
“But it could be something?”
“Yeah, it could be.” I take the shampoo from her and quickly wash my hair. We finish the shower in record speed, and I throw on boxers, athletic pants, and a white t-shirt. Quinn is still getting dressed and is brushing out her hair when I leave the room, hoping Weston hasn’t left yet. They’re about to, and Jackson looks a bit out of it.
“How’s he doing?” I ask, eyeing the kid.
“He’s worn out.”
“Is he normally this tired at nine-thirty?”
Weston shakes his head. “He’s usually a night owl,” he says and then his eyes cloud with worry. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Sit down. I’ll be right back,” I tell Weston and rush out to my Jeep to grab the stethoscope I keep hanging from my rearview mirror. Both Mr. and Mrs. Dawson are standing in the kitchen with them, sharing the same look of worry. Quinn comes down right as I’m listening to Jackson’s lungs. And I hear what I was hoping not to hear.
I let Jackson take my stethoscope, using it as a distraction. I deliver bad news more often than I’d like. There’s never a good way to say it, and sugarcoating it does no good in the end.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” I say. “He has water in his lungs.”
“What’s taking so long?” Quinn asks, looking at the time on her phone. We’re in the ER waiting room, and time is crawling. “Can you go back there and speed things up?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have privileges at this hospital. It’s not like it is on TV. You can’t just say you’re a doctor and start giving orders.”
“I guess that’s a good thing.”
I take her hand, wishing I could ease her anxiety. Another few minutes tick by, and Logan and Owen hurry in. Quinn fills them in on what’s going on, and we wait together. Fifteen minutes later, I’m feeling anxious too. Finally, Quinn gets a text from her mother, who’s in the exam room with Wes and Jackson.
“Mom said the nurse didn’t seem too concerned and said that lots of kids are sick right now with a virus. They still haven’t seen the doctor.”
Only two people were allowed to go back with Jackson. Wes was obviously one of them, and the other was Mrs. Dawson.
“Ask your mom if I can switch her out,” I tell Quinn. I don’t have any authority here, but I’m sure I can get things moving along faster. Quinn fires off a text and a minute later, Mrs. Dawson comes into the waiting room.
I go back, finding Jackson curled up in Weston’s lap. He looks peacefully sound asleep, which is what makes this so dangerous.
“How’s he doing?” I ask, coming into the room.
“He’s really agitated,” Wes tells me.
“It’s because he’s not getting enough oxygen.” I look around for the nurse. “Did they take his vitals?”
“He threw a fit when they tried.”
“So they didn’t?”
“The nurse is coming back.”
I grit my teeth and sit on the bed next to Wes, taking Jackson’s arm in my hand. He groans and tries to pull his arm away.
“Hey, buddy,” I say gently. “It’s Archer. I have to check for something, okay?”
Jackson struggles a bit more but finally stops, slitting his eyes open just enough to see me. I check his pulse; his heart is racing. Someone knocks on the doorframe while I’m checking Jackson’s fingers for signs of cyanosis.
“You’re new,” the nurse says, rolling in the little machine that takes vitals.
“He needs his O2 checked, and probably have some administered,” I tell her, unable to help but go into doctor mode.
“I’m getting to it.” The nurse is middle-aged and smells strongly like cigarette smoke that she’s trying to cover up with perfume. I would not allow that if she worked on my team.
“He’s been here for half an hour and his oxygen hasn’t been checked yet.”
“We needed to give him time to calm down.”
“He’s agitated because he’s not getting enough oxygen.”
The nurse plops a folder on the desk and turns to me, hand on her hip. “Look, sir, I appreciate your concern for your son, but please leave it to the medical professionals to take care of him.”
My son? I turn my head to Wes and—ohhhh. She thinks we’re a couple. I don’t even care to correct her. It doesn’t matter.
“He needs a chest X-ray, an IV, and oxygen.” I look at Jackson, not wanting to freak him out. “And I am a doctor. I’m a surgeon at Indianapolis General and I’m here visiting family.”
The nurse purses her lips and nods, muttering something and going out of the room. Right away, the ER doctor comes in, and after talking with him for a minute, we get Jackson taken care of. I text Quinn, telling her Jackson is going to have a chest X-ray and then be admitted overnight for observation.
Half an hour later, Jackson is settled in his room. The whole Dawson crew is here now, and they all crowd in to see him. He’s tired and still has a risk of developing pneumonia, but he’ll be monitored closely for the next twenty-four hours. I step out of the packed room, and Dean comes into the hall with me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Wes said if you hadn’t caught the early symptoms there’s a good chance Jackson could
have died in his sleep.”
“Dry drowning has that risk. It makes kids tired and you think they’re just sleeping like normal.”
Dean looks down at the floor, probably overwhelmed by how close they could have come to losing Jackson.
“I’m sorry I’ve been an ass,” he finally says.
“I’m sorry too.”
Dean takes in a slow breath. “It’s still weird as fuck, but my sister seems really happy.”
“I’m really happy too.” I lean against the wall. “This wasn’t just some hookup that turned into a mistake. I’ve liked Quinn for a while.”
Dean flicks his eyes to mine “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I knew you’d act like a fucking twat about it.”
Dean gives me a half smile. “You weren’t wrong.” He leans against the wall opposite me. “How long’s a while?”
“Years.” Twelve years to be exact. I wanted Quinn the first time I laid eyes on her back when I was eighteen and she was fourteen. Sharing that tidbit of info can come later. Way later. If I ever share it at all.
“I didn’t know.”
“I made sure you didn’t.”
“Look,” I start. “I get that it’s weird. But we’re together now. We’re having a baby. Quinn puts on a tough face, but I know it upsets her that you aren’t supportive.”
“I do support her. And you. You…I support you both.”
“Then tell her.”
Dean nods. “But being due two days before my wedding?”
“Like we planned that. We didn’t even plan to get pregnant.” If I wanted to be petty, I’d point out Quinn’s due date was determined weeks before they picked a wedding date anyway.
“Want to get coffee?” Dean asks, pushing off the wall.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
We start down the hall, not sure where we’re going. Dean’s not really going to get coffee this late at night but is using it as an excuse to talk. Which is fine with me.
“So, are you two going to get married or at least move in together?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Quinn wants to take things slow. Obviously we hadn’t been together long before we found out she was pregnant.” We weren’t really together at all. She got pregnant the first or second time we ever had sex.