Raging Pulse

By J.L. Schmidlin

During her recovery from a hit-and-run accident, Trisha Kourtz’s ill father informs her she has a brother. Believing she was an only child the past twenty-five years ― she’s shocked, in denial, and completely thrown off balance.  

When a handsome paramedic, who rescued her from the accident appears on her doorstep, her confusion transforms to lust.  However, when a dark figure lurks outside her windows at night, her life takes an unimaginable turn.

Blake Mitchell became irresistibly drawn to Trisha the moment he gazed into her intriguing teal eyes. Though he suspected the hit-and-run was more intentional than accidental, he never expected to get tangled in the sorrow and deceit plaguing her world.

A handsome paramedic, a terminally ill father, a newly discovered brother, and a stalker. How much can one woman bear?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Schmidlin
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386945673

Book preview

Chapter One

What’s the fascination with people in distress? Blake Mitchell shook his head regarding the crowd gathered in the yard near the female hit-and-run victim. Sure, curiosity was human nature, but they didn’t need to congest the scene.

He parked adjacent to the bank entrance and cut the emergency siren on his SUV. After grabbing the medical bag from the passenger’s seat, he climbed from the vehicle, noticing a canvas tennis shoe teetering on the curb near the front tire.

Back up, please, he ordered, breaking through the wall of people while hurrying to the injured female. Give the lady some space.

A woman in her mid twenties lay on her back beneath a maple tree, knees bent. Both feet were planted against the grass ― one barefoot, the other wearing a sneaker matching the one on the curb. She’d covered her face with both hands, either to block the sun trickling through the leaves, or to hide in embarrassment from the inquiring eyes. Long strands of ebony hair tapered across her shoulders into the lawn.

At his back, voices of the crowd grew louder, talking above each other, offering their opinions of what might have happened. It was a typical reaction, but the constant blather annoyed him; he couldn’t imagine how the victim felt. She was already vulnerable, scared, and distressed. For her well-being, it’d be best if everyone left the scene. Though asking them to depart was an impossible request to handle alone, he had to try. He glanced over his shoulder. Everyone, please clear the area to give her privacy. She doesn’t need an audience right now.

His words fell on deaf ears because not a single person left the vicinity. He could’ve thrown orders until he was blue in the face, but the woman’s condition was of upmost importance. The side of her navy-blue blouse was ripped and a chunk of fabric was torn from the hem. He squatted and performed a quick visual assessment of her exposed arms and legs. Despite scuffed knees and elbows, he didn’t see any serious abrasions, but like all hit-and-run victims, his main concern pertained to internal damage. Hello. I’m a paramedic here to help you. He popped open the black bag. Can you talk?

He heard a muffled, Yes.

Will you lower your hands so I can see you? It was impossible to check her coloring with her fingers in the way. It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.

She lowered her arms to her sides, revealing her face.

A beautiful face.

Capable of making a man forget his name.

Sweat beaded along her brows and upper lip. He attributed it to the smoldering Ohio heat, but her teeth chattered, causing deeper concern. What’s your name?

Tr...Trisha K...Kourtz.

To his relief, ambulance sirens blared in the distance. Being the first responder, his medical supplies consisted of basic equipment ― nothing sophisticated enough to handle major medical issues. Is it okay to call you Trish?

Yes. She squeezed her hands into white-knuckled fists and curled her bare toes in the grass.

Can you explain what happened?

I—

She took a hard hit, an elderly gentleman interrupted, stepping forward anxiously. I heard tires squeal from inside the bank. When I looked outside, she was airborne.

It didn’t hit me that hard.

I don’t see any severe injuries on your legs, but I’m going to examine them anyway, all right? Blake pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. The snap at his wrists caused her to jump.

It’s...it’s okay, she said softly.

He placed his hands on her ankles and inched his fingers gently upward along her calves. Does this hurt?

No.

She didn’t flinch nor utter a sound when he prodded the top of her thighs and examined her grass-stained knees. Here?

No pain.

He applied gentle pressure to her lower abdomen. What about here?

None

And here? he asked, creeping his fingers to her left side and upward to her ribs.

She squeaked. Her face paled.

I’m sorry, he said, watching her lips fold inward.

She exhaled a long breath. It’s all right.

Is this the area of impact?

Yes. She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The landing hurt worse though. Her attempt to laugh turned into a wince. May I ask your name?

Sorry. I usually introduce myself immediately. I’m Blake Mitchell. The squad sirens intensified. I’m going to check your blood pressure. The cuff is going to squeeze your arm, so it might be a little uncomfortable. He fastened it around her bicep, pumped the bulb, and watched the gauge. Did you hit your head?

Not that I remember.

Hopefully she hadn’t incurred head trauma which might have caused a lapse in her memory. What about your chest?

A gorgeous set of teal-colored eyes gazed back at him. He reached down and plucked a blade of grass from her bangs.

No. I got spun around and I landed on my, um...fanny.

Fanny? Blake grinned. Where does it hurt the worst?

My left side.

The sirens died. The crowd parted as the vehicle backed up close to the curb. Two police cruisers followed with their emergency lights flashing.

Mike Jacobs and Bob Stout, two EMT’s from his crew removed a gurney from the vehicle, jerked it over the curb, and pushed it across the yard to the victim. How’s she doing? Bob asked, squatting beside Blake and performing his own visual assessment.

BP is one-ten over seventy-four. I need supplies for IV administration. Blake removed the cuff from her arm. And please bring me her shoe. It’s on the curb.

Mike lifted a medical bag from the transport bed and nodded confirmation. I’m on it.

Blake rested a hand on Trish’s shoulder. I want you to look at me. He centered his index finger above the tip of her nose. Damn, the unique color of her eyes slammed his heart into his ribs. Follow my finger with your eyes. He shifted it to the right and then left, noting a normal response. Is it all right if I take a look at your stomach?

Yes.

He lifted her blouse high enough to see without exposing her bare abdomen to the crowd. A large, red discoloration had surfaced on her left side and deep bruising formed near the base of her ribcage.

He withdrew a stethoscope from the bag and warmed the diaphragm with his hands. It was a pointless gesture considering the outside temperature topped ninety degrees, but he took extra precautions to ensure her comfort. I’m going to listen to your abdomen. I’ll be gentle ― I promise. He placed the diaphragm below the bruised area but couldn’t hear above the noise of the overzealous crowd. Bob, get these people out of here, please. She’s been on display long enough.

Blake removed sweat from his temple with his shirtsleeve, and then listened closely to her intestines gurgle. Trish, is the pain sharp or dull? Is it constant? How would you rate it on a zero-to-ten scale?

Ten. It’s sharp. I feel like I’ve been stabbed.

Does your back or neck hurt?

No, she replied in a hushed voice, her crinkled brow indicating a high level of discomfort.

To avoid causing additional pain in the event he accidently brushed his knuckles across her tender belly, he lowered the blouse at her sides. I need to check your pulse, okay? He lifted her hand from the ground, cradling it against his palm.

Upon her nod of approval, he pressed his fingers to her wrist. The pulsations felt weak ticking against his fingertips, but he counted eighty-six beats per minute. Carefully, he replaced her hand on the ground and reassessed her features. The area around her lips faded to a chalky white, adding to his suspicions of internal damage.

She struggled to sit up. Am I normal?

Setting a hand under her head, another on her shoulder, he guided her back down. Yes, and I would prefer you stay that way, so how about you lie still?

I think I’d feel better if I sat up.

As good as that may sound, I think it will intensify your belly pain. Are you a miss or a missus? While waiting for an answer, he held his breath for some obscure reason.

A miss. Please help me up. I have to go home, she said, reaching for the hem of her skirt.

Before you go running off, I need to figure out what’s going on inside of you.

If you don’t help me up, you’ll see what’s going on inside of me. My modesty is currently overexposed.

His gaze wandered to her legs, or to be more exact, the white, lacy panties peeking beneath the bunched skirt at the top of her thighs. No wonder she wasn’t comfortable. I’m sorry. Normally, he didn’t overlook such detail, but he had started an immediate assessment due to possible internal injuries. Here, let me get that. He took the material from her hands and tugged the bottom of the skirt down as far as it would go. Hopefully, the crowd stood too far away to see her underwear. He glanced over his shoulder for assurance, noting the police cordoned off the area at least fifty feet away—enough distance to hinder the bystander’s views.

Mike, get me a blanket and a pillow, please.

After Mike retrieved the items from the ambulance, Blake unfolded the blanket and draped it over her waist and thighs. Is that better?

She sighed. Thank you.

He knelt at her feet and cupped her heels in his hands so he could lift them long enough for Mike to situate the pillow beneath her ankles. Blake took pride in diligence and professionalism when dealing with emergencies, so why the sudden impulse to caress her legs?

What he needed was a swift kick in the ass to set him back on track. He cursed himself to perdition for the inappropriate urges, focused on his duties, and propped her feet on the pillow. When evaluating her physical reaction to the movement, he noticed she’d forced a smile. A beautiful smile, accentuated by bright, intriguing, almond shaped eyes.

He returned to her side and knelt down. Are you doing okay, Trish?

She nodded at the same time she placed her hand on the center of his thigh. You have grass stains on your white pants now.

The innocent gesture slammed his heart into his ribs again. Heat from her touch surged to his groin. To experience that type of reaction on the job was totally out of character, but he couldn’t shake it.

He glanced at his knees and chuckled to at least avert some of the effect, but with her hand still resting on his leg, it was impossible. I sure do. The woman needed medical treatment—not a paramedic fighting a testosterone rush. If he had half a brain, he’d step aside and put Bob or Mike in charge, but when he gazed into her mesmerizing eyes, he knew that wasn’t happening. Are you left or right handed?

Right. She glanced upward at the branches in the overhead maple. Patches of sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves, fluttering across her face.

Have you ever had an IV before?

No.

She looked toward Mike and cringed when she spotted the needle.

Just relax. Still battling the lingering warmth of her touch, Blake gave her left forearm a gentle massage. Like that. After I fix you up, we’ll be leaving. Five minutes tops.

She didn’t appear any less frightened, but she nodded once before closing her eyes. I don’t like needles.

He grinned. Don’t worry, they say I’m good. I have that reputation to uphold. He wrapped the constricting band around her bicep. Can you make a fist for me? He watched her struggle to curl her fingers. Thata girl.

Between checking her pulse and administering the IV, her strength weakened. What made a tiny gal like you think you could stop that car with your body? he teased.

It wasn’t a car.

No? To prevent obstructing the use of her hand, he chose the outside of her left wrist for the IV placement. But I thought—

It was a black SUV.

He found a prominent vein, tore open an alcohol pad, and cleansed the site. Did you catch the plate number?

Uh-uh.

Try to remember as much as you can because the police will want to question you when you’re physically able. He patted the bulging vein, noting it didn’t shift. Ready? You’re going to feel a little prick.

A little prick, she mimicked.

Yep. He began inserting the needle. Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch when he’d punctured the skin, and instead, opened her eyes.

All done, Trish. I didn’t hurt you, did I?

Uh-uh. She stared warily at his face. Her eyes changed from striking clarity to a dull hue, and the chalky coloring around her mouth had spread to her orbital area. 

I’m going to recheck your pulse again. How do you feel?

I’m okay, but I really have to go.

We’re heading out in a couple minutes.

No, not with you. I have to—

You need medical treatment. He removed her hand from his leg and laid it in the grass. That’s the most important thing right now.

She clutched his forearm and squeezed her eyes shut. I’m starting to feel as if a semi ran me over.

Honey, I bet you do. Honey? Where in the hell did that come from?

Mike feigned a cough.

Blake glared at him, warning him to back-off the unintentional tongue-slip. Once Mike nodded and his gaze dropped to the medical bag, Blake glanced at Trish.

A tear slipped from beneath her lashes, slid along the outside of her cheek, and settled in her hair at the temple.

I have to go. She struggled to rise on her elbows but her arms collapsed.

Blake cupped the back of her head before it hit the ground. I wouldn’t try that again if I were you. He slid his hand from beneath her hair and the grass. We’ll get you out of here in a minute.

My... Her voice crackled. My dad needs me.

I’m sure he’ll understand if you’re a little late. Someone will call him from the hospital.

She shook her head against the lawn. No hospital.

Listen to me, Trish. If you’re bleeding internally, without proper medical treatment, you could die, he explained truthfully and as frankly as possible.

Her gaze bolted to his eyes. She stiffened and the remainder of her color drained.

Are you refusing transport?

No.

He didn’t think so after his prior comment, but he never prolonged conversations or sugar-coated a patient’s condition when facing life-threatening situations.

He slid a brace around her neck, fastened it, and re-pumped the blood pressure cuff. Ninety over sixty, he recited to Mike. It’s coming down. Let’s wrap this up.

What if he dies while I’m away? She gulped. I think I’m going to...pass out. She blinked and rubbed her eyes.

More blankets, he called over his shoulder. Trish, look at me. When she failed to comply, he clasped her wrist and counted beats. Mike, her pulse is rapid and thready. It’s time to fly.

Blake— She shivered. Her teeth chattered loudly. I’m...fr...fr...freezing.

Bob covered her with an additional blanket while Blake positioned himself at her head and Mike at her feet. As they lifted her slightly off the ground, Bob slid a backboard beneath her.

Okay, Trish, here we go, Blake said calmly.

They hefted her up onto the gurney and strapped her down. We’re going to give you some oxygen. While he steadied her head, comforting her by caressing her cheeks with his thumbs, Bob inserted a nasal tube.

They pushed her quickly to the ambulance and slid her inside. Blake climbed in behind Mike, immediately rechecked her vitals, and exchanged the nasal tube with a mask. Eighty-eight over fifty. Pulse, one-ten. Her arm fell limp against the backboard. He opened her left eye and examined her pupil. Trish, can you hear me?

She didn’t respond and her breathing was labored. Bob, punch it!

Chapter Two

Trisha, wake up, Crissy Rone urged, patting Trisha’s hand.

Trisha heard a deep sigh, followed by what sounded like a shoe tapping impatiently against the floor.

What am I supposed to tell your dad? He needs you. If you don’t wake up, I swear I’ll... heck, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you’re scaring me, girlfriend.

Trisha needed just a few more minutes of rest to regain her strength. The anesthesia made her ill, and she’d been awake half the night throwing-up.

Come on, do it for your dad. The foot dance stopped. He needs you.

Trisha couldn’t believe the anguish in her friend’s voice, nor how she used her dad as bait to lure her from sleep.

But it worked. Tears burned her eyes at the mental images of her dying father. Watching him deteriorate day by day broke chunks from her heart, and she needed to get home before he inhaled his final breath.

Ironically, four years earlier she’d watched her mother succumb to the same disease. Every day had become a ritual while she sat beside her mom, holding a bible and rosary in her lap, pleading with God to cure the cancer.

Those memories ripped a hole in Trisha’s heart that’d never healed. For the second time she was forced to endure the relentless pain of losing a parent. Through it all, Crissy, who upheld a positive attitude about everything, including life's traumatic blows, reminded Trisha to keep faith.

I hope you’re not intentionally ignoring me, Crissy babbled. You know I don’t like that. She released Trisha’s hand. Would it help if I said I’m reaching panic mode here?

I’m awake, Trisha mumbled, attempting to open her eyes. I’m just really tired and not feeling so well.

What happened?

Crissy’s shrieking voice traveled through Trisha like nails on a chalkboard. I got hit by a vehicle.

How? By who?

Trisha rolled her eyes against the backside of her lids. How am I―

You scared the shit out of me.

It wasn’t my―

An administrative assistant pulled me out of class last night and said you had an accident. I called the hospital, but they refused to give me any information, Crissy chattered insistently. The lame operator told me you were admitted, but I had to wait until today to visit because visiting hours were over. The tirade ended and she sucked in a breath. That woman ticked me off.

The voice finally stopped but the foot tapping reconvened. You really, really scared the hell out of me, Trisha. I didn’t know if you were dead, alive, comatose, or what. Her voice rose to high pitched squealing and the shoe tap intensified. How could you have missed seeing a car? Why didn’t you jump out of the way or something? 

Seriously, Crissy? Trisha groaned. She wasn’t going to open her eyes after all. It appeared Crissy wanted to give her the third degree and she wasn’t in the mood to hear it, much less see her frustration. Perhaps she’d made a mistake listing her as an emergency contact. I’ll explain later, okay?

You need to explain now. Because, let me tell you, I ran to your house at eight o’clock last night to tell the nurse―

What? Trisha’s eyes sprang open. Does my dad know?

Absolutely not. Do you think I’m an idiot?

Trisha sighed, and stared dead into her friend’s peepers. Do you really want me to answer that, because right now I’m not feeling too cordial.

What’s that supposed to mean? Crissy snapped, her eyebrows knitted together. She shifted in her seat and tucked a foot beneath her butt on the beige vinyl chair. The other noisy shoe remained on the floor.

Long, burnt-orange ringlets of curls framed her face and flowed to mid-bicep. The unique color, highlighted with hues of gold, enhanced her emerald eyes.

Well? Crissy plucked a loose strand of hair off her tank top and dropped it to the floor. What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing. I’m sorry. Truly she was. From the bottom of her heart. She just loathed anyone upsetting her dad. Not that she didn’t trust Crissy in fragile situations, but Crissy often jumped into action without considering the consequences. I feel a little nauseous. That’s all.

A single high-pitched beep resounded behind the bed. Trisha glanced over the edge of her pillow and spotted a heart monitor standing in the corner. Yellow and green jagged lines raced across the screen, and big red numbers flashed on and off. She followed the connected wires to where they disappeared beneath the collar of her gown. Do I really need this thing? Instinctively, she reached to adjust her necklace, but to her horror, it was gone. Her tummy vaulted in dread at the absence of the guardian angel trinket her mother gave her on high school graduation day. Crissy, do you have my necklace? Please tell me you do.

I don’t have it. Crissy sat poker straight on the chair. She glanced around the room before pin-pointing the bed stand. Maybe it’s in here. She opened the drawers one at a time only to discover all three empty. Nothing. Maybe it’s packed with your clothes.

Try the closet.

She lunged to her feet and scurried to the door. After she removed a plastic bag from a shelf, she emptied the contents on the bed and shifted through Trisha’s clothes a piece at a time. It’s not in here either. We’ll have to ask the nurses.

God, she hoped they had it in their possession. If it broke off when she’d been hit, she’d probably never see it again. The sentimental value couldn’t ever be replaced. That hurt worse than any of the aches and pains she’d sustained in the accident.

Crissy folded Trisha’s clothes and placed them neatly in the bag. We’ll find it. I promise.

Though it wasn’t a guaranteed promise, Trisha nodded to acknowledge and appease her best friend for her determination.

With her unique hair, yellow tank top, and red and yellow striped shorts, Crissy’s coloring popped within the dreary room like a crimson rose on a sandy beach.

And dreary it was. Visibly cold. Uninviting. Institutional. Technically, not a comforting place to recover. There wasn’t anything cheerful in the small, pale-blue room, capped with beige wallpaper border. A colorful bedspread may have helped, but she was tucked under beige blankets that matched the curtains and blinds.  

How’s my dad? She watched as Crissy returned the bag to the closet, setting it on the exact shelf she removed it from. Is he okay?

Crissy smiled drearily. Yes. She sat back down and crossed her legs. His condition hasn’t changed. She cocked her head. Her chin pointed toward the window but her eyes remained on Trisha. You know I would never upset him, right?

Yes, I know. Sorry I freaked. I just feel like crap. Maybe if I sit up it’ll help. She fumbled beneath the bedrail, found the adjustment lever, and depressed it. A soft buzzing noise hummed beneath the frame and the head of the bed rose, up-righting her faster than expected. A sharp pain tore across her midsection. Whimpering, she reversed the lever a smidgeon and grabbed a handful of the blanket.

Crissy lurched to her feet. Are you all right?

She nodded, inhaling slow, shallow breaths until the pain subsided. I’m fine.  Not pushing herself any further, she picked up the remote clipped to the bed sheet and pressed the button closest to her thumb. The bedroom lights shut off.

Wrong button. Crissy chuckled. Care to try that again?

She pressed what appeared to be a picture of a light bulb and the lights turned back on. Next, she depressed a generic outline of what looked like a nursing cap. A loud buzz startled her and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Can I help you? a female asked.

Trisha couldn’t help it, she laughed. I need help to use the restroom please.

I can help, Crissy interjected.

Or I can, a husky voice said from across the room.

Trisha’s gaze rolled toward the corridor and her heart stopped at the sight of Blake Mitchell filling her doorway. Dressed in black boots, a black button-down shirt, one sleeve folded to mid-forearm, the other behind his back, he exuded confidence. Yesterday she had the privilege of seeing his handsome face up close but she didn’t get a clear picture of his muscular size. Today, well, he looked close to perfect. His dreamy smile turned her tummy to mush.

Hello, ladies.

Hi, Trisha replied shyly, amazed she even had a voice in the midst of his surprise visit.

Well hello there, Crissy said, ogling every inch of his six-foot-two stance, from shoes, along his tight, black jeans, to the top of his ebony hair.

He stepped into the room, but instead of approaching the bed as Trisha hoped, he extended his hand to her flirty best friend. I’m Blake Mitchell.

Crissy. Actually, it’s Crystal Rone, but everyone calls me Crissy, she responded, capturing his hand between both of her palms. She examined his ring finger before she slowly turned toward Trisha, her brows raised so high they disappeared beneath her bangs. Numerous questions flooded her eyes, embedded with a flicker of attraction.

Trisha knew the look but brushed it aside. We just met.

I gave her a ride in my ambulance, Blake stated.

Trisha’s gaze shot to his eyes. 

But I bet she doesn’t remember the chauffeur service, he added, smiling and removing his hand from Crissy’s.

I don’t.

As he stepped to the bed, an infusion of musk, the fresh outdoors, and a touch of spice drifted into her space. She inconspicuously inhaled. God she loved that scent. It triggered memories of when he’d initially arrived at the accident scene. She’d gobbled it at that time as an elixir to help combat her pain and fear. It had helped to focus on him and it also took her mind off the loud crowd of people.

These are for you. Smiling ear to ear, he brought forward a dark red rose and her tennis shoe. I’d like to say that your prince has arrived, but it’s a little premature. He set the canvas sneaker on the floor before placing the rose in her hand.

Thank you. The brush of his fingers against hers sent a rush of warmth flowing from her tummy to her toes. Despite his size, he delivered a gentle touch, as he had yesterday when examining her legs and abdomen.  

He folded his arms. How are you feeling?

"My entire body