Free Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians by Lucienne Diver Page B

start our own beach volleyball game.
    I groaned.
    “I saw you go down out there,” he continued. “I didn’t think there were sharks here, but I guess I was wrong, huh?”
    I tried to shake my head and it nearly split in two.
    It felt like someone with a crowbar was trying to whack his way out of my skull.
    Seconds later, we were joined by paramedics, who oh-so-helpfully pushed aside the kids and shined an overly bright light into my eyes. I only let them live because 1) I was too weak to move farther and 2) they brought blankets.
    It was all fun and games ’til they pulled out the stretcher, the better to cart me off to the hospital, at which point I became an instant convert to Christian Scientology—or whatever it was that claimed medical care was Evil . ’Cause everyone knows that evil spelled backwards is live.
    Everybody stared at me as if I had two heads and had maybe conked them both too hard out there on a reef. The burlier of the two medics looked like he was ready to haul me in anyway—for a psychiatric exam if nothing else—but his partner held him back with a “Dude, we can’t do it.”
    He turned to me then. “But, lady, if you don’t go with us, you gotta get someone to come out here for you. There’s no way you’re going home on your own steam. You can’t drive.”
    Burly rolled his eyes. “I’ll get the paperwork,” he said, and stomped off up the beach toward the ambulance.
    From the ’tude, I was guessing refusal of care came with a cover-your-buttload of paperwork. But that wasn’t my problem. My problem was that on my shoestring budget I never had gotten around to frivolous things like health insurance. The paramedics alone would probably bankrupt me. The hospital was right out.
    Paperwork meant questions I shuddered to consider answering. My throat ached like I’d swallowed prickly pears. I tried to think of something that would head them off at the pass.
    “Wallet,” I croaked to the surfer dude, shakily moving to pat my pocket.
    When I left my purse behind, I generally folded essentials—driver’s license, PI license, gun permit, some cash and cards—into a bifold case that slipped into my pocket. I hadn’t planned on going for a swim. I wondered what had fared worse, my body or various IDs.
    Surfer dude took pity on my slow-motion attempt to fish out my wallet and finally did the honors. He took an inordinant amount of time flipping through everything, even letting an “oh cool” slip out at the sight of my PI license and carry permit, before finally stopping at one card with a hand-scrawled cell phone number. Armani’s. I groaned as he turned it toward me in question and took a swallow— big mistake —before nodding my head in answer.
    Armani was going to make me pay for this, but I didn’t see any other option. I was pretty sure that the cell phone on my hip and all the nice numbers in memory had not survived the dunking.
    My eyes must have started to close because the next thing I knew, I was getting slapped in the face. “Stay with us,” surfer boy commanded.
    “So tired,” I mumbled.
    But surfer boy had an answer for that—a series of rapid-fire questions to correspond to those little blanks on the paperwork attached to his clipboard. I tried answering each in ten words or less, wondering if they’d believe my near-death experience had spurred me to a sudden vow of silence.
    By the time Armani arrived, the few gawkers—no big drama like spurting blood or writhing in pain to hold them—had melted away, including my rescuer, who I realized to my shame I hadn’t even thanked. I was almost looking forward to whatever riot act Armani was sure to read me if only because he wouldn’t expect an answer—at least, not until he wound down. Dashing my hopes, he drifted in silent as the grave to loom over the shoulder of my inquisitor after talking to the other EMT. His lips were tightly compressed, though, and I could tell this was just the calm before the