About Re-Ignition
by AR Moler
53 pages
/ 12500 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-644-5, 1-60370-644-5
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Griff Rieckert is an ex-FBI agent, with the emphasis on "ex". A devastating knee injury in the line of duty has left him permanently disabled. After a drinking binge, trying to drown his depression, he wakes up in the bed of a gorgeous young doctor, Sean Avery.
As Griff and Sean become involved in a tentative relationship, Griff''s dark mood of pain and frustration begins to lighten a little. The attraction to the young doctor gives Griff hope that he can piece his life back together, but all that might come crashing down when a madman loose in the hospital threatens Sean's life.
Sample
Does it count as alcoholism if you only drink once every couple of months, but when you do, you drink till you black out? This was the thought sluggishly creeping across Griff Rieckert's mind as he clawed his way back to consciousness. His head was pounding in time with his pulse, and nausea churned his stomach. Please let me die, his brain suggested. Just opening his eyes was a monumental task.
Ceiling. Unfamiliar ceiling. He managed to turn his head just enough to glance at his surroundings through slitted eyes. He was in a bed. More precisely, someone else's bed. And so was the someone else. A mop of long, beautiful blond curls lay on the pillow beside him, the face turned away from him. Griff raised his hands and scrubbed them down over his face. This was going to be embarrassing.
The body beside him rolled over. Beneath all those gorgeous blond curls were dark lashes, full lips, and a neatly trimmed blond moustache and goatee. The blond man's eyes opened slowly, and embarrassment didn't even come close to cutting it. Griff scrambled up against the headboard with an intake of breath and immediately regretted it. He choked down the first wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him, and didn't manage the second one.
Hanging off the edge of the bed, he vomited into the trashcan that some fore-thinking soul had put beside the bed. Someone held his head and prevented him from sliding face first off the edge. Gasping, eyes tearing, spitting the acrid taste from his mouth, he finally slumped back against the mattress.
"Figured you were gonna need that," said the man holding him. "Come on, let's get you up and into the shower. It'll help." Griff stared as he was dragged to his feet. The man looked young, desperately young. All those blond curls brushing his shoulders, broad shoulders and narrow hips, long torso and muscular legs, wearing nothing more than a skimpy pair of black bikini briefs.
A second look, however, made him reassess. There was a seriousness in those blue eyes that spoke of more years than the face seemed to imply.
The blond man picked up an elbow crutch from the floor and handed it to Griff. Griff took it reluctantly; judging from the stiffness and the intensity of the pain in his leg, he needed it badly. But the other man didn't let go. He pulled Griff's opposite arm over his shoulders and guided them carefully in the direction of the bathroom, snagging a pair of round, wire-framed glasses along the way.
In the bathroom, Griff leaned against the sink and glanced at himself in the mirror while the other man turned on the shower. Every single one of his thirty-eight years seemed to be etched into his face. A trace of gray showed in his short black hair, his eyes were horrendously bloodshot, and he obviously hadn't shaved in a couple of days.
"No offense," Griff croaked, "but who the hell are you?"