Also a disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about Spain, its government, police force, or anything. The Spanish National Football Team had just won the World Cup when I started this. I needed a foreign country and Spain seemed like a good idea. I also know nothing about international business laws, supermodels, travel visas, marriage laws in other countries, international terrorist interrogation techniques, or having household staff. Basically, I know absolutely nothing pertaining to the plot of this story and I am making it up as I go.
500-WC, Chapter One
Word Count: 528
“Hey, its me. Don’t worry, I’m fine. The doctors checked me out and everything. Um…so yeah, I got into a bit of trouble…I had to get married. Don’t panic. Everything will be fine. Call me when you get back. Bye.”
Colton jerked awake, sitting up before he remembered he shouldn’t. He groaned, every muscle aching and on fire. He lifted a hand and rubbed his face, feeling the tender places where’d he’d bruised.
Mancini was there instantly.
“Good morning, sir.”
Colton groaned again, sliding to the edge of the bed. Mancini helped him stand, smiling.
“Shut up!” Colton snapped. He stretched gingerly, his joints snapping ominously. He lurched to the bathroom, sighing as the steam already billowing in the shower sank into his limbs.
He felt better once he’d showered, spending most of it standing listlessly under the scalding stream of water. Mancini had his clothes out already. Colton ignored them and rummaged through a drawer, pulling on a comfortable pair of jeans and an old t-shirt. He couldn’t face designer anything today.
He left his room, heading down the long hallway, still yawning and wincing. He paused by a closed door.
“She is up already, sir.” Mancini murmured. “I believe she is in the kitchen.”
Colton grimaced and headed down. There was no avoiding it.
Colton’s doctor was feeling her head when Colton stepped into the kitchen.
“Ow!” she complained.
“Sorry,” the man muttered. “Your stitches look good, no swelling.”
She snorted. He shined a light in her eyes, checking each one carefully. “Headache?”
“Raging.” She clipped.
“And your ears?”
He nodded ruefully. “That will probably last a few days. Take aspirin, get some rest. No loud music.” The doctor saw Colton in the doorway. “Ah, Mr. Savage. How are you, this morning?”
Colton scowled and the doctor chuckled. “Good, good.”
He quickly packed up his things, tucking everything into a sleek brown suitcase. “Call me, if you need anything, or your headache gets worse.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ferr.” The woman said, shaking his hand. Colton nodded and the man left.
The woman watched him, silently. Renee. Renee Savage.
Colton cleared his throat. “I hope you slept well.”
She shrugged, making a face. “I tried. I’m not used to your time zone, still.”
“Yes, I imagine.” He said lamely. Silence stretched between them again. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thank you.” She touched the bowl and spoon sitting on the table next to her.
Her face was cut and bruised like his, a white bandage on her forehead, covering six little black stitches.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“Nothing unendurable.” She said with a grimace. “I’ll live.”
“Good.” He could have kissed Mancini when the man rescued him.
“Mrs. Savage,” he said smoothly, ignoring both of their winces. “Would you come with me? I have a selection of clothing for you to chose from.”
“Thanks,” she said, standing stiffly. She was still wearing her football jersey, cleaned during the night, but ragged. Her jeans had scorch marks on them. Colton stepped out of the way. She looked back once at the foot of the stairs, her frown filling him with foreboding.