Chapter Six Lexie #2
The hazy, dimly lit interior is exactly how I expect it to be.
A few stray workers are moving to clean up the leftovers of the patrons’ poor decisions.
The heavy aromas of sweat, alcohol, and smoke cling to the air as a reminder of the night’s lack of inhibition.
I can see the door that leads out of the main room and back towards a more private area as we get closer.
A sign reading “Private, no public access” warns me that I’m about to leave any witnesses behind.
I’ve always scoffed at the dumb, blonde sorority girls in horror movies when they hear a noise in the basement and decide to venture into the darkness in their underwear with nothing but a flashlight yelling who’s there?
Yet, here I am, allowing myself to be led into the dark with nothing but my scrubs and sarcasm to protect me.
As good as a lamb to the slaughter, I might as well be wearing my underwear.
Either unaware of my reservations, or completely ignoring them, Callum presses his hand to the small of my back and propels me through the doorway. Once we’re in the open and there’s enough space, he steps beside me and grabs my wrist—his strong fingers leading me firmly. Then we’re walking.
Moving down the long, dark hallway trimmed in blood-red LED lights, we pause at the very last door.
“Breathe,” Callum murmurs beside me.
I let out a breath I’m all too aware I was holding.
He reaches around me to turn the knob. I haven’t exactly been trying to picture what’s behind the ominous door, but it definitely wasn’t a storage room.
Roscoe stands along the far wall, his aggressive stance stiff.
It’s not the shelves of liquor and extra rags that has shock settling over me.
A chair sits in the center of the shadowy room, a man secured by one of his wrists to the chair’s arm with red tape, his ankles secured to the legs.
Spatters of blood spread across the plastic that covers the floor beneath him, filling the air with the heavy copper scent of violence.
His left hand dangles awkwardly, his pinky missing after the first knuckle.
I spot the rest of the finger discarded on the ground next to his foot in a pool of blood.
“What is this?” My question comes out barely more than a whisper. Callum’s hand on my back pushes me into the room, the door closing behind us.
“Do your thing, Doc. Get to work and fix him up,” Callum says.
The injured man’s head lolls as he tries to look up at me. He looks so defeated, so broken.
“You’re a doctor?” he asks, barely able to get the words out.
“I’m a nurse,” I correct again, standing and assessing the situation. Callum walks around me, moving to watch from the other side of the room facing the door. His giant stature fills the corner of the room, making the space feel so much smaller.
Judging by the amount of blood, enough time has passed between now and the injury to allow some clotting.
If the finger is still bleeding too much, I’ll have to do a wet-to-dry.
But hopefully, I can just stitch the wound closed and bandage it.
That all depends on the instrument used and the state of the remaining finger.
My eyes lock with Callum’s as my assessment fully processes.
Then I’m moving.
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask no one in particular. I don’t actually know who’s responsible, so the answer could come from either of them.
“Forty-seven minutes,” Roscoe supplies gruffly.
When I lower to my knees, I do my best to avoid the blood splatters. I’ll kneel in the gore if I have to, but not if I can avoid it.
“What did you use?” I ask, placing my kit on the floor.
When I move to get a closer look at the wound, the bloodied man jerks nervously.
I can see Roscoe enter my peripheral vision, his muscles tensed and ready if he perceives the movement as a threat against me.
But I don’t flinch. “How was it cut off?”
“Don’t ask that,” Callum says, warning me off. “You don’t want to know the answer.”
He thinks I’m just curious—that I’m entertained by this display of brutality. Throwing him a look of agitation, I lift the mangled hand to inspect it.
“What you used to remove the finger might affect how I have to treat it,” I say, pulling out the syringe of local anesthetic. No matter what they used, whether it was a surgical scalpel or a rusty kitchen knife, I have to touch it to patch him up.
And that’s going to hurt like hell.
“I used these,” Roscoe supplies a pair of handheld pruning shears.
Taking the tool from his hand, my eyes catch with his momentarily.
I’m struck with the sinking realization that the man of few words just used these landscaping scissors to remove someone’s finger.
But as quickly as the thought hits me, it’s gone as my brain moves on.
“These don’t look new,” I comment, taking in the scratches and knicks on the sharp blades. Glancing at Roscoe, I can see the hesitance before he answers.
“Not new, but they were clean,” he says.
There’s no rust, which is a good sign, but they’re not sterile. I’ll need to make sure the laceration is cleaned thoroughly so there’s no infection.
They cut the pinky off at a slight angle, so there’s enough skin to fold over and close the wound. Just barely, and there will be lots of scarred tissue, but it will work.
“He’s going to need stitches. But it’s going to be tricky,” I announce, sifting through the kit for the supplies to properly clean the wound.
“Can you do that, Doc?” The look of annoyance I throw at Callum just feeds the man’s ego.
“I’m a nurse,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time. “So, I shouldn’t be able to, not for something like this. But luckily for you, my best friend is a trauma surgeon, and I’ve perfected my sutures on bananas over a couple glasses of wine.”
Organizing the supplies I’ll need and laying them out on the lid of the kit, I’m ready to get to work. Pulling the cap off the sterile needle, I flick the air bubbles out and give it a tiny squirt. Eyeing me warily, the man pulls at his restraints.
“No, what is that? Get that away from me,” he rasps, yanking at his hand that’s bleeding profusely. Roscoe takes a threatening step forward, but I raise my hand to stop him. Instead, I look the imprisoned man straight in the eye.
“I know you think you don’t want me to touch you with this needle but trust me.
You want what’s in this syringe,” I inform him calmly.
Beaten, captive, tied to a chair or not he’s still just another patient who needs to be treated properly.
“If you refuse, I’ll have to clean you up without numbing.
It’s your choice.” I stare at him expectantly.
It only takes three seconds for him to realize my syringe is his friend, and he nods his consent.
After numbing the area, I set to cleaning it thoroughly.
The next step is trying to stop the bleeding enough to get a good grip for the sutures.
It takes some time, and a lot of gauze, but I’m able to get the skin where I need to stitch it together.
Once the wound is finally closed, I disinfect the area again and cover it with a sterile bandage.
“There.” Finally sitting back on my heels, I realize how long I’ve been kneeling on the floor.
Just like when I’m at the hospital, my focus kept me from feeling the discomfort in my knees.
Not to mention the fact that I really have to pee.
My legs complain when I move to stand and I struggle.
Callum is at my side in an instant, lifting me off the floor.
Damn, I definitely wasn’t this tired a few seconds ago.
“You’re finished?” Callum’s question rumbles at my side. I look up at him, my mind racing as I look at the man I clearly don’t know at all. Pulling my eyes away, I simply nod.
“He’s gonna need to follow up with a doctor as soon as possible, and there’s an enormous risk of infection.
But he should be fine.” I glance at Roscoe briefly before looking back at my patient.
If he didn’t blink at me with half-lidded eyes, I would think he was unconscious or dead, staying limp in the chair.
What else did they do to him? There’s no missing his swollen lip and the black eye that’s still forming.
“Are there any other injuries I need to look at?”
“No,” Callum says firmly. “I’ll take you home.”
The exhaustion and shock from the events of the night allow Callum to pack up the medical kit and tote me back to the car without complaint.
He practically buckles me into the passenger seat, stowing the case back in the trunk before climbing behind the wheel.
My eyes can’t seem to look at anything else but the terrifying man next to me.
Gazing at his profile, the distinct nose, sharp cheekbones, immaculate beard.
When he’s in a suit, he looks as distinguished as any high-power businessman roaming this city.
But as soon as the suit coat comes off and the shirt sleeves are rolled up, I catch a glimpse at what he really is.
A man with an edge that you don’t mess with.
I’d felt it the first time I met him—the danger just below the surface.
But I never thought it was anything like this.
Who is he? Am I in danger right now?
“Are you just gonna keep staring, or are you gonna ask me what you want to ask me?” Coming to a complete stop at a red light, Callum meets my stare straight on. I refuse to avert my gaze. After what I just witnessed, I deserve to stare a hole right through his head if I want to.
“Why did Roscoe cut off that man’s finger?” I’ve wrestled between asking and deciding I’m better off not knowing. But I’d be stupid not to ask just because I’m scared of what the answer might be.
“Because I told him to.” Said so calmly, the answer is deliberately cagey, his eyes daring me to ask the next question he’s leading me to. I need to know more, need to know what kind of man I’m living with.
So, I bite.
“Why did you tell him to?”
“Kellan took something that didn’t belong to him. Now his debt is paid.” He’s watching me, taking in every blink and breath, reading me like a book. He’s a lot harder to read, making my anxiety spike despite my best efforts.
“So, you’re an enforcer?” I’ve pieced together a few things, like the fact that his “business” doesn’t discriminate between crooked politicians or career criminals.
But there are still some pretty huge gaps I need to fill in here.
Because, after tonight, those gaps are starting to seem more like a black hole that’ll devour me before anyone can stop it—and no one will ever hear my screams.
“I fix problems.” Again, his response leaves me with nothing but more questions.
“What kinds of problems?” I ask. Callum leans back in his seat, flexing his shoulders to get more comfortable as we wait for the light to turn green. His eyes don’t leave mine, observing, analyzing, calculating.
“That depends on who’s asking.” His focus momentarily moves from my face to roam down my body; taking in my messy blonde ponytail, wrinkled pink scrubs, and supportive footwear.
Any sleepiness had fled the moment I walked into that back room.
For better or for worse, I’m the picture of messy practicality tied up in a crumpled pink bow.
“I’m asking.”
I’m not letting this go, not when I can get answers from him. The silence in the car stretches, making seconds feel like hours, the only sound coming from the engine. The light flashes green, but Callum takes his time pressing the accelerator. He’s in no hurry to get home.
“Let’s just say I fix problems that powerful people pay lots of money for me not to talk about.” This bit of information is a step in the right direction, but it still doesn’t tell me what I need to know.
“Fix them how?” I press, my voice shaking slightly. His grip shifts on the wheel to take a more casual hold with one hand.
“By any means necessary.”
That tells me a lot and nothing at all. That could mean he skirts around the law by doing deals under the table, or he could be a psychotic serial killer. There’s so much room for interpretation, which is probably exactly how he likes it. The black hole is slowly morphing into an endless gray area.
“Am I in danger?” The question leaves my mouth before I can think better of it.
“Not from me.” It’s a plain statement. And I believe him—maybe that makes me an idiot, but I do.
“So I don’t need to be afraid of you?” It’s a reach for clarification and—if I’m being honest with myself—a little comfort. But I don’t get it.
“I never said that.” His eyes slide over to find mine again. “Are you scared of me, Lexie?”
A knot forms in my stomach, heat spreading through me under his gaze.
“After tonight I would be stupid not to be,” I shoot back. “I’m not stupid.”
The car turns and we’re entering the parking garage that belongs to the penthouse. Pulling smoothly into one of the private spots, Callum cuts the engine.
“You’re a lot of things, but you certainly aren’t stupid,” he says. “And I know you’re smart enough to realize that telling anyone about what you witnessed tonight is a very bad idea.”
“I won’t say anything,” I assure him. I have enough self-preservation to keep my damn mouth shut. Besides, I don’t even know what happened. Not really.
“Good. Because if you are stupid enough to tell someone, that might put you in danger. And I’ll always know.”
“I’m just gonna go shower and pretend like tonight never happened.” When did my life turn into a suspense movie? I prefer my drama petty and through a tv screen.
“That’s a good idea, Doc.” Stepping into the elevator, he’s watching me again.
This time feels more intentional—like he’s looking for something.
I’ll bet he’s waiting for a meltdown with tears and trembling.
Like the events of tonight might somehow break me.
He can wait all he wants, the breakdown isn’t coming.
The demons I’m currently fighting off are much more traumatizing than giving some creep a few stitches in a dark room. Tonight, as weird and confusing as it was, is just a drop in the bucket. I’m already keeping my head above water while much darker forces try to drag me under.
I don’t wait for him when the elevator doors open, instead walking straight into the penthouse. Callum’s only a step or two behind me.
“Good night, Callum,” I say over my shoulder, not hesitating before walking through the kitchen towards the hallway that leads to my shower. And my bed.
“Sweet dreams, Doc,” Callum’s deep voice sounds behind me.
I wish.