Chapter 4 #2
Am I dreaming that he dismisses my dad with a stiff glance, yet his eyes soften when they fall on me?
Pull yourself together, Bronwyn. Why should he give me a second glance?
I’m nothing, as my dad doesn’t hesitate to tell me.
Not intelligent enough to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor, instead I have to settle for being a meagre nurse.
I’m thicker than I need to be, with large boobs and ass, which are out of proportion to the shortness of my body.
Perhaps that wouldn’t be quite so bad if I didn’t have short legs to match.
Topping out at a not-so-impressive five foot four on a good day, I don’t need my dad to tell me, I’m no one’s catch.
Even if I were in the market for a man, someone like Short is way out of my league.
For now, it’s enough that he needs me, if only in a professional capacity.
“Let’s have a look at that self-inflicted bullet wound on your leg,” Dad sneers, then gestures at me. “Remove his pants.”
Short startles, gives my dad a what-the-fuck look, and then starts to undress himself, even though the movement is causing him pain, as evidenced by the sweat appearing on his brow.
But when I go to help, he waves me away and carries on struggling until his pants are off.
Luckily, he’s wearing boxers that hide the parts I really don’t need to see, and I normally wouldn’t have any difficulty demurely lowering my gaze.
In this instance, though, it isn’t so easy to pull my curious eyes away, and for some reason, my cheeks flush.
The thought I might be more like my dad than I’d like to think hits me like a bucket of cold water.
The patient’s dignity should never be overstepped, whether by touch or by sight. Shuddering, I’m disgusted by myself.
“Bronwyn,” Dad snaps. “For heaven’s sake, girl, how you’ll ever make a qualified nurse, I don’t know.
You can’t stand to look at a man’s bare leg.
” Rolling his eyes, he sends a look at Short as if apologising for my behaviour.
But whatever support he is looking for, he doesn’t get.
Instead, Short sends me an encouraging look and completely ignores my dad.
Dad huffs and talks to me as if I’m an idiot.
“We’re here to clean the wound and redress it.
Can you remember what to do, or do you need me to talk you through every step? ”
I’ve been a nurse for three years. I’ve had my hands in a man’s chest, trying to keep his heart beating when instructed by a surgeon.
Dad’s thrown an insult at me, which he knows is going to hurt.
But it’s not the first time, and somehow, I know the sympathetic expression Short is aiming my way is because he knows I’m just, if not more capable than my dad, at dressing wounds. He’s seen me in action often enough.
Taking only a moment to slip on the thin latex gloves, already knowing from when he was in surgery that he’s not allergic to that material, I start to efficiently go about my task.
Dad steps back, leans against the wall, huffs a few times, but doesn’t interfere.
In truth, there’s nothing he can criticise.
Short’s wound is healing well, no infection is forming, and the stitches are holding.
Once I’ve finished wrapping the new bandage, I’m roughly pushed aside, so hard I stumble and stagger to right myself.
“Doc,” Short growls warningly.
But as usual, Dad waves any implied or worded criticism away. It falls off him like water off a duck’s back, nothing remaining to give him a moment of consideration. To him, I’m his blood, his possession, to instruct and treat however he wants.
“Now let’s get to the main event, where you unfortunately stabbed yourself.” His eyes roll as, under his breath, he adds, “Stupid fuckin’ bikers.”
Short might have wounds to his leg and his chest, but there’s nothing wrong with his hearing or the speed of his reaction.
With obvious pain to himself, he sits up fast, his hand shooting out and grabbing hold of Dad’s wrist. “You’re stepping on very thin ice here, Doc,” he warns, his words backed up by a flash of his eyes.
“Don’t forget us stupid bikers are your only bread and butter now.
And even we’ve got limits to how much we’ll put up with. ”
My father’s taken aback, but cunning comes into his eyes. “I don’t see anyone else stepping up to treat you.”
Short’s eyes find mine, something not lost on my dad. His next words confirm he hadn’t meant Dad to misunderstand the implication. “Seems like your daughter can handle a lot of what we pay you for.”
Oh fuck no. I know Short meant it as a compliment, but he doesn’t have to live with my dad.
It won’t be him paying a price for his well-intentioned words.
It will be yours truly. The tension in Dad’s shoulders shows me what trouble I’m in.
He won’t do anything here, not in front of Short, but I’m not holding my breath for later, when I’m alone with him.
“Bronwyn!” Dad snaps, making me realise I’d let my fear overtake me for a moment. “Check Short’s chest wound, and let me know about his breath sounds.”
He steps back, retaking his position against the wall.
Stepping forward, I ask permission with my eyes before lifting Short’s shirt.
Interpreting my request, he does it for me.
For a moment, I’m stunned by his defined six-pack of muscles covered in a copious array of colourful tattoos.
I regain control of myself in an admirable split second, then carefully remove the bandage, noticing the stitches are holding, and there’s no blood or other leakage in the discarded bandage.
Turning to take a stethoscope out of my dad’s bag, I blow on it to warm the end slightly – knowing that’s something Dad wouldn’t think to do – then lower the end first over one side of Short’s chest, then the other.
“Unequal air sounds, weaker on the right side,” I speak over my shoulder. Then I disinfect the wound, apply the antibiotic lotion the hospital prescribed, and finish with a clean bandage.
Short relaxes once my administrations are done.
As I go to move away, his hand reaches out to mine, squeezing my fingers briefly.
“Thank you.” It’s easy to tell his words are heartfelt.
Then he turns his attention to my father.
“You should be proud of the daughter you raised. She’s a fuckin’ good nurse. ”
I can tell Dad wants to say something like, you’re just a filthy biker, how can you tell?
But he’s obviously remembered where his money comes from, as he zips his mouth shut on that subject, only opening it to bark at me.
“Bronwyn, collect my stuff and bring my bags down to my car.” Then he turns and is gone.
Short starts to say something to me, but to delay now would only make things a hundred times worse. Giving my dad no reason to think I’m discussing him behind his back, I fix the bags, pick them up, and leave only seconds after my father.