Chapter 3
Silas
“They said it’s bad.” A breathy exhale coupled with a pair of wringing hands. Blue gloves covering them snapped softly from the motion. Beats in five-step intervals. “Two down with multiple fatal wounds. One’s already coded in transit.”
“Did they say what it was?” There was a slight curiosity to her panicked tone. “All they called for was a code red for two incoming patients.”
“I was listening to the police scanner on my lunch—”
Illegal.
“—shots were fired over in Edgewood. Three police units responded to it.”
“Shots fired?” Disbelief. Panic. A morally righteous pull to her wrinkled features.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Edgewood is supposed to be safe—”
A misguided view. Naive.
Only children dealt in absolutes and black and white thinking.
The world was a dangerous place no matter how far out into the woods you ran.
“What was the call about originally?”
“I didn’t catch it before that.” She sighed. “Just when things went haywire. Then we got the call to be prepared for their arrival.”
Fifteen minutes, forty seven seconds, and counting.
“Damn…” Another sigh.
One already coded in transit. Resuscitation successful. Intubation initiated. Wounds packed.
Fatal injuries to both.
Potentially, the reminder came. Not an absolute.
Not yet.
“We should see where they’re at, right, Dr. Montgomery?”
My gaze snapped to the left, drawn away from the automatic doors of the ambulance drop off for a split second to connect with Violet’s.
After a beat of silence, she repeated, “We should call dispatch for an ETA.”
The snapping of her gloves further pulled my attention away to focus solely on her.
She clenched her fingers tightly together in front of her waist—a bad habit I loathed.
One I’d talked to her countless times about in the OR.
A distraction needing redirection in crucial times with no time to properly train her out of it.
Pavloving worked up to a point. Useless without constant upkeep.
“No.”
“‘No’?” Beth whipped her head around to stare at me. “We should be prepared.”
“We are,” came from near the counter. “What else would we be standing here for?”
Even with the mask covering half of her face, her expression visibly hardened. “It’s not as if due-diligence can be overdone.”
Untrue.
In fact, plenty of things were easily overdone. Such as this conversation.
A scoff followed my attention turning back to the automatic doors, ignored effortlessly once the red flashing lights of an incoming ambulance flooded the drop-off. Both nurses tensed, the ER growing dim with a hush of silence.
The sound of a vehicle slamming into park, followed with doors popping open.
EMTs landed on firm feet, hustling to get the patient out from the back and onto solid ground.
One straddled the still body while the others rolled it to our doors.
Blood coating the hand holding the wounds shut, another tilting the man’s head back to allow for proper oxygen flow while in transit.
Twin doors flew open, a wave of anxiety palpably washing over my staff the second the stretcher met tiled floors.
The EMT at the front of the pack—Vance Lenfolt, veteran volunteer—met my eyes first. “Victim has two stab wounds, five inches deep and three inches apart. Kitchen knife. We’ve got him stabilized but we’re not sure what’s been nicked. He lost a lot of blood on the way over.”
Black uniform on the victim. Gold emblem at the breast. Insignia of Palmerston PD. Young, too. “Coded?”
“Not this one.”
A good start.
The EMT straddling him had a firm hold on the man’s stomach area—wounds located—his shoulder shaking from the effort. Sixteen and a half solid minutes of packing a wound, not exactly for the weak of heart. A commendable effort for keeping the man under him alive.
Nodding, I grabbed onto the stretcher. “OR 4. Let’s move.”
Both nurses locked into gear, jogging with us and replacing the EMTs aside from our wound holder.
Two more met us halfway down the hall, another inside the OR.
Six of us in total, enough manpower to lift the victim up from the stretcher and onto an operating table.
The EMT holding him together jumped down now that we had a handle on things. Grab the bottom sheet, shift.
A steady calm bathed us in routine.
Scrubbing under the nails, wedging the coarse material between the webbing of my fingers, rinsing the dirt and grim of living in a hospital away.
Mask covering my face, cap on, two gloves down, a gown wrapped around my body, and my surgical glasses shoved over my eyes.
“Two of O neg.” My voice rang through the OR, nurses rotating in a controlled motion. “Violet, check vitals. Claudia, prep him for the transfusion. Beth, my hands.”
“Yes, doctor!” they called in unison.
“Where is anesthesiology?”
“Right here.” Beth elbowed the OR’s touchpad to open the doors, Dr. Stines marching in with his machine in tow the second they folded apart.
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
I nodded for the left of the bedside, waiting for him to pass before striding over myself.
My staff worked in tandem to prep the man who lay on the verge of death on my table.
Instruments ripped open and set down onto sterilized trays, fresh packing material to keep pressure on his wounds, butterfly needles finding healthy veins for an IV drip and a blood transfusion underway.
His chest was fluttering, panicked gasps of breath quickly muffled by an oxygen mask coming down to cover his mouth. Strained vitals ticked away on the monitors surrounding the bed, a downturn toward his condition despite the fight his body was putting up to keep him Earth-side.
An entire mess on my table.
Dying was never glamorous. Quite often gross and disgusting. The body begged to live, even if the mind had long since given up, doing everything in its power to keep on going, no matter how difficult the road ahead may be.
Too many people were living proof of that. Marlow now, unfortunately, one of them.
Coming out the other side in this condition wasn’t easy.
But not impossible.
I’d worked worse before.
Snagging a pair of shears off of the medical tray, I hooked the sharp ends under the hem of his shirt and dragged them upward. The cloth cut clean, barely any force behind my guiding hand. Claudia reached for the looped ends of the scissors, taking them from me the moment they reached his collar.
Two tongs replaced the scissors, both pinching the pieces of fabric and parting them without dirtying my sterile hands. Blood covered the man’s olive-toned skin, smeared in strange patterns. A macabre take on children’s face paint. Or closer to Avery’s slasher films he secretly loved?
Tongs were replaced with alcohol wipes. Dragging them down from chest to torso, cleaning up the mess left behind from the transit over here from Edgewood. Something rolled underneath the cloth. A gold glint catching the operating lights above when pulled back for an examination.
I froze immediately.
Twin gold chains wrapped around a curvy waist. Braided together with small, red gemstones woven in between like flowers growing on a vine. Accentuating his feminine frame.
“Dr. Montgomery?” Violet said.
My attention snapped to his face, half covered by the oxygen mask.
Well-maintained brows. Dark hair just long enough to brush over his cheeks and cover his ears. Pulled back during the day? A flush to his cheeks. Long lashes that fanned over high cheekbones. A peaceful expression resting on his pretty face.
An officer… wearing a waist chain?
Hazing ritual? Humiliation tactic? Toxic work environment forcing him to prove his worth?
Voluntarily done?
I sucked in a breath. The thought going straight to my cock.
An impossible fantasy. The men in blue were too prideful. Too egotistical, to appreciate something this pretty—a thing like this meant to make the body look like a delicate work of art.
I looped a finger under one of the dainty chains stained in blood, rolling them between my pointer and thumb a few times. Well made. Not some costume piece.
Real?
“Dr. Montgomery.”
I’d have to break it. He’d need a CT scan once we were done. High contrast to make sure I didn’t miss anything when sewing him up.
What a shame.
“Dr.—”
With a quick and sharp pull, the chains snapped easily in my hand, a silver pan quickly coming into view to deposit the pretty pieces into to be disposed of later, along with the other trash collected, once they were pulled free from around him.
He suddenly looked naked without them.
Focus.
Scalpel to the area, pull the skin apart to check for nicked organs, cauterize the vessels, sew him back up. Good as new.
Routine. Standard. Nothing different than a car accident coming in with the same wounds, needing pieces of glass lodged in their abdomen taken out and sewn back up like it never happened. Barely a scar to remind them of it afterward.
No knife was kept in this wound, though.
Why take it out? Wasn’t that police academy 101? Life skills 101?
“We should probably remove his pants.” Claudia’s voice broke through the cacophony. “That secondary wound looks like it was torn down toward his pelvis. Could’ve pierced his appendix.”
A good observation, one I’d neglected to give attention to. Too caught off guard by this mere coincidence of clashing fantasies.
Scissors were placed in my hand again, the sharp tips meeting the waistband of the other half of his uniform and splitting it easily in two sections. Tongs were set in my other hand, helping peel back the first layer from his crusted skin, the flash of lace distracting me immediately.
The curved band lay perfectly flat against his skin. White lace with silver threads knitted into the luxurious looking fabric. A small, ribbon rose was sewn onto the waistband, directly below his pierced navel.
My heart gave a dull thump.
“Here.” Violet moved into my space, grabbing his pants by both sides and yanking them down to rid him of the stained clothing.
She tossed them into the disposal bin as soon as she got them over his ankles.
A wave of annoyance washed over me—uncharacteristic, especially under the harsh lights of the OR. Here I was calm, collected, levelheaded to a fault. My judgment clear and concise, no matter who was on my table.
I was Dr. Montgomery first and Silas second. None of that ever changed, even when Marlow had been on my table with his shattered leg and broken and bruised body.
Here, now, I felt the whispers of emotions. Dredging up from the corners of whatever waste pit I’d dropped them into years ago. Small sparks that had my hands tightening around my instruments and a scolding burning on the tip of my tongue.
What good would it do? Violet was merely doing her job. Touching the patient was a necessary thing in times of crisis. Stabilizing him needing to take priority above all else.
A tightening in my gut. Another wave—possessiveness?—slapped me hard enough to force me into stepping back from the table.
Ridiculous. Useless in an OR trying to save someone’s life.
What did I care what this man got up to in his free time?
Save the cop. Ask yourself questions later.
Perhaps Marlow was right. Perhaps I spent too much time in this damn hospital. Perhaps Avery’s constant jabs and not-so-subtle hints of my singleness were beginning to wear on my psyche. Relationships were a bore and a bother and nothing I wished to engage in.
I had no time to placate the emotions of another, barely having enough bandwidth as it was to cater to my friends.
Occupying my time with a warm body in my bed for a few weeks, however?
Not a bad idea.
Clearly a purge needed to happen. Getting distracted mid-surgery was unlike me.
Actually, it was unheard of.
“Iodine,” I called out, shoving the handles of scissors Claudia’s way.
A stick met my hand, lights above me getting moved to focus on the still bleeding abdomen. A scalpel traded for the iodine stick once the skin was prepped and ready to be cut open. My hands precise as they hovered over the first spot.
A quick glance at the vitals. Stable for now. An improvement to how he came to me, better once I had these cauterized.
Let’s see what you’re hiding in here.