Archer
“Myocardial infarction.” Whether strings were pulled or mere coincidence, Doctor Cleary—Nicki—stands by the door in dirty scrubs and with blood on her shoes.
Her hair is messy, her scrub cap bundled in her hand.
But her eyes are alight, bright and energetic, though surely she must be tired.
“Mr. Morris was severely dehydrated, which led to distress on all of his organs. His kidney function has been impacted, but his heart was simply too stressed and weak to continue working. Once Doctor Fielder and I opened him up, we discovered a partial blockage in the left coronary artery.”
Minka stands by Steve’s bed, his hand trapped between hers, and her eyes, right there on his chest. She pictures the arteries Nicki speaks of. She understands the things I don’t.
“He was heading toward this outcome, regardless. Maybe not today. Perhaps not this month. But the blockage was significant and should have been picked up during regular physicals.”
Cato scoffs, pressing his back to the wall and his foot, just one, lifted to rest beneath his butt. “Bet the old geezer hasn’t had a physical since Vietnam. He’s one of those I’ll be alright types. More worried about his residents than he is about himself.”
“The heat exacerbated his condition, and dehydration forced him over the line.” Nicki drops her hands by her side and studies the side of Minka’s face.
She says nothing of the woman whose eyes burn red.
Whose hands shake, even if it’s just a little.
“I hazard to assume Mr. Morris probably sweated his way through last night and didn’t keep up with his fluids today.
This is just one of those things that happens, but we caught him in time.
” She looks right, stopping on Cato. “I heard you’re a hero. ”
His cheeks burn bright red. “I’m just the dude who annoyed him so much, he chose to die instead of finishing a conversation.”
“He performed CPR,” Minka murmurs. Carefully, she peels the front of Steve’s gown down just enough to look beneath. “He was with him when it mattered. Breathed for him till we arrived.”
“That’s a hero in my books.” Nicki taps Cato’s arm. “Bet you didn’t wake up this morning thinking you’d do something that cool.”
“Prognosis, Doctor Cleary?” Minka peeks this way. “Is he out of the woods?”
“A handful of days in that bed, then five to six weeks in his bed at home. Physiotherapy. A change of diet. His age and physical health prior to this matters, both of which will slow things down. But I have no reason to doubt a full and swift recovery.”
Cato draws a long, shuddering breath, clamping his lips shut like he thinks that’ll stop me from noticing the worry he carries.
“Follow-up surgery?” Minka murmurs. “Did you clear the blockage?”
“Cleared it right out and repaired the damage. Doctor Fielder, our cardiothoracic surgeon, took the lead and did wonderful work, but she had to rush into another surgery, so she gave me her blessing to update the family.” She stops and smirks.
“You are his family, after all. Doctor Fielder is confident we won’t run into further complications. ”
“When do you expect him to wake?” I ask. “Tonight? Tomorrow?”
“Because of his age, we’ve left Mr. Morris in a medically induced coma for now.
But we intend to bring him out of it tomorrow sometime.
Figured you could do with a full night’s sleep before we revisit this.
I heard about your other patient on this floor, and I know you were awake until the sun came up this morning. ”
“That was only today?” Minka blinks, blinks, blinks, slow and sluggish. Then, with a deep frown marking her forehead, she meets my eyes. “The roof was just today?”
I spy the clock on the wall, and the hour hand, alllllmost at the twelve. “Longest day in history.”
“Go home,” Nicki orders. “Get a full eight hours, then come back in the morning and we’ll discuss next steps. If anything changes overnight—though I don’t expect it to—I’ll call you right away.”
“Thanks, Nicki.” I move to her and press a kiss to her cheek. Just a touch, a single moment in time for the friend I’ve known longer than I’ve known my own wife. Then I back up and head to Minka. “We’re going home, babe.”
“But—”
“We’re not negotiating. You’re medicated and exhausted.
You’ve bled today, and I’d bet my left artery you’re flirting with dehydration, too.
We’re going home, going to bed, and when we wake up tomorrow, we’re eating a full, proper meal bursting with protein and the good sugars.
Then I’ll bring you back.” I take her hand and gently tug her away.
One step. Then another. She stumbles in her effort to be stubborn, then hisses when her knee rejects the movement.
Her eyes linger on Steve, on the machines that beep and the monitors that prove he’s alive.
But she walks, at least. Slowly.
“Nice dress, Chief Mayet.” Nicki takes a step back to clear the doorway, then she nods toward a silent Aubree, still in white. “Fun day.”
“I told you dress fittings were a bad idea.” Minka leans against my side, almost dozing and clinging to my arm. “I said we shouldn’t do it. But Emeri insisted.”
“We’ll try again in a day or two,” Aubree counters. “Probably should go back to Lori’s and pay for these. Don’t think we can return them in this condition.”
“Can you get the cat?” I meet Tim’s eyes, holding for a long beat. “Just for tonight. It’s too hot to stay in the apartment, and Minka’s not gonna last another trip that way before bed.”
“I’m fine—”
“I got it.” He drapes his arm over Aubree’s shoulders and drags her against his side. “I’ll take her to the house.”
“I’ll come with you.” Cato pushes off the wall, shyly looking anywhere but our way. “Is it okay if I stay at yours tonight?”
“Sure. Anytime—”
“He’s coming with us.” Minka grabs my baby brother’s shirt and tows him into the hall. “He can sleep on any couch. Doesn’t have to be the one in the apartment.”
She was asleep before we left the hospital, and too tired to fuss over the fact that I carried her into the house my father once owned.
The mansion on the hills, with too many bathrooms and too many bedrooms, where Timothy Malone the Second conducted business occasionally and killed women… probably.
No doubt.
She slept, even as I carried her up the stairs, and slept some more when I laid her on a king-sized bed in the middle of a bedroom larger than our apartment.
She snored when I pulled her shoes off and painstakingly unlaced the corset crushing her ribs, and she released a sweet sigh when I removed the tight boning and allowed her, finally, to expand her lungs and breathe normally for the first time in almost twelve hours.
Twelve fucking hours, though they felt like a hundred.
And now, a new day has begun. But still, she sleeps, comfortable in an air-conditioned home amongst lavish gardens and near a lush waterfall that leaves the air feeling cooler than that down in the valley Copeland City sits within.
Privilege sucks for those who don’t have it.
And sometimes, I wish I were a better man.
That I could give these things up, since I only have them because my last name is Malone.
But I’m not, and I won’t. And for right now, I’m thankful for the fortune my father and grandfather amassed.
Even knowing how they earned that money isn’t enough to make me regret the comfort and safety my wife slumbers within today.
Sunlight hits the side of the house, but unlike our apartment downtown, the brick exterior doesn’t absorb the heat, and the windows don’t allow the glaring rays to burn through.
Timothy Malone the Second poured money into this place, double-glazing every sheet of glass, and applying a special film that reflects the light instead of eating it.
So as I sit up in bed, the single sheet falling to my lap and sweat not making that filthy slurping sound in response to my movement, I glance left and find Minka asleep on her belly, her long hair draped haphazardly over the side of her face.
The lengths tickling the tops of her shoulders, and the ends flittering in the breeze of her exhales.
Her lips are swollen and puckered forward, her lashes long and delicate, kissing her cheeks.
She’s so fucking pretty it makes my teeth ache.
This woman, this goddess, is so damn sure she’s broken.
Weird. Like I didn’t listen to her discussion with my brother last night.
She thinks she’s the lesser of us, like I’m some kind of saint for tolerating her and her quirks, when, all along, I exist in a state of terror, wondering if someone else might step in and offer her more.
Something different. Something tempting and just a little too good not to, at the very least, make her stop and consider.
Careful not to disturb her sleep, I lean closer and lay a gentle kiss on the ball of her shoulder, then I move away again, determined to let her rest as long as her body demands it.
Pushing the sheet away, I turn and set my feet on the floor, and standing with an achy grunt vibrating from the base of my throat, I snag my phone from the pile of my jeans and shirt tossed haphazardly on a chair beside two others. A small coffee table. A television mounted on the wall.
This is not just a bedroom. It’s a suite, big enough to be self-contained, so if a man doesn’t want to visit the rest of the house, he doesn’t have to.
Fixing the waistband of my shorts and heading into the hall, I walk without looking where I’m going and swipe my phone unlocked instead.
I have texts from Fletch. Texts from Tim.
Texts from Detective Drake Banks. Emails sit in my inbox, some from my lieutenant, and another from Nicki giving me an update I never technically asked for: Steve is still doing okay, and Molly is doing better.