Chapter 18 #2
Steven takes his sweet-ass time, every second feeling like eternity.
Finally, he walks in. I met him once before, months ago at Kurt’s; he’s a short, slim man with a jovial face and glasses, more like a kindly family doctor than one who treats criminals on a regular basis.
He gives me a smile and a cheery “Good evening,” wheeling a suitcase past me into the bedroom, and I pull the wedge from the apartment door and shut it before running back in.
Steven has his case open, an extendable pole already up beside the bed, a bag of fluid attached. He’s inserting a cannula into the crook of Declan’s elbow with quick, efficient movements. “What can you tell me?” he asks, without looking up.
“Uh… he’s lost a lot of blood. Thigh wound is bad and the bullet is still in. He has another on his side”—I indicate the area just below my ribs, but Steven’s not looking—“he was shivering and slurring. I… uh… gave him some water…” I trail off, feeling so helpless.
Steven hooks up the IV, then peels open Declan’s eyelid, and pushes two fingers against his neck over his pulse. He stills for half a minute, then nods once. “Can you help me, or does blood bother you?”
Declan’s blood bothers me.
“I’ll help you. Anything you need.”
“I’m going to scrub up,” Steven says, rising. “There are scissors in my case. Get his shirt off, please. His pants when you’re done with that.” He pauses, giving me a swift assessment. His hand grips my arm. “You’re doing well, Raven. Try and keep him talking, too.”
I nod. “Right.”
His case is full of medical supplies, but the scissors are on top and obvious. They’re heavy-duty with a flat lower blade.
“Going to cut your clothes off.” I try to inject some energy into my voice. “You’ll want to be awake for this; it’s your kind of kink.”
“Am awake,” he murmurs, the words hard to make out. His lips give half an attempt at a smile.
The blade slides easily beneath the hem of his shirt, sharp enough to slice through almost without needing to cut.
Maybe because the material’s soaked in his blood.
His skin is pale beneath his tattoos, clammy to the touch, and stained rust-red all down his side.
The hole in his flank is almost neat, the size of a fingertip, the skin around it swollen and tight.
I don’t want to move him to pull his shirt away, so I cut up to his shoulder and peel it across his chest, hoping that’s enough. The skull on his chest grins up at me, and I look away. I’m going to have words with that thing when this is done and he’s better.
“Shame about your pants,” I tell him, wondering how best to cut them off. Steven isn’t back yet. I decide to start with the hem, and though I have to actually cut this time, the sharp scissors make short work of the leather.
“Didn’t bring… clothes.”
That’s a fair point. Declan is going to be naked in my apartment for a while. Alas, woe is me.
“We’ll .” Choose some from China with at least two-week shipping. “Are you going commando again today?”
His lips quirk briefly, but he makes no answer. I figure that as a yes.
Steven comes back in as I’m cutting up toward Declan’s knee. He checks my progress with a glance. “Good. Keep going.”
“But the wound…”
“Yes?”
Fine, guess I’m the nurse. I grit my teeth, lift the leather away from Declan’s leg as best I can, and continue to cut upward, taking every care not to risk touching his skin with the scissor blades.
He still tenses as the material pulls around his thigh, and tears prickle my eyes as I know I’m hurting him.
I blink them back angrily, focusing hard, not wanting any distractions from what I’m doing.
Then I’m past the wound, and almost up to his hip.
The leather falls open, and the wound is way worse than the one in his side, with a more jagged hole half-closed by significant swelling, the flesh around it puffy.
It’s bruised too, a deep purple-black spreading outward.
How he could ride like that is beyond me, let alone walk on it.
It’s not the only thing revealed. His leg has a tattoo that winds around, thick black linework, spiraling from lower leg to thigh, like stylized flames reaching up. I saw it before but hadn’t had a close look; last time I was near his legs I was… focused on other things.
“That enough?” I ask Steven.
“All the way, please. As much space to work with as I can get.”
Guess they’re coming off.
I cut up through the waist band, and there’s bare skin beneath, as usual. Declan lies still, not even reacting. “Do you even own underwear?”
That raises a smile, more response than I’ve had for some time.
“Tuck the material beneath him, please,” Steven says, filling a syringe from an inverted glass bottle. “Can’t risk it being in the way.”
I shove the flap of leather between Declan’s legs, the task strangely intimate. It doesn’t help that his hip’s naked, the side of his groin, and he’s lying in my bed.
The sheets are stained red beneath him.
“Good,” Steven says again, pushing the syringe into Declan’s cannula like he’s done it a million times. “Come around here, please.”
“What’s that?”
“Ketamine. He’ll feel less, but stay conscious.” He hands me the empty syringe and nods to his case. “Put it in the yellow sharps box. I’m going to wash this out.”
Steven hums to himself while he works, flooding the wound with saline that runs pink into my mattress.
Declan lies still and pale. His shivering has stopped, his chest rising and falling more evenly.
I don’t know if that’s good or bad, and don’t want to distract Steven by asking.
He doesn’t seem bothered, but I’m not sure what flustered would look like on this strange, small man.
Steven pushes gauze into the wound, packing it down with his forceps. Declan tenses.
“Is he feeling this?”
“Oh, yes.” Steven doesn’t look up, voice mild. “Hold his hand, if you want. Talk to him.”
I walk around the bed, climbing on enough to be able to reach Declan. His hand grips mine when I take it, and I nearly fall apart right there. My chest loosens for the first time since Beverly Hills, and I can’t blink back the tears before one falls.
“Are the pain meds working?” I ask softly. “Are you feeling better?”
His eyes flutter open, finding mine. “You have… three heads,” he says in a dreamy voice. “Three times… as… beautiful.”
“You’re three times as annoying.” But I squeeze his hand.
Steven smirks, working a needle and thread through the hole with neat efficiency.
“Annoy…” Declan murmurs. “I’m not ’noying.”
He’s totally out of it, pupils dilated.
Steven puts a clean pad over the wound, sealing it with surgical tape. “Going to roll him now. You’ll have to hold, please.”
He works fast, pushing Declan onto his side and doing whatever he’s doing at the exit wound. I grip his shoulder, over his Marine tattoo.
“Were you ever wounded in the Marines?”
“No,” he mumbles. “It didn’t appeal.”
His eyes close again, breathing gentle and slow, and I hold him while Steven works. Declan’s never looked more vulnerable, and he’s trusting me.
I bite my lip, watching him lie there, drugged. Wondering if he would want me to let his wife know he’s injured. The wife I’m not actually sure is a wife anymore. Could she simply be a friend? One he buys jewelry for?
Have I blamed him for a crime he’s not guilty of?
I don’t know. But the question won’t leave me alone. My earlier certainty is in fragments; after the interrogation on our ride, my gut now tells me I’m wrong.
“All done,” Steven says. “Leg is next.”
We roll Declan back, and he’s limp and compliant.
“Hold his leg, please,” Steven tells me. “He might move involuntarily.”
I kneel up on the bed, reaching over Declan with one hand on his knee, one on his thigh above the wound.
Steven irrigates again from the saline bag, then he probes the hole with his forceps, and a trickle of fresh, bright blood leaks out.
He’s methodical, not in a rush, the minutes passing.
I want to tell him to hurry the fuck up.
Declan makes no sound as the doctor works, but his leg twitches under my hands. It seems ages before Steven finally draws out a squashed, deformed bullet, surprisingly small.
“Hollow point,” he says with disapproval, dropping it with a dull thud onto the nightstand.
“Is that bad?”
Steven grimaces. “Makes more mess and harder to get out. But it’s out now, and that’s the important thing.”
He washes the wound again, more thoroughly than before, and at this point I’m resigned to buying a new mattress. Then he sews it up with neat little stitches, puts a sterile pad over the top, and wraps a bandage around it.
“And there we are,” he says at last, straightening and easing his back. “You can let go.”
I’m grateful for that, my arms aching from holding him for so long. It must’ve been fifteen minutes, if not more. “Are we all done? Will he be all right?”
“Yes, all done, and he’ll be just fine.” Steven sighs, then starts packing his bits away.
“It’s late, and I’m going back home. I’ll leave the IV up and come and get it in a day or two.
” He sets two bottles of pills beside the bloody bullet on the nightstand, along with fresh pads, bandages, and some surgical tape.
He snaps his case shut and stands up, making eye contact.
“Read the directions on the bottles and keep the wound clean and dressed. No exertion, no stairs, and definitely no riding.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see you out; I need to get our helmets.” I give Declan a last look, then walk him to the elevator.
Steven’s quiet as we descend, but turns to me before the doors open. “When I said no riding, you know I meant it, right?”
“I’ll pass it on, but Declan will do what Declan does.” I pause. “How long until he’s well enough?”
“Two days in bed, three more of gentle activity, up and about in a week. Two before he rides.” He shakes his head. “I am completely aware you will both ignore that excellent advice.”
That’s much better than I thought it would be. “Thank you again.”
He gives me a smile, gets into his car, and drives away. I collect our helmets, along with the keys to Declan’s bike that we somehow managed to leave in the ignition.
Declan doesn’t move when I walk back in, and I think he’s asleep. He’s taking up half of my bed, but there’s room for me too. It’s either that, or sleep on the couch.
I find a shirt and underwear and climb in next to him, careful not to touch.
The excuse I tell myself is that he might need my help during the night.
But the truth is simpler: I don’t want to be away from him.