Chapter 15
“That cut needs stitches.”
August tried to pull away, but Ricardo kept a firm hand on his shoulder while he continued putting pressure on the cut at the base of August’s neck.
“Stop wiggling,” Ricardo growled.
“I do not need stitches,” August snapped. “And if we walk into a hospital or an urgent care right now, the cops will be there before the Novocain kicks in.”
“Lidocaine.”
“What?
“Lidocaine. They use lidocaine for shit like this.”
“They—I don’t fucking care what they use. If we go somewhere to get this stitched, I’m just going to be bleeding in a jail cell and you know it.”
Ricardo rolled his eyes. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”
“Oh, don’t we?” The sarcasm dripped. “Did you bring L’Avia’s sewing kit or something?”
“No. I brought my own.”
“You brought—” August twisted around as much as he could in Ricardo’s grip, and he narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck do you mean you brought your own?”
“Have you never looked through my medical kit?”
His husband’s eyes widened. “You’re—ooh, no. No way. I am not letting you sew me back up.”
“Would you rather bleed all over every piece of clothing you brought with you until it finally heals?”
August scowled. “Can’t we just… super glue it or something? Why does it need to be stitched?”
“Because I’m annoyed and want to poke holes in something.”
The befuddled expression almost made Ricardo laugh out loud. August sputtered a bit, then, “You… what?”
Ricardo allowed himself a chuckle, but then he sobered. “Look, I can glue the smaller cuts, but this one is deeper, and it doesn’t want to stop bleeding. Stitching is better.”
August regarded him suspiciously. Which… fair.
Ricardo sighed. “I have lidocaine in the kit, too. I’m not going to make you raw dog it.”
That earned him a snort and an eyeroll followed by a resigned sigh. “Fine. Okay.”
“All right. Keep this pressed against it.” He guided August’s hand to the gritty wadded up towel he’d been pressing to the cut. Once August had it securely in place, Ricardo got up off the bed and went to his suitcase.
They’d had to make a hasty escape from the other hotel.
NightPigeon was in the wind. So was Darrow.
The cops were swarming the place because of the gunfire and bloodshed.
It was only by the skin of their teeth—and a very handsome bribe to some hotel staff—that August and Ricardo had given everyone the slip and made it out with their things.
Ricardo wouldn’t have cared too much if they’d lost their luggage. August would’ve been annoyed, no doubt, but he’d have gotten over it. Right now, Ricardo was just relieved they hadn’t been separated from the medical kit that always traveled with him.
Now they were in a shitty place in the kind of neighborhood where every window had bars on it and every counter in every establishment had a gun tucked behind it.
August hadn’t complained or even wrinkled his nose.
He’d still been a bit woozy; coming down from the adrenaline, Ricardo thought.
There’d been a hot minute where Ricardo had wondered if they should risk going to a hospital after all because August might have a concussion or something.
Once they’d settled into their room, though, and Ricardo had started tending to the scattered wounds on August’s neck and chest, the snark and sharpness had returned.
That was enough to assure him August was out of any danger from a head injury.
The cut that refused to stop bleeding was another issue. It wasn’t gushing or life-threatening, but it wouldn’t let up. So…time for Ricardo’s medical kit to make an appearance.
From the kit in question, he pulled out the necessities and returned to the bed.
After he’d put on some gloves, he got to work.
When he wiped disinfectant on and around the cut, August grunted, swore, and made a few detailed promises that all ended with Ricardo in multiple pieces.
The injection of lidocaine prompted some expansion on those promises, with threats that included the phrase “a sounding session gone catastrophically wrong.” Given that Ricardo had already made the mistake of asking August what “sounding” was, and he’d endured everything short of a PowerPoint presentation to explain it, he wasn’t about to ask for clarification of what it going catastrophically wrong would entail.
Fortunately, the local anesthetic worked quickly, and August’s tirade settled as the pain apparently faded.
Ricardo tested the skin with a few pokes of the needle, which August didn’t feel.
Then he added some more lidocaine to be absolutely sure it didn’t wear off prematurely like it had with one of his fellow Green Berets a lifetime ago.
With August calmed and numbed, Ricardo got to work.
First pulling out a few remaining splinters embedded in the wound, then disinfecting it again before carefully suturing it back together.
It wasn’t life-threatening, just deep and jagged.
And maybe Ricardo was being overly cautious.
That kind of came with the territory when August’s safety was involved.
Seeing him go down in that doorway as the shotgun had gone off—Ricardo’s mind had been instantly full of too many worst-case scenarios.
Several of which he’d already come way too close to seeing play out for real.
This was a bad idea. We never should have come out of retirement.
Boredom can be fixed. Losing August can’t.
Why was I so damn stupid?
“So who do we chase after next?” August asked, breaking through Ricardo’s mental spiral.
Ricardo glanced at him before focusing on knotting the first suture. “What do you mean?” He caught up fast, though. “Darrow or NightPigeon.”
“Exactly. We’re contracted for Darrow, and I don’t know if my pride can handle being one of the failures that makes his completion bonus bigger.”
Ricardo grunted. That was a point of pride for him—collecting those bonuses, not causing them. Over his dead body was someone else getting an extra twenty-five percent because he missed his mark. Absolutely the fuck not.
August went on, “But as long as NightPigeon is trying to fuck with us—and now that he knows we’re on to him—he’s a problem too.”
“Hmm.” Ricardo considered it as he moved on to the next suture. “I think he might be our bigger problem. As much as I don’t want to let Darrow gain any ground or let someone else take him out, that bonus won’t do us any good if we’re dead.”
He shuddered before he pierced August’s skin again.
It won’t do me any good if you’re dead.
“So what do you think we should do?” August asked quietly. “Like, prioritize taking out that stupid clown, obviously, but how? Do we chase Darrow down and see if that flushes out NightPigeon? Or do we just say fuck Darrow and hunt down that bitchy thorn in our sides.”
“We don’t know how to find him outside of when he’s finding us.”
August made an unhappy noise. “Ugh. You’re right.”
“Are you just now figuring this out?”
August flipped him off.
Ricardo chuckled and continued suturing. He paused to add some more lidocaine just to be on the safe side even though he only needed to do one or two more sutures. No point in taking chances. “So… Darrow, then. Except we don’t know where he is either.”
“Motherfucker.”
Ricardo couldn’t argue with that. He finished stitching up August’s wound, covered it with a clean bandage, and peeled off his gloves.
“How bad is it?” August poked at the bandage. “Am I going to scar? Because so help me, if I end up with a scar…”
“Scars add character.”
“Fuck you.”
“You don’t mind my scars, do you?”
“That’s different.” August rolled his shoulders, then stretched his neck from side to side. “You’ve got that rugged badass thing going on. I don’t.”
“I’m sure it’ll add to your delicate Victorian child aesthetic.”
“My what?” August rose and faced him. “How dare you?”
Ricardo cocked a brow. “Don’t you mean, ‘well, I never!’?”
“Oh, fuck you. Where’s my shirt?”
“Sit. We’re not done yet.”
“Yes, we are. We’re—”
“Do you want all the little cuts glued? Or do you want to bleed all over your clothes?”
That irritated huff was more satisfying than it should have been. As was the way August dropped onto the edge of the bed again with an indignant “fuck you.”
Ricardo just chuckled and got out the glue. The little moments of irreverence weren’t helping them make a plan, but they did keep him from doom-spiraling. And they reminded him that his husband was here, alive, and well.
And he’d better fucking stay that way.
By the time August was sewn and glued back together and their dinner had arrived from a local burger joint, they were no closer to a plan.
August did, however, have one good idea: “Maybe we should get on the phone with Heidi.”
Three heads were better than two, and she had her finger on a lot of pulses they didn’t, so Ricardo gave her a call. Once they had her on speakerphone, they explained the situation.
“Well, that sounds like a mess,” she said dryly.
“You don’t say,” Ricardo said. “We’re just not sure what we should do next.”
“Besides kill NightPigeon,” August muttered.
“That would be a good start.” Heidi paused. “Maybe what we need to do is contract him.”
August and Ricardo exchanged glances.
“Go on,” Ricardo said.
“You’re not going to like this, Ricardo,” she warned. “But I don’t have any better ideas.”
He scowled, then repeated, “Go on.”
She took a deep breath. “I think he wants the Darrow hit. He’s trying to screw you two over and tank your ratings, and what better way to do that than take the hit you guys failed to complete?”
August wrinkled his nose in disgust. Ricardo concurred.
“So, what?” August asked. “Just… let him take that contract? How would we even do that?”
“I know people,” she said without elaborating. “I can make sure he gets that job. But there’s a chance he’ll complete it.”
“Like hell,” Ricardo growled.
“It’s reality,” she said. “And he’s probably ten steps ahead of you in tracking down Darrow, so when he does get the hit…”
“Fucker,” August grumbled.