Page 33 of SKIN

42

COHEN

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

The sound was rhythmic, like the beating of my own heart pounding in my ears. Pulsatile tinnitus and possibly a traumatic head injury. The dull ache at the back of my skull told me I’d cracked it against the cement floor when the drugs took effect. When my knees gave out and gravity took over.

Couldn’t say I regretted it though. Felt good before it felt fucking terrible. As did most bad ideas.

I didn’t know what damage I’d done to my hand, and blocked nerves meant it would be difficult to figure out without doing a full assessment. Which wasn’t happening anytime soon.

The forehead restraint pinched at my left temple where the buckle had been ratcheted down and I could feel the burn of the IV seeping into my bloodstream. Fluids. With a hint of some sort of analgesic.

The thumping was replaced with the repetitive dripping, amplified by the soundlessness of the room. And I realized the sick son of a bitch was trying to slowly drive me insane.

By the time the metal wheels of the med cart clanked to my bedside, much louder than necessary, I was ready to puncture my own eardrums and claw out my remaining eye.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Adrian hummed, before dropping a plastic lunch tray on the small table to my right. With a dramatic thud.

“Didn’t realize the EBM included old wives’ tales,” I grunted.

“Apples are actually quite high in natural quercetin. Helps with the inflammation by lowering the C-reactive protein in blood.”

“You gonna add it to my bag? Or just hold the shit in front of my face long enough for me to take a bite?”

“Not very fond of the restraints.” It was a statement. Not a question. Fucker knew given the chance, I would be aiming for his jaw again. Then he tsked his tongue, without bothering to drop his smirk or even turning to look at me, his focus glued to my bandaged hand still pinned to my side. “You nearly destroyed all our hard work. Didn’t leave me much of a choice, now did you, Dr. Michaels?”

“And I’m the one with the ego…” I grunted under my breath but I knew he could hear me. Not that I cared if he did.

I continued to watch Adrian move around the small hospital room, as much as I could without moving my head. Straining to track his steps with a limited field of vision while my brain tried to fill in all the gaps. He closed a few drawers and prepped a couple of syringes from cloudy vials, tapping his foot to a song only he seemed to hear before spinning on the heel of his designer shoes and landing me with a glare.

“Glad you finally admit it. Explains why you’re having so much trouble expressing your gratitude.”

I barked out a laugh, the sound harsh and disconcerting against my strained vocal cords. “Grateful for what? All you did was ensure I’d never pick up a scalpel again.”

“How’s that? You have almost full mobility of all five metacarpals, ninety percent flexion of the phalanges, and your baseline HGS score nearly doubled from what it was before I ensured you’d never pick up a scalpel again.”

“And I still can’t feel shit.” I wasn’t sure what was so difficult for Dr. Dipshit to understand.

“Ah, I see.”

“About damn time.”

“You’re afraid of the challenge. And here I thought being the top of your graduating class, rumored to be the next big thing in medicine actually meant something. Guess I was mistaken. Sorry for wasting your time, Dr. Michaels.” Adrian shifted to my bedside, releasing each restraint one at a time with a quick flick of his wrist. “The door’s right there. Please don’t let me keep you from all the job offers filling up your inbox.”

I swung my shaky legs over the edge of the mattress, flexing my wrist and relieving some of the tension in my tight muscles. I hated to admit it but the fucker was right. I had decent mobility in my palm, each of the digits moved independently, and most noticeable was the lack of pain. Which brought me right back to the problem literally at hand.

“How?” I ground out the question between a clenched jaw and scraping teeth.

“What’s that?”

I could hear the satisfaction in Adrian’s voice, see it in the indent of a slight dimple on his right side. “How am I supposed to cut into a live patient without being able to feel the depth of my incision, without being able to control the force and pressure of the blade?”

He shrugged a single shoulder, his grin wider than the cat that ate the goddamn canary. “Very carefully, Dr. Michaels. Very, very carefully.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, Cohen.” Adrian shoved a hand against my chest and had me sprawled out on the hospital bed before I had a chance to react. It was the first time I’d seen him break that cool-as-a-fucking-cucumber demeanor. The first time I’d seen the rage rise to the surface and darken those emotionless eyes of his. Like his long-held tight leash had finally snapped.

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