Page 35 of The Highwaymen

The harsh fluorescent lights inside the clinic made me squint, my head pounding even harder. I let Stu maneuver me onto a stainless steel exam table, the metal cold against my bare skin. The balding man in the lab coat—the vet, I assumed—hovered nearby, snapping on latex gloves.

“Another gunshot wound?” he asked, eyeing the blood crusting my hair and skin.

Stu grunted. “Pistol whipped. Probably concussed.”

The vet sighed and reached for a penlight. He shone the light in my eyes, tracking the movement of my pupils. I flinched away from the stabbing brightness, nausea churning in my gut.

“Definitely a concussion,” the vet confirmed. “Looks like the laceration will need stitches, too.”

“Just do what you gotta do, Doc,” Stu said, his voice a low, menacing rumble. “And I'd appreciate some discretion, as usual.”

The doc clicked off the light. “And I expect you’ll pay extra for it as usual?”

“You know I'm good for it,” Stu growled. He reached into his pocket and tossed a wad of bloodstained bills on the exam table next to me. “Stitch him up.”

The vet snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for a suture kit. I watched through hazy eyes as he threaded the curved needle and doused the wound on my temple with disinfectant. The sting barely registered through the pounding ache in my skull.

“This will hurt,” the vet warned as he poised the needle over my torn flesh.

“Good,” I ground out.

Stu's hand landed on my thigh, his grip just shy of bruising. “Shut up and hold still.”

I hissed through my teeth as the needle pierced my skin, dragging the thread through in a burning line. Stu's thumb rubbed slow circles on my thigh as the vet worked, his touch searing even through the denim of my jeans.

My cock throbbed in time with my racing pulse, trapped in the confines of my blood-crusted jeans. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to flood my mouth with the coppery tang of fresh blood, trying to distract myself from the insistent ache between my legs.

The vet finished stitching the gash on my temple and snipped the thread, then began cleaning the blood from my skin with rough efficiency. I flinched as he prodded at the swollen knot on my skull, tears of pain pricking the corners of my eyes.

“Take these,” he said brusquely, shoving a bottle of pills into my hand. “No more than four a day.”

I squinted at the label, the words swimming before my eyes. Fentanyl. Fuck yeah. At least he gave out the good stuff.

“He's all yours,” the vet said to Stu, stripping off his gloves. “Keep an eye on him for the next day or so. Any vomiting, seizures, loss of consciousness, take him to a hospital.”

Stu grunted in acknowledgment and hauled me off the table. I swayed on my feet, clutching at his shoulders for balance as the room spun sickeningly around me.

“Come on, pumpkin,” Stu growled. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

He half-carried me down a dimly lit hallway to a small, dingy bathroom. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed and spat overhead, making me wince. Stu kicked the door shut behind us and propped me up against the sink.

He turned on the tap, the water gushing out in a rusty stream before running clear. Wetting a wad of paper towels, he began roughly scrubbing the blood and grime from my face and chest. I hissed at the sting, flinching away, but Stu just clamped a hand on the back of my neck, holding me in place.

“Quit squirming,” he grunted.

His fingers dug into my nape, blunt nails biting into my skin. A shudder raced down my spine, my cock jerking against the confines of my jeans. Fuck, even concussed and in pain, Stu manhandling me got me hard.

He continued his rough scrubbing, the damp paper towels chafing against my skin as he wiped away the crusted blood and gore. I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, my breath coming faster. Stu's face was set in concentration, his brows furrowed and jaw clenched.

Up close, I could see the blood splatter across his stubbled cheeks, flaking off as it dried. His white t-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat and more blood, the peaks of his nipples visible through the thin fabric. He smelled like violence and rage, like gunpowder and hot metal.

“Why didn’t you take the shot?” I asked again, my voice rough.

Stu paused, his hand tightening on the back of my neck. His eyes met mine in the mirror, blazing with barely contained fury. For a long, tense moment, he just stared at me, his chest heaving. Then he spun me around and slammed me back against the sink, crowding into my space until we were nose to nose.

“You really are a fucking idiot,” he snarled. “I didn't take the shot because I didn't want to risk hitting you, you ungrateful little shit.”

I blinked up at him, my heart pounding. “Since when do you care about not hurting me? I thought you were a hard bastard who didn’t give a shit about nobody.”

---