Page 5 of Doctor Hot Mess

I keep my tone calm and steady. “I can stabilize him for now, but he’s going to need surgery. That bullet needs to come out, and I can’t do that here.”

The gunman’s head snaps toward me, his expression shifting from panic to fury. “No!” His voice rises, sharp and cracking. “No one else! You can do it. You have to. The more people involved, the less likely any of us make it out of here alive.”

My stomach twists, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “Listen to me,” I say firmly, my hands never stopping their work on Joey’s wound. “I’m not calling the cops. I’m not calling anyone except someone who can save him. If that bullet stays in there, he’s going to bleed out. Is that what you want?”

He freezes, his chest heaving. The gun twitches in his hand. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to get me arrested?—”

“I’m trying to save him,” I cut in, my voice rising just enough to snap him out of his spiral. “That’s it. I’m not a surgeon. I can’t safely remove the bullet without killing him.”

Joey groans, his head lolling to the side, and the man’s face crumples. He takes a shaky step toward the bed, clutching the back of the wheelchair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“What do you need?” he asks finally, his voice a rasp.

Relief flutters in my chest, but I don’t let it show. “I need a surgeon,” I say carefully, keeping my tone neutral. “No cops. Just a surgeon. I know the general surgeon on the floor today. He's someone I trust. He’s good, and I'm pretty sure if I call him and ask him to come in here quietly, he will.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and suspicion flashes across his face. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don't, but we're running out of options here,” I reply evenly. “We’ve worked together for years. I can ask without giving him too much, and because he knows me, he will probably come quietly if I tell him to. If we don’t move fast, your brother isn’t going to make it.”

The man curses under his breath, pacing a short, frantic line next to the bed. He doesn’t want to trust me—I can see it in every rigid line of his body. But Joey’s fading fast, and he knows it.

“One person,” he growls finally, pointing the gun at me again. “No cops. No alarms. You screw me, and I swear?—”

“I’m not going to screw you,” I interrupt. “Just let me call him.”

He doesn’t lower the gun, but he jerks his head toward the counter where my phone sits next to the clipboard I dropped earlier. "Call him on speakerphone."

My hands shake as I rip off my bloody gloves and grab it. I pull up Jonah’s name and click it, not sure how this is going to go. Please, God, pick up.

"Bellinger."

“Jonah,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “I need you in triage room four. Quietly. We have a situation, and I need you.”

The gunman waves his gun and then mouths, "Make sure he comes alone."

"Make sure it's just you. I need this to stay between us."

There’s a beat of silence, and I can picture him frowning, his sharp brain already working through the possibilities. “Harper, what the hell?—”

“Please,” I cut in, throwing a glance at the gunman, whose daggers for eyes are boring into me. “Just come. I’ll explain when you get here.”

Another pause. Then, “I’m on my way.”

The line goes dead, and I set the phone down, exhaling slowly. The gunman’s glare doesn’t waver, but at least he’s letting me move.

A few agonizing minutes later, the door creaks open, and Jonah steps inside. He pauses for half a second, taking in the scene: the blood pooling on the table, the unconscious young man, the wild-eyed gunman gripping the weapon so tightly his knuckles are white.

His jaw tightens, but his expression stays calm, his hands raised slightly as he steps fully into the room.

“Harper,” he says evenly, his sharp gaze cutting to me for a moment. I see the questions in his eyes—What the hell is going on? Are you okay?—but I shake my head subtly. Not now.

“Who are you?” the gunman demands, the gun jerking slightly in his hand.

“I’m Dr. Bellinger,” Jonah replies, his voice measured. “A surgeon. Harper called me to help.” His tone doesn’t waver as his eyes flick briefly to the boy on the table. “What happened?”

“That doesn’t matter!” the man snaps, his voice cracking. He gestures at Joey with the gun. “He's got a bullet in his gut, and you're going to get it out and stop the bleeding!”

Jonah doesn’t react to the outburst. His gaze is steady, assessing the situation like it’s just another emergency—a patient in trouble, a solution to find. He moves slowly toward the bed with his hands still raised slightly, keeping his palms visible.

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