Page 20 of Rush of Jealousy

“You fired Hanna over me?” I ask softly.

“Not your concern, Angie,” he warns, placing me gently onto the couch.

“The hell it’s not,” I whisper yell. “You think she betrayed you in some way.”

He sits down beside me, grabs my legs to drape over his lap, and holds my injured hand to examine the cloth bandage. The dark maroon blood stain makes me cringe with pain. Something about seeing blood is triggering for me.

“All my employees—even the temporary ones—need to know where their loyalties lie,” he says, studying my face, “and you seem to find a way to wrap them around your fingers.”

“If you are pissed off at the world, take it out on me. Not someone innocent.”

“I cannot run my company and keep you safe at the same time if I have employees giving in to you every time you flash a smile.”

Oh, the nerve of him! I move my legs an inch before he locks them into a grip to keep them where they are.

There is a knock at the door, and in walks a man I assume is the doctor who is going to give me stitches. Apparently being as powerful as Graham Hoffman gives you the privilege of being able to have a physician on call. One who can come on the spur of the moment to patch up gashes.

“Good seeing you, Graham,” Dr. Saber says kindly. His eyes reach mine. “And it is a pleasure to meet the woman who has finally made this man have to jump through hoops of fire.”

Graham scoots me over to get up, shakes hands with the doctor, and exchanges some directive I cannot quite hear.

“Okay, Angie, my name is Dr. Saber, but please call me Mitch. I’m going to wash my hands and take a look at your cut.”

Dr. Saber is about two decades older than Graham and has a bit of graying at the temples. They seem to know each other on a more personal level. I watch from the sidelines as Dr. Saber goes into what I assume is an attached bathroom and washes up. He is dressed in plain street clothes but has a big leather briefcase that contains latex gloves, a bunch of vials, needles…

And from there, I stop paying attention. Otherwise, I may faint.

Graham is at my shoulders, massaging the tension out of them, as Dr. Saber peels back the bloody cotton cloth from my right hand.

“Just close your eyes and relax, Angie,” Graham instructs me. “Don’t look, baby.”

I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I can actually smell the rusty stench of the blood. I focus on deep rhythmic breaths. Dr. Saber works around me but doesn’t tell me anything of what he is doing or is about to do. He just does it, and I’m thankful for the loss of anticipation. I sink into the couch at the feel of Graham’s hands kneading into my upper shoulders. His hands come up the sides of my neck and his fingers press into the sensitive spots behind my ears. I melt at his ministrations, and he knows it because I can hear him chuckling to himself.

He is so cocky.

I hear the click of the briefcase and then Dr. Saber’s voice cuts through the silence in the room.

“Okay, take a look.”

I stare down at the fresh bandage wrapped around my hand.

“Angie, you are very lucky that you did not damage the nerve. You should fully heal in about seven to fourteen days—depending on how well you can follow your aftercare instructions. I need you to avoid getting your wound wet for forty-eight hours. Then, wash the site twice a day with soap and water. I’ll give you some petroleum jelly and extra bandages to help with the recovery. No bathtubs, pools, or doing dishes until I tell you. I’ll see you in a week’s time to evaluate your progress. Please look out for signs of infection and call me immediately if you suspect you have one. On the desk over there, I have your instructions and supplies.”

“Thank you, Dr. Saber. You were so gentle that I barely noticed what you were doing.”

He gives me a warm smile, and I return one back.

“The joys of a little Lidocaine to numb you.”

“Oh, now that makes sense. Thank you for doing that for me.”

“Pretty sure I wouldn’t have teeth right now if I caused you any unnecessary pain,” he says, laughing and nodding to Graham.

Graham squeezes my shoulders and guides Dr. Saber out the door. I start to stand and notice the blood that is smeared all down my jean dress. I frown at the mess and flop back down into the cushions.

“I’ll send it for dry cleaning, Angie. Your new outfit should be here soon.”

“I, um,” I start, about to argue. But then I realize that walking six blocks to my parked car looking like I currently do will be very embarrassing. “How do you even know what size to get?”

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