Page 192 of The Wild Charge

Forty-Eight

When a petite blonde with a badge and a gun was hastily introduced to him as Detective Dixon, Fox didn’t question it. Somewhere between Devin’s wink and shooting a crater through Hunter’s face, he’d ceded control of this whole operation to those fresher and more detached than him. He piled into the back of a Suburban and kept pressure on the wad of gauze pressed to Devin’s stomach. Devin fell asleep on the way – that was the way Fox’s pushed-too-far brain chose to categorize it: sleep. People woke from sleep. It wasn’t permanent.

Dixon’s best friend was waiting for them in the hospital parking lot with a gurney and two orderlies. Tall and dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair, there was enough ambient glow from the Emergency Room signage to offer a glimpse of her name tag:Dr. Leslie Lawrence.

“Where’s my gut wound?” she asked as they were climbing out of the car, and her brisk tone eased some of the tension wrapped around Fox’s throat like two squeezing hands.

“Right here, doc.” Mercy laid Devin out on the gurney, and Lawrence clicked a penlight on to examine him.

She nodded. “OR two,” she told the orderlies. “Get him prepped, I’m on my way. Where’s my other GSW?” she asked as the gurney rattled toward the doors.

Fox thrust his hand into the narrow beam of her penlight, and she clucked over it a moment. “Wiggle your fingers? Yeah, alright. Go in and ask for Dr. Scott. He’ll patch you up and we’ll see about a neuro consult.”

It was a whirlwind after that, and Fox found himself…drifting. Someone – presumably Dr. Scott – pulled off his glove and cleaned up his hand. Bandaged it and told him it would be hours before he got a consult. Albie was there, at one point, asking if he was alright. Fox wasn’t sure what he responded with, but Albie made a worried face.

The sun was coming up when he saw Dr. Lawrence again, in the small waiting room off the ICU. Her scrubs were bloody, mask dangling around her neck, face lined with exhaustion. But she cracked her neck and offered a smile. “He’s stable. Coded twice on the table – but he’s stubborn. We had to resection a piece of large intestine about this big” – she held up her thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart – “and put two pints of O in him. But his vitals are strong. With the antibiotic cocktail, and lots of rest, he should make a full recovery.”

The words washed over him, but the message didn’t land. He started to speak and found his mouth desert-dry. Cleared his throat, and his voice came out rusty and thin. “He’s gonna make it?”

“Yes.” She motioned to the empty chair beside him. “Mind if I sit?”

He shook his head.

She let out a deep, tired-sounding breath as she settled. “Before Melissa called, we’d just finished up with a DUI victim. Drunk guy ran right over someone on a scooter.”

He half-turned toward her, wondering why she was bothering to talk to him like this, thinking he couldn’t very well ask her to move along and talk to someone else after she’d just saved Devin’s life.

“Guy on the scooter make it?”

“Nah.” She sighed again, staring at the calm seascape painting hanging opposite them. “He was basically DOA. Saved the drunk guy, though.” She sniffed hard, disgust clear in that one sound. “Fucker.”

Fox felt the urge to lift his brows, surprised, but his face was too tired for that.

She glanced over. “My job is to treat all patients with the same level of care, no matter the circumstances. I do that, and I’m proud of it.”

He managed a frown.

And she smirked in return. “Sometimes I save people I want to slap. But tonight, your dad wasn’t one of them.” The smirk softened out into a smile. “I’m not gonna ask any questions.”

“You wouldn’t get any answers.”

She snorted. “Fair enough. But, what I wanted to say was this: Melissa tears herself to pieces worrying about this thing she’s got going with Pongo. The whole ‘oh no, but he’s an outlaw’ thing.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve tried telling her to focus on the whole cute biker, best sex you’ve ever had thing, but no.Anyway.” She stood. “If the Lean Dogs were involved in what went down tonight…”

He gave her a flat look.

“I saidif. If they were…well, I think sometimes the right thing isn’t the legal thing. And in those instances, I don’t lose sleep the way Melissa does.” She walked away, but called over her shoulder, “You can come see your dad, if you want. I’ll make sure the nurses know you’re on the list.”

~*~

In a different waiting room, Tenny sat with his elbows braced on his knees, despite the pain it sent throbbing through his shoulder. All of him hurt at this point; why worry about one injury in particular? He must have bruises or blood or something on his face, because two passing nurses had frowned and asked if anyone had taken a look at him yet. He’d sent them both off with a glare. He stared out into the middle distance, vision unfocused, head swimming from a mix of fatigue, low blood sugar, and probably more than a little shock. It was easier to drift than to think about…anything. The idea of standing was too difficult to contemplate at the moment.

All of his defenses thus down, he was startled by the sudden, seemingly-miraculous appearance of a paper coffee cup in front of his face. He blinked, tipped his head back, and took a full two seconds to determine that it was Ian offering said cup. Steam curled up from it, along with the fragrant scent of high-quality dark roast.

“I assure you this isn’t hospital coffee,” Ian said, smiling in a small, soft way that instantly put a lump in Tenny’s throat.

Tenny’s fingers were stiff and clumsy as he accepted the cup. “Thanks.” He didn’t intend to drink it, but the scent drew him forward until his lips hit the cup and then he was all but burning the skin off his tongue on a few long, desperately needed swallows.

He gasped for breath afterward, warming from the inside out. On an empty stomach, he swore the caffeine went straight to his head. “Where’d you get this at this time of night?” he asked, turning the cup in his hands to read the logo. Cappelli’s, it said. An indie place.

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