Page 17 of Sexy as Sin
He turned his head. It hurt, but the hurt was far away, like the thoughts. There was some kind of machine there, on a stand. Lights and numbers, going in and out of focus. The sides of his bed were high. Holding him in. Trapped.
Hospital bed.And he was tied down. He couldn’t breathe, but he could hear his breath, so he must be breathing. The back of his hand had tubes in it, and he had something in his nose. He felt with his other hand, ripped the tube out, and stared at it. What were they putting into him? Why?
He had to get out of here. He sat up, and the pain woke him all-the-damn-way. He gasped out loud, shut his mouth and cut the sound off, fell back again, and tried to breathe. Something started to beep much too loudly by his ear, like he’d set off an alarm by trying to escape, and he jumped at the sudden piercing sound, then cried out again at the stabbing flash of pain.
Leg.That was what hurt, and what was trapping him. It was heavy, and he couldn’t move it. He was caught, and he couldn’t make the pain go away. He couldn’t even control it. He couldn’tthink.He couldalwaysthink, but he couldn’t.
The beeping kept on, merciless, and he tried to shut his ears and couldn’t do that, either. He heard a rustle to his right and turned his head fast.
The girl who’d been curled in the recliner by the bed jumped up, tripped over her blanket, and fell against the bed, and Brett sucked in another hard breath.Wow. No. Don’t.He was awake, though. He had to be awake, for it to hurt that much. Fuzzy and in pain, but awake.
“You’re not dead,” he said. His voice was hoarse, like he’d been yelling. He’d better not have yelled. Not as bad as crying, but close. Whatever they did to him, he wasn’t crying, and he wasn’t yelling. Not anymore.
“What?” she asked. “Of course I’m not dead. That wasn’t me falling off that rock, mate. What’s beeping, though? What’s wrong?” She was still tripping over her blanket, and he laughed. “Are youlaughingat me?” she demanded. “Seriously?” She was laughing now, too, though. Maybe hewasn’t... kidnapped, or whatever. “What the hell,” she said. “Go ahead and laugh. I reckon you’ve earned it. Bloodyhell,Brett. What a fright you gave me. Would that thing stop beeping? Hang on. Why don’t they post a notice telling you what to do about that? How does that help anybody heal? Must drive the patients barking mad.” She was muttering, tossing the blanket onto the chair, peering at the machine at his side, then charging out of the room. In her white shirt and black pants, which were familiar, surely. Her feet were bare, though, and her copper ringlets moved with her as if they had a life of their own.
Why was she here? He couldn’t remember her name. He couldalwaysremember names, but he couldn’t remember hers. Bad sign. He knew where he was, though. He was in Australia, and he was in a hospital. This was not good.
She came back into the room a minute after he’d figured it out. “The nurse is coming. Meanwhile, I don’t care if I’m not meant to touch this. There must be a way to switch the noise off.” She studied the machine, then pushed a button, and the piercing beeps mercifully ceased. The silence was like an amplified heartbeat, and you could feel the vibration of it. She let out a breath. “Much better. How are you feeling?”
“Like I want a drink.” He did his best to smile. His best wasn’t great. “Of water.” He tried to piece this together some more, but couldn’t.
“Let’s see.” She went over to a sink and came back with a plastic cup, a bent straw sticking welcomingly out of the top. He took it from her, gulped the water down, and felt marginally less fuzzy.
“Good morning. Awake at last, eh?” The middle-aged woman came in talking. Brunette ponytail, pink scrubs, stethoscope. Nurse, he guessed. She checked the machine. “Your IV needs switching out. And here.” She picked up the plastic tube from the bed, pulled the loop over his head, and stuck the prongs into his nose before he could protest. “We need to keep your oxygen levels up. You’re getting a fair dose of narcotics, which can depress your breathing.” She had hold of his wrist now, was looking at her watch.
“What?” He tried to sit up, and there was that breath-stealing jolt of pain again. “No. Turn it off.”
“Hold still for me.” He didn’t, and she set his hand down and said, “You’ve got a button, see?” She put it into his hand, the one without the IV. “Press it when it first starts to hurt. Don’t wait. You can’t get too much. Pain keeps you tense, and tense bodies don’t heal as well. Let’s get your pulse now.” She picked up his other hand again.
“Where’s the doctor?” he asked. “What’s wrong with me? I don’t want drugs. I don’t need them.” He tried to fight down the panic, but it wasn’t easy. It was warring with the fuzz-brain. Also, he was feeling...
Oh, no. Justno.The sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip like it had been summoned, and he tried to swallow.
“Bathroom,” he managed to get out.
“Oh, love.” The nurse laughed, then started typing something into the computer on the stand. “You’ve got a catheter in, no worries. Or do you need a bedpan? Are you feeling the urge to move your bowels?”
He groaned. “Bathroom,” he said again. “Please.”
The girl—the one with the hair—uttered a choked exclamation, grabbed something off the table, and held it for him. Not a moment too soon, because he was retching into the blue plastic bag, his body jerking, and oh, damn it tohell.Thathurt.The plastic smell kept making him retch again, a never-ending cycle. It was horrible.
He finally sat back, gasping for real now, no control possible, his eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, the girl was holding the cup with its straw for him and saying, “Smaller sips this time, maybe.”
He sipped. Cautiously. “When I want to... impress a girl,” he told her, wishing he sounded much steadier, “I usually don’t... vomit on her. Tell me I didn’t...” Oh, no. The nausea was coming back. He closed his eyes. “Cry.” He was going to do it again. Wonderful. AndDo you have the urge to move your bowels?Talk about your romantic phrases.
The girl went away, came back fast, and wiped his face with something wonderfully damp and cool while she asked the nurse, “Can you give him something for the nausea? It can’t be good for him. It hurts him.”
“About to ring the doctor and ask,” the nurse said, mercifully carrying away the blue bag and tossing it into a bin markedBiohazard.He was a biohazard? “I’ll be back.”
Be polite.It was important, and it helped. “Thank you,” he said, and the nurse smiled and said, “No worries.” That was good, then.
He didn’t watch her go. “Stalling,” he told the redhead in the steadiest voice he could manage. If he held very, very still and breathed in through his nose, the sickness receded a tiny bit. If you focused on something else, things didn’t feel as bad. He’d learned that a long time ago. “I think... I cried.”
“Ithink,” the redhead said, wiping his face some more, “it hurt.”
He closed his eyes again. “I did, didn’t I? I cried. Wonderful. Why are you here? And... what happened? When? What... day is it?”
She sat down in the recliner again, and he wished she’d hold his hand. He had a tube in his nose. He had a needle in his arm. He had acatheter.Yes, definitely a shining moment.
