Page 12 of Beautifully Wounded

Chapter Eight

Lena

Iglanced up to see the frame of a towering man stroll into the bar, the top of his head almost hitting the door beam. His stride matched his length, and he eyed me suspiciously. As he passed by me, I couldn’t help swivel the stool around to watch him. A red-checkered patch at the base of one of the pockets on his rear end caught my eye. He walked—no, strutted—over to Jackson, who stood several feet away toward the middle of the bar. A stray curl fell over his left eye, somehow escaping the light brown ponytail, the end licking across the center of his back. Black medical-looking bag in tow, I assumed this was Doc. Not your average-looking soldier boy. To me, he looked as though nature had placed him in the wrong era, thirty years out of his time.

“Hey Doc, this is Lana. Lana, Jon Doctrill.” I wondered if it was safe to let him examine me. I wanted to run out of there. I started to stand, winced at the pain, and clutched my side. Jackson grabbed my arm to steady me and helped me to sit back down. “Whoa. Take it easy.”

“Seems to be getting worse,” I admitted. My voice sounded weak, even to me.

“Maybe I can help,” Doc said.

I gave him a wary look, still unsure how much I could trust him, even trust Jackson for that matter.

Doc took a step toward me, and I cowered back a step. “What harm could it do?” Doc tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s right. What harm could it do?” Jackson stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded.

“Lana.” Doc held out his hand and smiled a don’t-worry-I’ll-take-care-of-you smile. His kind eyes put me a little more at ease.

“Let’s go back to the office for privacy, in case someone else comes in.”

My muscles must have started to tighten up because walking now was much more challenging than it had been a short while ago. Leaning on Jackson for support, I hobbled along to a small room in the back of the bar.

“Here. Sit down, Lana.” Jackson gestured toward a small brown leather sofa along the wall before turning to leave.

“Wait, please stay,” I begged, still unsure of what I was getting myself into. I somehow felt a little safer with Jackson there.

“I’ll need you to unfasten your coat a bit so I can listen to your lungs and check your ribs.”

Remembering I didn’t have anything on underneath my coat, I only undid the top three buttons. My hands trembled with each small movement.

“Um … I’ll need a little more than that,” he said.

“I uh … sort of left in a hurry and didn’t have time to put much on.”

“Sorry. Here, you can cover up with this.” Doc picked up a small wool blanket from the back of the sofa and handed it to me. I didn’t like the idea of baring my flesh to this stranger, but I knew I was hurt, and I didn’t want to go to the emergency room for treatment. Hospitals and urgent care centers asked too many questions, and quite honestly, I wasn’t that great of a liar. At this point, I figured Doc was my only solution.

I was grateful when Jackson turned his back. Doc frowned as he gazed at the myriad of bruises on my sides. “Okay, breathe as deep as you can,” he said, holding his stethoscope against my back.

I winced as each breath caused a stabbing pain through my midsection.

“Now lie back. I’m going to check your ribs to make sure you’re not showing any signs of internal problems. It may hurt a bit.”

He was gentle with his touch as he examined my rib cage, but I cringed anyway when his fingers met my skin. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to allow another man to touch me in any way after Troy, and I had to remind myself that Doc was a doctor, almost. Deep down, I knew most men were not like Troy.

“Sorry, I know that must hurt like a mother fucker.”

“Jeez, Doc, watch your language, will you?” Jackson grumbled from the door.

“Sorry, I mean hurt like a son of a bitch. Ah shit, sorry.”

In spite of the pain and the embarrassment of the situation, I smiled at Doc’s flustering.

“You can sit up now,” he said, holding out a hand for me. I grabbed it, and as I sat up and pulled the blanket around me, Jackson turned back around.

Jackson waited patiently across the room as Doc checked the bump on my head and examined my eye, asking me to follow his finger as he checked my peripheral vision, which I’m pretty sure was fine.

Doc straightened. “I’m sorry … I have to ask this, but is there any semen residue we need to be concerned with? You know, in case you want to press charges?”

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