Page 47 of Ballistic

She sat forward and shoved my hand out of the way, lifting my shirt to examine it. “You’re going to need it stitched.”

“No hospitals. They ask too many questions.”

“Then, we’ll need to grab some supplies. Alcohol. Swabs. Needle and thread.” The odd calm to her voice was both welcomed and unsettling. While I appreciated her not losing her shit over the sight of the blood, at the same time, she didn’t lose her shit over the sight of all that blood. Or the thought of sewing it up.

“You’ve sewn a wound before?”

“Yeah. Once”

I nodded. “Once is good enough for me.”

17

Nicoleta

I drew up a syringe of saline solution I’d purchased at the drug store, and squirted it inside the wound. Washing away the blood gave a better view of how deep the blade had gone. Fortunately for Dax, it looked like a weak stab. “Not as deep as I thought. Should stitch nicely.”

“So, when did you do this before?” Dax sat on the toilet seat with his arm propped on the sink beside him, allowing me full access to the wound.

“My dad was in the military when I was growing up. He suffered from post-traumatic stress. One night, he got drunk, locked his keys in the car, and punched his fist through a window to get them. I was about nine years old. He passed out, while I stitched two of his fingers.”

“That’s pretty hard core for a nine-year-old.”

“Well, I didn’t know enough to sterilize the needle, so he ended up going to the hospital for infection.”

“You’ve, uh … studied a bit more on that, I hope.”

“Yes.” I squirted another round of saline into the wound and dabbed the thinning blood with gauze. “Looks like it’s slowing down a bit. Might want to take another swig of your drink before we start this.”

Dax swiped the whiskey off the counter and tipped it back, as I pinched the wound together and slid the needle through what little flesh I could grab. He flinched and groaned, but didn’t move.

“You’ve had this done before?” I asked, threading the needle through his skin a second time. The fact that he didn’t bother to ask questions left me to assume he must’ve, at some point.

“Sixteen years old. Got into a fight with a kid who wanted the ten bucks he’d bet me in cards. Had to have my eyebrow stitched by a buddy of mine. First time I ever got so shitfaced I couldn’t feel anything.”

“Talk about hardcore. You keep the ten bucks?”

“Nah. Bastard ran off with the cash, anyway.”

“Wasn’t worth it, then.”

“Probably not. Got a cool scar out of it, though.” He tilted his head just enough that I glanced up at the jagged skin in his brow, where a skinny line of hair was missing. “Was too fucking stubborn back then, too. Just like you.”

That brought a slight smile to my face, as I kept threading the wound, keeping the suture line neat and clean.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Nic. Tonight. I’ll ask around. I’ve got friends in some pretty low places who might’ve heard about that club.”

“I know where it’s at.”

“How?”

I didn’t have to look up to know his brows would be pinched together, as always. “Ricky told me.”

“You never went to the ladies’ room.” It wasn’t a question, and the slight twinge of anger in his voice tickled my spine. Made me almost want to laugh, if not for the gore of having to sew his wound together.

“No.”

“Fucking stubborn.” He shook his head and tipped back the bottle again, pausing midway to his mouth. “He didn’t make you—”