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Brennan’s stepping down into his boat to find the tool. I look at Ezra. His pale face is twisted in pain. “We don’t have to get it out here,” I tell him. “Would you rather go to the emergency room and let them do it?”
He shakes his head. "No."
He holds the hand up toward me, giving me a good view of the twin hooks poking out on either side of his nail. The tip of the finger is so dark it’s almost purple. Two rivulets of blood stream down toward his knuckle.
"I can get it out,” I say. “I'm good with small things." I glance at his face, expecting some bullshit crack about small things, but he’s not in that mode. His lips are pressed together, and his chest puffs out on a deep breath.
"You should sit down." There are two chairs on the dock. I put a hand on Ezra's back and nudge him toward one, and he does like I say. Ritchie gives his hand a look and says, "I'm getting Dad!" He and Pipsa dash off as Marcel hands Ezra a large, silver flask. "Chug it, bro."
Eight
Josh
Ezra chugs from the flask. His left hand is propped on his bare knee, palm up. There’s blood on his knee now. I can’t help the way my gaze moves to his tanned throat as he gulps the liquor down. I’m distracted by Brennan, who crouches on the outside of Ezra’s left leg and arches his brows at me.
Okay. We can do this.
I’m not sure where to put myself except between his spread legs. I’m on my knees between them, so close I can feel the heat of his skin as I move in, but I can't see his face because he's still got the flask up near his mouth. Damn—he’s stoic, but it must hurt; his whole body's shaking just a little.
"Ever passed out?" I ask. He answers with a grunt that I think means "no."
"Bren, you think you can get a grip on it from down at the base?"
Ezra holds his trembling hand up slightly for us and I catch a whiff of liquor in the warm breeze. He tips his head back. Takes a deep breath. As Brennan takes Ezra’s hand in both of his, Ezra’s right hand grips his knee, fingertips pinching the hem of his shorts.
I want to reassure him, to tell him it’ll be over in a second, but I stop myself. Because he’s an asshole. We’re not friends.
Brennan passes me the pliers. I need to snip the hooks as close to the tip of his finger as I can, before Brennan pulls. I swallow before taking Ezra’s thick, squared wrist in one of my hands and turning the hand over, looking at the palm side of it.
“Hold it sideways, Ezra. If you have to, hold onto your wrist to keep it still. And don’t look.”
To Brennan, I say, "Tell me if your grip is good. If it is, I'm gonna put some pressure on the top, straighten them out a little, so it’s easier to…”
Bren nods. I wrap my hand partway around Ezra’s sweat-damp forearm, and look up at him. He's gone pale as fuck, and one of his eyes is squinted in a way that looks a little like a wince, but otherwise his face is carefully blank. He clenches his jaw as his eyes meet mine.
"I'm going to straighten the bendy parts so that it's easier to come out. It might pull a little. Then I'll grip your hand from the side, and Bren will get it out fast." My voice wobbles slightly on those last words, and the asshole somehow smirks, looking looser around the eyes, like the liquor is getting to his head now.
"Feelin’ emotional, DG?" His lip curls for a second as his eyelids drop shut, and yeah—I'm pretty sure he's feeling the liquor.
I wait for his eyes to open again so I can tell him to fuck off, but they stay shut as his face relaxes, and I realize he's bracing.
"What was in that thing?" I murmur to Bren.
He grins smugly. "Jim Beam."
I move my fingers so they're touching the base of Ezra's palm. "You ready?"
I feel him nod.
"Shut your eyes, man," Brennan tells him.
"I can't." His voice is tight. Ezra looks off to his right, and I tell Brennan, "Grip it."
He gets his fingertips around the hook’s base. I feel Ezra's legs flex.
"Got it," Brennan says.
"Good?" I murmur.
He nods. "Do it."
With two fingers gripping the middle knuckle of Ezra's finger, I situate the pliers just how they need to be on one of the hooks, bending upward a little and then releasing. I clip the thing as clean as I can, and Ezra lets out a loud breath. I feel his left leg tremble as I repeat on the hook’s other prong.
