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“What the hell is your problem? Calm the fuck down and stop destroying my clinic!”
“You’re Robert’s daughter?”
“I’m not answering any more questions until you answer some of mine.” I think I see a challenge in his eyes, but I can’t be sure; it's gone before I can decipher it.
“So, if this is your clinic apparently, then that means you’re his daughter. So, Doctor Sophia, do your fucking job and help him.”
“No, I certainly will not. This man has been shot and needs to go to a fucking hospital.”
It’s at this moment that I realize how truly fucked I am. He takes out his gun, aims it at me, and orders, “No, you will help him here.” Did he seriously point a gun at me? I was wrong before; this isn’t an episode of Grey's Anatomy; this is something straight out of the Sopranos. I take a step back, trying to put some space between us. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Maybe if I run fast, I can escape. I spy a chair on my left. Perhaps I can throw this chair at him and make my escape that way. Before I make a move, he looks at me, anticipating my every move like a damn hunter. Who are these people? What sort of shady shit was my dad involved in?
“Don’t try anything stupid, krasavitsa.” He points his gun from me to the man on the table in a move-it gesture.
My fear has me frozen in place. I don’t want to help them, because I don't want to get involved. What if it comes back to bite me? What if the person who shot this guy is lurking outside and would kill me for helping them? All the what-ifs race through my mind, fogging my decision-making ability further.
When I glance over at the guy on the table, the doctor in me strongly urges me to help. It's not in me to deny treatment. Ugh, I can't believe I'm going to help them. Counting backward from ten and taking deep breaths, I walk toward the man on the table. I hope I won't regret this later.
I move his shirt out of the way to inspect the injury. There's a gunshot wound on his right shoulder. It doesn't seem to have hit any major arteries. Luckily for him, it was a clean shot.
Narrowing my eyes at Bulky, I snap at him, “He's fine. Put that damn gun away; there’s no need for this reaction.” To my surprise, he puts the gun away but doesn’t remove his gaze from me. Continuing to the cabinets, I grab the tools I'll be needing, wash my hands, and put on clean gloves. I carefully cut the man’s shirt to see the wound more clearly. I give him a shot of lidocaine to numb the area and keep from causing him any more pain. Ten minutes later, the wound is cleaned and stitched up. This man will feel much pain when the medicine wears off, but this seems to happen to him a lot by the look of things. Looking at the old scars dispersed across his chest, I’d say I was right. They are dangerous.
“All right, so it’s not bad. The bullet seems to have gone straight through. You’ll be fine; be careful not to strain and don’t pick up anything heavier than a jug of milk, or the wound will reopen.”
The man looks up at me with the same blue eyes and sharp jawline as Mr. Bulky. He gives me a smile that touches his eyes. “Thank you for patching me up, doc.” His eyes shift downward, and his mouth curls up into a smirk. “And for giving me a show,” he says in a deep husky voice.
Looking down at myself, I realize that my breasts are very close to his face. I feel my cheeks heat at his words. I shake off the embarrassment, and anger flares in its place—the nerve of these men. “You’re welcome, and don’t worry about paying for the show; it's on the house,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and helping my nerves in the process, which doesn't help at all. The only thing that will help is them leaving. He bursts out laughing; it’s so infectious that I almost forget all the questions I asked earlier.
Before I can turn to try and get answers out of the tall man in the corner—who hasn’t yet lifted his gaze off of me—the guy on the stretcher says, “You have spunk; I like it. My name is Andrei”.
“I’m Sophia.” Giving him the cold shoulder, I start picking up the mess when I hear the tall man tell Andrei, “Go wait in the car.” After a few moments, Andrei is up and heading to the door. Before leaving, he turns to me and says, “Thank you for your help, doc.” He winks at me and exits the room.
Once he’s gone, I turn my attention to the man sulking in the corner. After what feels like the most intense staring contest of my life, I ask, “Who the hell are you, and why are you here instead of a hospital?” hoping this time he answers me.
“Don’t ask questions you don't want answers to, krasavitsa. Plus, it’s none of your concern.” He gives my profile a lingering look, and his lips twitch in approval.
I'm fuming. Pointing the finger at him, I let him have it. ''Let me put this in terms that your pea-sized brain might comprehend. This does concern me. The moment you broke in, you made it my business. Oh, and if someone asks you a fucking question, it’s because they want to know! Another thing—stop calling me krasavitsa.” I try to mimic him, but it sounds like I’m gurgling. Why is Russian such a complex language? He doesn't say anything; instead, he just looks at me with amusement, making my blood boil. I contemplate throwing something at his smug face.
“Let it fucking go. I’m not telling you anything. You did your job, and that’s it,” he says, walking away, but I can't let him go that easily.
“Can you at least answer me this? How the hell do you know my father?” I yell after him, my voice rising the farther he gets. He doesn’t bother to say anything; he keeps walking out the door. Leaving me here dumbfounded with everything that just happened.
I have so many questions. Who they were, how did he know my dad, where the hell was the cop the alarm company sent, and why does my fucking stomach feel like a million butterflies took flight? I shouldn’t have this reaction to Bulky. He oozes danger from his pores.
It’s after one in the morning when I finally get home because I stayed to clean up the mess those apes left. I’m so exhausted. I suddenly remember about my date as I’m preparing to go to bed! Oh, my goodness, my date! Fumbling around for my phone, I realize I have twenty-four missed calls and fifty-three missed texts from my sister. Oh, I’m so dead. In the entire mess of the day, I totally forgot to check my phone. Choosing to ignore the barrage of messages, I instead type a quick one to my sister.
Me: I’m so sorry. I promise I have a good reason for why I left Steve hanging. I’ll explain everything in the morning.
Jenny: YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION, SOPHIA! Not only for leaving Steve hanging but for worrying Mom and me. You don’t just disappear for hours, Sophia; it’s not like you. I’m going to sleep now that I know you’re safe. I love you, sis. Talk tomorrow.
I’m not even going to bother replying to that. I’m exhausted. So, after plugging my phone in with the charger, I stare into the darkness, picturing those piercing blue eyes.
Snap out of it, Sophia! That guy is a criminal.
Closing my eyes, I toss and turn for what feels like hours. But when I finally do fall into a deep sleep, all I can see are those piercing blue eyes.
