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I can tell this isn’t going to be easy, being around her for however long it takes me to find her a safe place. Since we’re in a bit of a predicament, I haven’t been able to gauge how pissed she is that I left before she woke up, but I have a feeling it’s coming.
I feel the tug of the tape and suck in a breath. Holy SHIT that is not a good feeling. I hold as still as possible because, from her heavy breathing, I know Margaret is doing her best not to freak out—or puke—on me.
When the tape is all off, she pours the alcohol over the wound like I asked, and I keep it together as best as possible, trying not to scream out. “Shit,” I let out through gritted teeth.
“Okay, now what?” She sounds calm, and I look up to see her face devoid of any emotion. I’d guess she’s in shock.
“Now”—I blow out a breath—“take the knife and sterilize it with alcohol. Then, very carefully, run the knife straight across the wound, but only about an inch.”
“What? Cut you more? I can’t do that!” Finally, some color has returned to her face. Even though she’s protesting what I’m saying, she’s following my directions by dousing the knife with the alcohol.
“You can. You have to. We have to get the bullet out.”
“Oh. Okay. Okay, I can totally do this.” She gives herself a little pep talk, and I turn from her as she takes the knife to the spot. My entire body tenses as I feel the light slice of the knife. Before I can express any sort of reaction, she’s already done, and I couldn’t be more grateful that she was quick about it.
“Take the tweezers and sterilize them too.” Margaret does so then looks me in the eyes and waits. I take a second, knowing this will be a bitch to feel. “Okay. Take them and very carefully—wait. You need a towel,” I say, remembering another piece to this. “It’s gonna get bloody.
When she returns, I tell her to have it close by then explain how to get the bullet out. She takes a deep calming breath and dives in, literally. Margaret must feel me tense because she rests her left hand on my arm and uses her other hand to extract the bullet from the wound.
I sigh in relief that it’s almost over then suddenly see Margaret land on the carpet beside me.
Well shit.
She passed out.
I look down at my wound and see a serious amount of blood coming out. It’s not life-threatening, but it is enough to give anyone a good scare. I quickly grab the towel and press it to the wound. Looking at Margaret, I see she didn’t seem to hit her head too hard, and at least she landed on carpet.
I gather the rest of the supplies, hoping the bleeding will stop long enough for me to be able to sew it up. It’s nothing I haven’t had to do before, and I just hope I can manage to get it done before she wakes up.
“Hey, Mo,” I say when I finally see Sleeping Beauty come to. I managed to lift her up onto the couch so she didn’t wake up sore as hell like I did.
“Hi.” She rubs her head then sees what I’m wearing. “Is that mine?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I had to change.” She examines the shirt I threw on; it was the only one big enough for me.
“Girl Power? That’s all I had for you?” There’s a bit of humor in her tone, and I chuckle.
“Hey, power to the woman is what I always say.”
“So, did you get everything all put…back to where it goes?”
I lift the edge of the shirt and gesture to the wound I found some bandages for, giving her a thumbs-up. She stands up slowly and walks into her kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, she fills it with water and chugs the entire thing.
“You okay?”
She lets out a huff of laughter. “Dude.” Scoffing, she sets the glass on the counter and turns toward me, throws her hands up, and gives me crazy eyes. (I’d never say that out loud to a woman because, damn, I like to keep all my parts.) She shakes her head at me. “No! I’m not okay!” She enunciates the last word then starts stuttering. “I-I just pulled an unconscious, gorgeous man up six flights of stairs! I duct-taped a gunshot wound! Someone crazy is supposedly after you—maybe even me! None of this is okay.”
I open my mouth to assure her but then pause. “You hauled me up six flights of stairs?” I turn my head to look out a window—damn, we are up a little high. I didn’t really note what floor we were on last time I was here; the elevator worked then and I was occupied with other thoughts.
“I dropped you, too.” My eyebrows shoot up and I shake my head. Of all the people in the world to be in peril with. “But that’s not even the crazy part. Who are these guys? Why are they after you? Wait—first question: who are you?”
I sigh and realize I’ve never actually told her my real name. Maybe I’ll hold off; there’s no telling what she’d do with that now. “I’m not exactly what I told you I was.” I lean against the counter. “I’m not a travel agent.”
She gives me a look that’s almost disappointment. “You mean you don’t travel to all those wonderful places like you said? That was all bullshit?”
Slightly choking on a laugh, I reply, “No, I’ve been to those places, just not for the reasons I said. I’m…” I pause and think about how to explain this to her. My job isn’t something that’s normal. Most people have no idea what I actually do for a living, and that’s the way I’ve always liked it. “I’m a…spy.”
There’s a brief silence, a staring contest between the two of us to see who will crack first. It won’t be me—I’ve been extensively trained to not give in to pressurized situations. The last thing I expect is for her to keel over in laughter. She can’t seem to catch her breath and has tears running down her face.
