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The man was walking around the city streets firing weapons, so, yeah, I felt like it was probably in my best interest not to piss him off.
Pressing my tongue against the thermometer to keep it in place, my gaze slid up from under my lashes to look at the man who was both holding me captive and taking care of me, two actions that just didn’t seem like they were supposed to go together.
I couldn’t get a read on him.
He was in the same outfit I vaguely remembered him wearing when he’d picked me up. Gray slacks, black button-up. But now, his sleeves were rolled up to show off some strong forearms, and there was dried blood on his pants.
My blood, if I wasn’t mistaken.
Before I could take in much more than that, though, the thermometer beeped, and he reached to pull it out.
“What is it?” I asked when he looked at it, then wiped it down with another alcohol wipe.
“Normal.”
“Can I leave?”
I hadn’t meant to say that. At least not yet. But it just… blurted out of me.
“No.”
“No?” I hissed. “What do you mean, no?”
“You’re not leaving. You were just shot, Whitney.”
And with that, he turned and walked back out of the room.
While I tried to tell myself that the strange little shiver I felt when he said my name had nothing to do with how good it sounded in that far-too-appealing voice of his, and everything to do with the fact that he wasn’t going to let me leave.
A frustrated sound bubbled up and burst out of me just as the door opened again.
This time, though, it wasn’t the salt-and-pepper guy. It was someone younger with a lot of tattoos. Just as attractive, objectively, but less my type since I was pretty sure he was younger than me.
“Yeah, Surgeon can get to people like that. Great at what he does. Terrible fucking bedside manner,” the man said as he moved into the room, holding a tray with what looked like tea and some kind of food nestled on it.
“Surgeon? That’s his name?”
“Well, a nickname, at least,” the guy said.
“And who are you?” I asked, since he seemed like he was okay with talking.
“Well, I guess you can call me Maine for the time being,” he said, hooking the rolling stool with his foot and pulling it over toward the exam table with him. “And you are Whitney. Unless that name tag was fake.”
“I, ah, no. I’m Whitney,” I said.
What good would lying do?
They likely had my purse with all of my identification in it.
“Alright. Whitney. Well, Surgeon thinks it is probably a good idea for you to get some food in your stomach. You lost a lot of blood. And while we can provide a lot of services here, transfusions are a little out of our reach. Well, tonight they are, at least. And there’s also an iron tablet here,” he said, as he grabbed the rolling equipment tray and put the food tray on top of it, since he couldn’t rest it on my bandaged leg.
“Why am I here?” I asked, looking down at the tray. And, sure enough, there was a little round red pill. I knew it because I took them daily since I was deficient. A fact that was likely exacerbated by all the blood loss I’d just endured.
My actual doctor’s words came back to me, prattling on and on about fatigue, weakness, headaches, and chest pain that could, eventually, lead to more serious issues.
So I lifted my good hand, grabbed the iron pill and the small cup of water, and took it.
“Because you were shot,” Maine said.
