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Mamba glanced down at his arm. Now that she cleaned it up, it didn’t look that bad. “You can’t do it here?”
“First of all, I’m not qualified to do sutures, and second, we need a sterile environment.”
“Just wrap it up. I’ve had much worse.” Like the guy in the joint who knifed him in the gut with a rusty screwdriver. Mamba spent two days in the infirmary with an antibiotic IV drip. Nice little vacay from listening to his cellie snore all night. Shit, this was barely a scratch.
“Make sure you get this looked at since there is still a chance of infection.” Her eyes raked over his scarred, bare chest covered in soot and the dried blood on his wrapped knuckles. He’d slipped out of the warehouse in only his boxing jerseys, then mixed it up with that bastard, Ajax, never expecting they’d end up here.
Mamba’s gaze flicked back to Mandy as they started an IV and took her vitals. He still couldn’t believe fuckin’ Ajax locked up his sister. Maybe now, she’d understand more about him.
“I’m guessing this woman is special to you.”
“Very special.”
“I’m also guessing that this”—she nodded to his arm while wrapping it in sterile gauze—“had something to do with her.”
Mamba tore his gaze away from Mandy. “You studying to be a shrink?”
“I am. Just finished my thesis called ‘Why Men Feel the Need to Fight Over Women.’”
Mamba narrowed his eyes.
“I’m kidding about the thesis, but I am taking psych courses at UNLV.”
They loaded Mandy into the back of the ambulance, and Mamba jerked his chin. “You almost done?”
“You got plenty of time. The EMTs are taking her to University Medical, and they should be done running all the necessary tests by the time you get there.”
“She’s gonna be okay, right?”
“It didn’t seem like she had any external burns, and she’s breathing on her own. She’s young, so her prognosis should be good.”
* * *
Mamba pulled up in front of the hospital ten minutes later. He’d unwrapped the blood-stained tape from his knuckles, dug a ratty t-shirt out of his saddlebag, and slipped it over his head. It didn’t make him look much better, but at least it covered the welts, soot, and blood on his torso.
The right side of his face was tender from Ajax’s fist, and a glance in his side mirror showed the beginnings of a black eye. Blood stained the gauze wrapped around his bicep, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.
He entered the emergency room and went straight to the reception desk. The woman stared at his bruised face, then shoved a clipboard under the plexiglass partition. “Fill this out, and someone will see you shortly.”
He pushed the papers back through the opening. “I’m looking for Miranda Brooks. She was brought in for smoke inhalation.”
The woman consulted her computer screen, then looked back at him. “Are you family?”
“I’m her—” Boyfriend sounded fuckin’ stupid, so he lied. “Yeah, I’m family.”
“She’s in room three.” Her eyes rested on the bloody bandage. “Are you sure you don’t need assistance too?”
“I’m good.” Mamba turned away from the desk before this woman drilled him with more questions or changed her mind about letting him go in.
He pushed through the double doors, assessed his surroundings, and found the curtained area marked number three.
He slipped through the curtain as a nurse took Mandy’s blood pressure, then listened to her heart. They’d removed the oxygen mask that covered most of her face and replaced it with small tubes in her nose—hopefully, a positive sign.
The nurse turned away from the bed and gave him a once over. “Do you need medical assistance?” she asked, motioning to his arm.
“No, I’m here to see Mandy.”
“If you were in the fire, an ER doctor should also examine you,” the nurse added.
