Page 9 of My Fight


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“Hmmm…” is all I get out, my eyes like a hawk on his cut. My need for precision when doing stitches is almost comical. I wonder what he is trying to establish, but I leave it open for him to continue.

“I can’t imagine Philly being a place someone like you would prefer?” he remarks, and I finally stop what I am doing and look at him.

“Someone like me?”

“You know. Rich, pretty, daddy’s little girl and all that shit.” I squint my eyes in question. Did he really just say that? My hand hovers above his face mid-stich, and I think about pricking him deliberately, but that would really take my unprofessionalism to new heights. I take a calming breath instead.

“Is that what you think of me?” Is he truly a nice guy, or just a chauvinistic pig? With an observation like that, I’m leaning toward the latter. I can feel my mask slide back into place as I wait for his response.

“You look too polished to be anything other than a New York girl. Manhattan, no doubt,” he says with confidence, and my eyes flick to his. Polished? Clearly, if he saw me drag myself out of here at 5am to parent Ivy, then he would understand that polished is not necessarily how I would describe myself. I try to look my best, sure. I am a leader at this hospital, and I need to be a good example for my daughter, so I try to at least look like I have my shit together, even if the reality is somewhat different. As I stare at him, I wonder if he is serious or just trying to get under my skin. Unsure of which one it is, and not really caring either way, I lean over toward him again and begin the next stitch. He can think what he wants about me. What does it matter?

“It appears you know everything about me, Carter,” I say, not hiding my annoyance as well as I should. Although I can’t blame him for coming to the conclusion he did… I was that person up until a few years ago, I suppose.

“How is your head? Are these stitches going okay for you?” I ask when I notice he’s looking uncomfortable.

“Fine, Doc. I’ve had much worse.” I bet he has. Even though he is covered in tattoos, I can still see scars covering his body, and he has a lot of them. If I had to guess, I would say knife wounds mainly, but there are one or two that could be from bullets. Thinking about this, I decide to ask him a few questions. He’s already made his assumptions about me, so it’s time I find out if mine are correct.

“So, how do you know Dante?”

“Dante and Sebastian Romano are my brothers.” Although my hands remain steady, and I continue with the stitching, my heart beats erratically. Everyone knows who Sebastian Romano is. It is suddenly apparent to me that this man underneath my hands is not just a friend of the mob, but a part of the mob.

“Hmmm, sounds like you're more New York than me, then,” I say with more sass than intended, as I try to calm my insides and snip the last thread. Putting down the scissors, I place my hands on either side of his head and look closer to see if he needs another stitch. As my hands cup his face, I feel his eyes on me. The way he’s making me feel, just from his gaze, there is no denying some chemistry between us. But I have to.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his mouth turn up into a smirk, obviously amused by my retort, and I melt a little inside. My eyes meet his, and I offer a small smile in return.

“I think this will do. I have put them in as close to the hairline as possible and I don’t think it will leave a scar, although you may have a thin red line for a little while,” I tell him as I lean back and pull off my gloves.

“I’m not too worried about scarring, Doc. It comes with the territory.” He rests back down in the same position he was in when I entered the room. The comment has my eyes back on his bare torso, again looking at the black ink, but also lingering on the scars this time. Being in my profession, I don’t like seeing people in pain. My natural instinct is to stop it, heal them, fix them where I can. With the number of scars on his body, I only hope he’s had caring doctors when he’s needed them.

“Ian will check on you later. Is there anything you need before I go?” I ask, feeling the push to get out of this room. I need to get away from this man. My emotions are all over the place and the last thing I need is to be on friendly terms with another member of the mob. First, his eyes peer into my soul, then he insults me by calling me a rich daddy’s girl before giving me that sly sexy smirk. I want to care for him, slap him, and kiss him all at once.

Carter stares at me for a beat. “How about your number?” he asks, his deep blues set on me, and I just about choke on a swallow. I still for a beat. It has been a long time since anyone asked me for my number. Again, my father’s voice repeats in my mind. “No one wants you, Catherine. You are washed up.” And even if those insecurities weren’t running rampant… this is dangerous territory for me to ever entertain. I need to do everything in my power to keep my daughter safe, and that means keeping a healthy distance from anything mob related.

“I don’t think so, Carter. Why don’t you rest up, and you can go home in the morning once your stats are taken after breakfast.” I pat his hand, a habit I have with all of my patients. But when I go to move, he grabs onto it, stopping me in place.

“Being a polished girl from Manhattan is a nice thing... just so you know,” he says as his thumb sweeps across my hand. It sounds like an apology of sorts, like he knows what he said earlier hit a sore spot within me. I stand there, looking at him for a beat, shocked that he bothered to acknowledge it.

I’m not sure I can form words. His hand gripping mine is steady, not threatening or harmful, but strong and reassuring. Like he knows I need it. But I can’t let myself think like that. I need to be strong on my own; I know there is no one coming to save me.

“Good to know,” I manage to whisper, before he lets go of my hand, and I grab onto my tray, gripping it like it is my lifeline.

“Goodbye, Carter.”

I have never had a reaction like I have with Carter tonight. I don’t know why, but I would be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want more of it. Good thing I’ll probably never see him again.

“Bye, Doc,” he says, and it’s like he knows it too.

7

Carter

After lying in this fucking uncomfortable bed all night, I wake from the few hours of sleep I managed to get, and all I can smell is her. My nose so attuned to her scent now that I think I would be able to follow it and find her. But I don’t. I lean forward and grab the clipboard from its holder on the side of my bed and flick through the pages. I am no doctor, but I’ve been around enough hospitals and have had enough injuries myself to be able to read most of the jargon on these pages.

Small concussion – not surprising.

No broken ribs – that is good, but that is surprising, because my body hurts like a motherfucker.

No internal bleeding, which I already knew, since Doc told me last night. But my ribs still hurt, and I feel like my organs are jumbled. Reggie got me good. I remember the punch too; a quick hard jab at the same time I twisted my body, and when the two of us collided, I felt the pain deep within.

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