“I’ve got it,” Marseille said.
“Pour some into a long, shallow dish, it’ll cool quicker.”
“Is that like seventh grade chemistry?” Strat teased, and she glared, fine, anything to keep them both from falling apart.
“I need a couple of clean towels too.”
Otherwise she’d wreck the couch, owned by… someone. Not her. Marseille went into the bedroom.
“Who are you pissed at?” Strat asked.
Shifting, she opened the med kit her brother kept well stocked. “This’ll probably hurt.”
“It will hurt, I’ve done this before. Answer me, who are you pissed at?”
“Why do you think I’m pissed at anyone?”
“If it’s supposed to be a secret, tell your face,” he said, extricating his arm when she tried to distract herself with it. “Your brother? Your boyfriend? Or the girl?”
“I brought dark ones,” Marseille said, delivering the towels.
With their hostess just standing there, their conversation couldn’t continue. Thank God. Strat was right. She didn’t know why, but rage simmered in her belly. Cleaning his wound with the water, catching it with the towel, concentrating kept her mind from racing.
“Okay, this is the hard part. Marseille, you have any liquor?”
“That’s my girl,” Strat said, sinking into the couch. “Bring on the booze.”
“There’s scotch.”
Marseille went toward the kitchen as her eyes met Strat’s.
“He be pissed?” her friend whispered.
“Better Scottish than American.” Again, she shrugged. “We just won’t tell him.”
That was holding onto the hope they’d see Conn again. Pretending this was all okay, that they could joke and enjoy each other, comforted both of them. Probably more her.
Strat squeezed her leg. “He’s fine.”
Damn, the man didn’t even need her to speak to know her mind. Marseille came over with the alcohol, holding the open bottle out to—she intercepted it and gulped some before giving it to Strat, the guy who was supposed to be, you know, injured and in need of dull senses.
“Okay, breathe in, old man.”
“You’ve done this before?” Marseille asked, looming over her shoulder.
“No guts, no glory, right?” Confidence went a long way, yes, but she’d never fool Strat. “I’m good at improvising. We’ll be fine.”
She wasn’t the one bleeding.
To his credit, Strat made little sound and hardly flinched. And to hers, she didn’t breathe. Helping her friend was paramount, it wasn’t time to be squeamish or nervous… or terrified. Still, it didn’t feel good to be rooting around inside him looking for—
“Got it!” Holding it up between the tweezers, triumphant, her relief vanished when blood trickled down his arm. “Shit.”
“Oh, God, what is—that’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s not a lot of blood,” Strat said to Marseille, snatching the gauze from the table. He pushed her away to apply pressure himself. “Get the needle.”
“Sewing kit.”