Page 143 of Alphas Like Us
It takes him a hot second, but he admits, “No.” He curls a piece of hair behind his ears. “I think my hand is sliced open from a rusted sheet of metal. And I’d prefer not to be stitched up by the guy who hates me. Nor the guy who hatesyou.”
Okay.
Okay.I’m here and more than capable of helping this tool, and he needs to suck up his fucking pride like I’m about to do. “I have a med kit on my bike,” I tell Thatcher. “Do you really want to wait five hours in an emergency room when I could do it rightnow?”
“Rowin is still on his way,” Jane remindsme.
“I’m better at suturing,” I say. It’s just afact.
Thatcher rolls his eyes and just shakes his head. But the words out of his mouth are, “Go getit.”
Thankyou.
It takes me three minutes to jog back down the staircase, grab the med kit and then return to the roof. And when I arrive, Thatcher has changed seats to a picnic tablebench.
Jane is on the phone, chatting to someone. Hushed and serious. She paces up and down the makeshift putt-puttcourse.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask Maximoff, who calls Rowin again—that’s it,I steal his phone, and heglares.
“Farrow.”
“It’s fine. He’s coming here. Don’t worry about him, wolf scout.” Once I finish my residency, I’ll be working with Rowin Hart on the newly namedmed team, and I haven’t been imagining what that’ll be like. It’ll happen when it happens. In three years time. So there’s no point inobsessing.
But Maximoff—I wonder if he’s been overthinking. He hasn’t mentioned anything about my ex and medicine andme.
I look him up and down, more concerned. “Are you okay withhim—”
“Yeah,” he cuts me off, definitely knowing where this is headed. “It doesn’t bother me.” He drops his putter off hisshoulder.
I’m not sure I believe him. “If itdoes—”
“It doesn’t,” he says, voicefirm.
I let it go. It’s not a talk that has to happen tonight. I return his phone to him, and he slips his cell in his backpocket.
Maximoff glances briefly at Jane and then tells me, “Your father called her back. She messaged Dr. Keene earlier asking for tips on how to treat a cut from a sheet ofmetal.”
“Sheet of metal?” I repeat, and he points to the rusted metal shaped like amushroom.
“That was on top of a Grinch statue,” he explains. “It fell and almost hit Jane. Thatcher caughtit.”
Thatcher is a good bodyguard, and I wouldn’t deny that just because I dislike theguy.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say and we head over to Moretti. Dropping the trauma bag on the picnic table, I rummage for gloves and othersupplies.
Thatcher watchestentatively.
And as Maximoff leaves to go speak to Jane, I’m left alone with him. We don’t talk. I rest my knee on the bench next to Thatcher, hovering slightly overhim.
I snap my gloves on and take his hand. He’s already removed the plaid flannel shirt. The air pulls taut every time our narrowed eyes meet, and believe me, I’ve thought about punching Thatcher plenty of times. But digging a needle in further while I’m treating him, just to hurt him—I wouldnever.
That’s not who I am, and since he’s let me stitch him, he at least believesthat.
I inspect the wound. A deep gash slices diagonally across his palm. It missed his thumb and fingers. He’slucky.
“You have all your fingers,” I tell him, cleaning and disinfecting thewound.
Thatcher doesn’t wince. Or blink. He looks over at Jane and Maximoff, but I can’t read his gaze thatwell.
