Page 32 of Kept in the Dark
He’s still as I begin, barely breathing. His muscles spasm under my hand when I get the needle in, but I know that’s involuntary. The scar on his face pulls, deepening into a line that slashes through his pained grimace, and he lets out a shaky breath through his teeth.
“You good?”
“Da.”
Stitching falls into a rhythm after the initial stick, and now is when I would normally start asking a patient questions, like what happened. For insurance purposes, sure, but also because it helps put them at ease sometimes to tell the story. Kind of unnecessary this time, since I saw it happen.
But talking during this kind of thing helps—I’ve been told my voice is soothing—and patients don’t seem to care what I say. So, I created a habit of saying everything I’m thinking out loud.
“If I had a nickel for every time someone attacked me… well, I’d only have three nickels, but it’s not great that it’s happened at all, you know? You’d probably have a whole dollar or two, though—”
“Who attacked you?” His brows snap together.
I’m not expecting to be interrupted, so I startle. “What?”
“I assume once was Kyle, last night. Who were the others?” he asks, voice strained. Probably from the pain.
Not sure why he cares, I shrug. “Both times were years ago—earlier in my career.” I shift forward so he can see the scar above my elbow, then move my hair aside to show the other at the nape of my neck. “This guy half my size came at me with a stolen scalpel in Portland, and a woman tried to jump me for some pain meds in Austin. It happens more often than you think. I’ve gotten a lot better at anticipating patients’ moves.”
I concentrate hard for a second, pausing in my stream-of-consciousness while I tie off a stitch, then glance up for his reaction since he said nothing. He’s staring at me through heavy-lidded eyes.
Bedroom eyes.
“You are taking this all very well, Nicole,” he observes quietly.
“Me?” I repeat, surprised by the assessment. I eye him pointedly as I draw the thread up through his skin. “I’m not the one having an abdominal wound stitched with no pain control in a place teeming with germs.”
His brows twitch, lowering slightly. “It is not the first time for me, and I doubt it is the last. But you are not like me.”
True enough. And I think I get his point—most normal people wouldn’t be able to handle such a high-pressure situation. Most people have never had to. “Well, I do work in the emergency room, and it’s not because I’mbadunder pressure,” I mutter.
“You imply that being a nurse is the reason you are acting unusually?”
That suspicion is back, only this time it’s irritating instead of reassuring. I shake my head. “Scoff all you want, but I’ve seen a lot.”
“Such as?” he challenges, lifting a brow.
Sometimes I love how predictable people are—everyone loves a good medical gore story. “Gunshots, stab wounds, accidents with nail guns and circular saws… I’ve seen a man with a three-inch piece of glass sticking out of his cheek sit there for an hour because we were too busy to see him right away.”
I glance up at him, but he doesn’t so much as twitch at that. Okay… going to have to try a little harder to faze him, I guess.
“I’ve seen a fistfight break out in the waiting room that got someone thrown through a plated glass window before security could break it up.”
Still no reaction. Oddly, it starts to excite me—I get to bring out the big guns that I normally hold back.
“People have come in with bones poking through flesh, and organs literally spilling out.”
Not even a small flinch.
“I’ve seen severed limbs—one guy brought in a hand packed in a fishing cooler with a fish still in it. One guy shot his own dick off.”
That’s the one that finally cracks the stony facade. Dimitri grimaces, as all men do at that story.
“Mudak,” he mutters.
“I’ve seen a lot. Okay? Maybe I’macting unusually, but the only way I could do what I do and possibly sleep at night was to learn how to compartmentalize.”
He apparently has nothing to say to that.
