Page 12 of Dr Feel Good
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Good?” I growled.
Survival 101—always prepare for the worst. Instead of having backup light at the ready, it hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Her breaths were turning ragged, shallow, each one a struggle. Blood seeped from the thigh wound, staining the comforter underneath her. She was bleeding more than I expected. If I didn’t staunch it, she wouldn’t make it.
Fuck. No! I wouldn’t consider that possibility.
“Stay with me,” I ordered, probing for the bullet. “You’re losing too much blood.”
Of course, she didn’t answer. Helplessness settled into me, but I shoved it aside with ruthless determination and looked at her face again.
So still and pale.
“Come on,” I whispered. “You have to fight.”
I didn’t know her story, despite what her tattoos said. In that moment, I no longer cared. She was simply a patient I needed to save.
I worked as fast as possible under the circumstances. It was one thing to work under such pressure, surrounded by a team of support staff. But alone, I felt the weight of responsibility keenly. Time was slipping away.
Minutes blurred, each one stretching unbearably long. When I finally reached the bullet, I realized it wasn’t as deep as I believed. Carefully, I pulled it out before stitching the wound and moving on to the next one, continuing to murmur reassurances she might not hear.
On the periphery of my focus, I heard snow slamming against the roof in heavy sheets, drowning out everything except the fierce wind. The storm outside was raging as great as the battle I waged to save the stranger’s life.
***
Hours later, I sat in the wingback chair in my bedroom, sipping bourbon and staring at the woman in my king-sized bed. My patient. She’d bled more than I would’ve liked, which affected her blood pressure, but I’d managed to remove the bullets and get her patched up and dressed in one of my pajama tops.
Outside, the storm screamed and howled in fury. Not long ago, the generator finally succumbed, so I had oil lamps in the bedroom. Now, I needed to stoke the fire. I didn’t need hercatching pneumonia during my waiting game, which would tell if I’d done enough to save her.
Sighing, I downed the liquor in my glass, then swiped the bottle off the table and took a swig from it. There wasn’t much left, and after the past few hours, I’d earned the right to drink from the near-empty bottle. My time alone was supposed to be relaxing, allowing me a clear head to choose wisely, but the evening’s events stressed me much more than I’d been in a while. A gunshot victim requiring emergency surgery was awful in a medical facility, but operating on a criminal in the middle of the woods was nightmarish.
For now, she was stable, and I had enough supplies to care for her for the duration of the snow in.Ifher condition didn’t deteriorate.
Too soon, my bottle was empty. The pleasant buzz wasn’t enough to soothe my overwrought nerves.
In a different situation, one where she was awake, willing, and horny, I would’ve welcomed the beautiful stranger into my bed. Her appearance would prevent her from ever becoming my wife, but I’d wager she’d be a good lay, and kinky enough to match my freak.
I scowled at the direction my thoughts had taken. “Not the time, man,” I grumbled to myself, setting the bottle on the table and massaging my temple.
Fuck. I’d need more bourbon to get through the night.
At some point, I crawled into bed next to my patient, too exhausted to care about propriety. Besides, I needed to rest so I could properly care for her.
When I awakened several hours later, it took me a moment to get my bearings, especially with a hot body pressed against mine.
And by hot, I meant in the fucking literal sense. Everything immediately rushed back to me. My patient was burning up with fever.
As I rushed to grab another IV bag and fresh bandages, I weighed my options. She’d probably gotten an infection, which could kill her as quickly as a fucking allergic reaction.
Instead of deciding immediately, I changed the bandages on each of her wounds. Her arm and thigh were healing nicely, better than expected. Thanks to her tattoos, scars would hardly be noticeable. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
If she were mine, I wouldn’t want a daily reminder that gunshots had almost taken her away. On the other hand, if she were mine, I wouldn’t want ink covering an inch of her beautiful skin.
Scowling, I snapped my brows together. Shewasn’tmine and never would be. Further, I didn’t want her in any capacity.
Annoyed, I removed the bandages from her shoulder and froze at the pus and blood seeping from an open stitch.
Noprobablyin it. The wound was indeed infected, so I stopped bullshitting and got the penicillin, adding it to her IV line, which was attached to a clothes hanger that hung on a curtain rod.
