Page 32 of Wilde's End
My eyes close for a brief moment as I ignore what he could mean by that. “I didn’t murder him. He came off his bike.”
“Pity.” Booker looks him over. “Bring him inside.”
“You’re the doctor, you do it.”
“You’re the one with the muscles.”
Like that means anything. “You’re more than capable.”
“Oh, I know.” Booker shrugs, chubby cheeks creasing as he smiles. “It’s more fun this way. Pick up your pretty boy and follow me.”
Booker doesn’t wait for me to argue. He goes back inside, and I’m left to grit my teeth and reach for Hudson. I grab his ankle and haul him closer. He’s a dead weight, and it would be easier to toss him over my shoulder, but that burn looks nasty, and evenIdon’t hate him that much.
As I carry him inside, I ignore the way his head lolls against my shoulder, how heavy and solid his body is, how he mutters something in his fitful sleep, and still manages to smell sweet, even covered in filth.
Booker has cleared off the examination bed for me, and I dump Hudson onto it as soon as I can. The chop shop is attached to Booker’s house, and for us being in the middle of nowhere, he’s well stocked. The place has been lined with white vinyl on the floors and walls, and there are metal racks on one side filled with who the fuck knows what medical equipment, a locked industrial-sized fridge for medications, and a computer on a movable desk right next to the bed.
Booker clucks his tongue against his teeth as he leans in and inspects the burn. He gets close, breathing deeply as he studies it for a few minutes, before he looks up suddenly and catches my eyes. “You’re too good to me.”
There isn’t much I can say to that. Our Peril matches keepBooker in business and well funded; I think it’s the main reason he landed in Wilde’s End. Having an actual doctor close by is definitely a win, but that doesn’t mean I like everything about it.
The way Booker’s eyes sharpen, innocent face lit by some deep glow as he inspects Hudson’s injuries, creeps me the fuck out. I haven’t and won’t ask about his past since it’s our unspoken rule, but there’s also a part of me that doesn’t think I’d like what I found out.
Booker holds out a pair of scissors. “Want to do the honors?”
“Nope.”
“Your loss.”
I watch as he cuts Hudson’s shirt off and peels the material from his body. He cuts around the burn with more care than I’m used to seeing from him, and then he tosses the scraps of shirt into a bin at his side, pulls on a pair of medical gloves, and sets something cold over the burn.
I’ve been treated by Booker a lot in the past, thanks to Peril, and he usually relishes seeing me in pain. He never tries to hide his excitement as injured fighters turn up to see him and he has to deal with stitching skin back together or setting broken bones. He’s in his element, and while he might make me uncomfortable, I also know we need him. As long as he doesn’t do anything inappropriate to patients, he can enjoy what he does all he likes. Some people would argue that enjoying your job is agoodthing.
While Booker works, my gaze strays back up to Hudson’s face and the unnaturally long eyelashes that look out of place with his other, harder features.
Everything about him plain pisses me off.
An inhale hisses between his teeth, followed by a groan going in the other direction. Those eyes of his blink open, squinting against the bright light above him, and it takes a second for reality to kick in.
Hudson flinches away from Booker, gaze shooting to the racks of medical equipment to the ceiling and then to me. “What the fuck did you do to me?”
Booker sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You need to stay still.”
“Fuck that. Where the fuck am I?”
“I’m a doctor. You’ve taken a nasty fall on your motorcycle, and I’m popping you back together again.”
Some of the tension leaves Hudson, and his eyes screw up as he presses his hand to his temple. “Everything fucking hurts.”
“Oh, shoot. Painkillers. Silly me. So forgetful. Give me a moment.” There’s something in his tone I don’t believe.
Booker disappears into the large refrigerating unit, and Hudson shoots me a suspicious look. “What really happened?”
“You’re a shit rider.”
“Fuck you.”
“Next time, I’ll leave you on the road to die.”
