Page 24 of Huge Dynamite
Chapter Six
Dynamite
Damn. Even the tequila didn’t help drown my thoughts of her. Not that I had all that much to drink—I wanted to stay lucid for her tattoo—but still. It would be nice if the tequila could have taken off just the tiniest edge. Dropping my head, I let the warm water from the shower beat down on my still-tight neck muscles, and then I right my head. Glancing down, I catch a view of my raging hard-on. Fuck. It’s not like I didn’t know it was there—it’s just, I don’t know. I had expected it to calm down some as the days went by, but whenever I think of her—damn, there it is. Then tonight, seeing her lying on that chair with her scrubs tugged down low on her hips, getting a tattoo while I held her small but capable hand in mine… aw, fuck. Now my damned dick is standing out in front of me like a rock-hard divining rod that leads me in only one direction—her.
The thing is I haven’t allowed myself even one moment of release, because every time I start handling myself and I think of her, it all seems kind of crass. It’s just too tacky to think of a woman like her in this way.
But, damn. Tonight, after spending all that time with her, I may need to. Tonight, I just need a release.
Sighing, I take matters into my own hand, so to speak, and while I place one hand on the shower wall, I wrap the other around my thick shaft—just holding it for a moment as I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to be flooded with the memory of not just tonight, but that first night we met just about a month ago…
“Dr. Boling?” A short doctor in a white coat who was nervous as hell called to her as I laid on the exam table in the ER with a freaking knife stuck in my shoulder after my fight with Avery. Thankfully, after the fight, he and his girl, Seneca, raced to the hospital with me, and we’ve been square ever since. At least I hope we are.
Opening my eyes, I realize my rock-hard erection softens slightly when I’m thinking about anyone but her. Thank god. Maybe now it will just go away, because otherwise I may need some serious medical attention.
“Aw, fuck,” I mumble through clenched teeth. “Medicalattention? Did I really have to think that?”
There it is again, harder and thicker than ever. Well, it leaves me no option. This time I have got to get a release. It’s getting ridiculous.
Moving my hand slowly up and down my rod, I close my eyes again and think back to that first night we met. A lot of things were said around me that night—things like “vitals” and “shock” and “impaled.” Impaled was the word that seemed to make the short male doctor pretty damned nervous.
At least I think it was the fact that I had a knife stuck in my shoulder, but to a guy as soft as that, everything about me—my cropped hair, my muscled body, my skin that is scarred, tough, and always looks dirty, even straight out of the shower, not to mention my tattoo—is probably damned intimidating.
“Dr. Boling?” he called to her again as he backed away from me lying on my table.
I was in so much freaking pain, I really would have rather he just yanked the damn thing out and got on with stitching me up. Of course, then I didn’t know that Dr. Boling was a “she,” and that she was a freaking gorgeous one, too.
“Yes?” She came as far as the door, and then she stalled to look over my intake papers that were on a clipboard and placed in the vertical wall rack near the door. Christ. I’d never seen a woman as beautiful and confident, and she appeared so smart. She placed the clipboard back, moved to a computer, and looked over my chart. Then, she turned to me and crossed her arms over her chest. Just from the way she cocked her eyebrow when she looked at me, I knew this was a woman who wouldn’t put up with any bullshit.
Walking farther into the room, she stopped next to my bed, where I was lying back at a forty-five-degree reclining position. Even though she was working and probably had been all day, when she came up near me, I was overcome by the faint scent of flowers.
“Huh.” She stood there, scowling at my shoulder with the knife sticking out, but if she was grossed out, she sure didn’t show it.
Who knows, a knife in my shoulder may have been a big deal to me, but to her, maybe it was nothing.
Going to a mounted box on the wall, she pulled out a pair of white gloves and slipped them on. Then, walking up and stopping close to me, she inspected the injury. With a light but firm touch, she pressed the area around the knife wound. It didn’t hurt any more than the wound already did—it was kind of like she was relieving the pressure.
“All right.” With a serious tone, she looked me straight in the eye. “I’m Dr. Holly Boling. Can you tell me your name?”
“Seth. Hardy.” It hurt like a mother to even speak, but I did what she asked.
“Good. Do you know the day of the week?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.” Pulling something that looked like a pen from her breast pocket, she used it to flash a light in my eyes like I’d seen done on television. Then she paused, and looking down at my tattoo on my outer left arm, took a deep breath. “What does it mean?” she asked quietly.
“The tattoo?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the Chinese character for strength.” The way my jaw was clamped tight from pain made me speak through gritted teeth, but I really, really wanted to answer her.
Nodding, she cleared her throat and stiffened. “Mr. Hardy, I’m going to give you a course of antibiotics through an IV.”
Out of nowhere, a young nurse with pink hair materialized and set to work on my right arm. She cleaned the inner elbow and then she tried poking a good-sized IV needle into my arm, but my skin wouldn’t give. Screwing up her face, she tried again, but still nothing.
“Doctor?” the nurse spoke quietly. “His skin is tough. I can’t pierce it.”
