“You were not just checking out my junk, were you, Doc?”
I keep my gaze on the wound, focusing on the stitches—they’re through one of his more detailed tribal tattoos and I’m still at the stage where I need to be methodical about the steps. I don’t want to fuck this up, but it gives me an excuse not to look him in the eyes. “I’m a doctor, Mr. Santos. I checked out everything. You were in quite the fight today, weren’t you?”
He groans and his hands tighten into fists. The bandages I wrapped around his wrists stretch with the motion. He’d evidently been shackled; the bloody abrasions around his wrists were the first wounds I bandaged.
“Did they kill the bastard? Or is he at least maimed?”
I finish the suturing and sit up straight, reaching for a fresh bandage to cover the wound. His gray eyes are intense when I meet them, and I shake my head. “I don’t know who you mean. Your brother is fine, though. Was there someone else?”
“Delgado. The asshole who did this to me.”
I vaguely remember a third gurney being wheeled in after his, but I didn’t keep track of that patient. “Give me five minutes,” I say, then stand and leave.
I head to the nurses’ station, where I’m most likely to get a quick answer, and a few minutes later return with the information. He gives me an expectant look when I walk into the room.
“Mr. Delgado has been admitted with a concussion and several broken ribs. He’ll be here overnight at least, then will be released into federal custody. Should I ask what your fight was about?”
He eyes me for a moment, then shakes his head. “Better if you stick with what you’re good at, Doc.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Santos. How are you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight with a goddamn steamroller. But I’d feel better if you called me J.J. Mr. Santos is my dad. He could give the steamroller a run for its money.”
Somehow I am not surprised that a man in his shape grew up with violence. Leaning down to check the wounds I just bandaged, my skin prickles, and I catch him staring at me, his gaze clearly aimed down the front of my scrubs.
“Do you have questions?” I ask, giving him a pointed look.
He blinks and clears his throat. “So, ah, what’s the damage here? Am I paralyzed? Is the equipment you were just admiring going to waste from here on out?”
“Your surgery went well, actually. The bullet perforated a lung and lodged against your spine, but managed to miss your heart. You were very lucky on that count. We were able to take the bullet out and repair the damage to your vertebrae. Your spine is intact, but there’s some swelling that will likely impact movement and sensation in your lower extremities until it recedes. With therapy, you should make a full recovery.”
“You seem pretty damn confident of that.” He trails off on a cough, regarding me skeptically. A closer look at his face reveals the gray tinge to the skin that isn’t covered in mottled bruises and dried blood I haven’t had a chance to clean off yet. He’s tough, but not impervious to pain.
“I am. I’ve seen the scans. I won’t lie to you; it was close, but you were in good hands.”
His gaze drops to my hands and he lifts his brows, lips twisting into a half-smile. “Was I now? Why don’t you make me a promise, then? If you’re so confident I’ll be on my feet, let me take you out. As a thank-you.”
My cheeks heat and I look away, gathering myself before meeting his eyes again, heart fluttering and core heating under his intensity. This man clearly isn’t used to being turned down, but I know better.
Deflect, deflect, deflect.
“I wasn’t the one who performed the surgery, J.J. I’m a resident, so I only observed. UCLA’s neurosurgery department is one of the best in the country, and your injury was well within our capabilities to repair. That was all I meant. If you owe anyone a thank-you, it’s the three excellent surgeons who actually saved your life.”
J.J. grins. “You didn’t say no.”
I purse my lips and give an exasperated shake of my head. “I need some fresh bandages so I can finish treating the rest of these cuts. I’ll be back soon.”
As I walk out of the room, he calls after me hoarsely, “That wasn’t a no, either!”
2 Callie
I manage to avoid discussing his proposal for the rest of my shift. What I should have done was hand off the task to someone else, but I genuinely like this man, and even though dating him is out of the question, I’m flattered by the proposition.
I leave his room near the end of my shift floating—and kicking myself a little for looking forward to seeing him the next day. He’s just a patient, but an extremely handsome, charismatic one. I completely avoid the nagging voice telling me that he’s also likely quite dangerous. Whoever tried to kill him is someone the Feds will have in custody as soon as he’s discharged, and there are a couple men in suits lurking around the corridor outside J.J.’s room too.
That someone tried to kill him should be enough of a deterrent, but what’s wrong with a fantasy? He’ll recover and get discharged and move on, but I can still imagine what might have been if circumstances were different—if he wasn’t most likely a criminal and I wasn’t already in a long-term relationship.
My boyfriend, Barnaby, is an internal medicine resident at a hospital back home in Denver. The long-distance thing hasn’t been an issue between us so far, but the topic of seeing other people has come up in recent conversations. Not in a serious way, just as a hypothetical, and we both agreed that no, we don’t want to.
