Lover Unleashed - J. R. Ward [123]
Another pause. “Okay, okay, Doc. Don’t get your thong in a wad. Just get through me . . . and help them.”
Hard not to respect the guy’s loyalty.
Working fast, Manny numbed the area as best he could, pushing the needle into the flesh in a controlled circle. Christ, this took him back to medical school and, in a strange way, brought him alive in a manner that the operations he’d been doing lately didn’t.
This was . . . reality with the volume turned way up. And damn him if he didn’t like the sound of it.
Grabbing a stack of clean towels, he shoved them under the leg and rinsed the wound out. As his patient hissed and stiffened, he said, “Easy, big guy. We’re just getting it cleaned.”
“No . . . problem . . .”
The hell it wasn’t, and Manny wished he could have done more in the pain-control realm, but there was no time. There were compound fractures to deal with: Stabilize. Move on.
As someone moaned and yet another string of curses rang out over on the left, Manny took care of a minute tear in the artery; then he closed the muscle and moved on to the fascia and the skin. “You’re doing great,” he murmured as he noticed those whiteknuckled fists.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Right, right . . . your brothers.” Manny paused for a split second. “You’re all right, you know that.”
“Fuck . . . that . . .” The fighter smiled, flashing fangs. “I’m . . . perfect.”
Then the guy closed his eyes and lay back, his jaw so tight it was a wonder he could swallow.
Manny worked as quickly as he could without sacrificing quality. And just as he was swiping down his line of sixty sutures with a gauze cloth, he heard Jane cry out.
Jacking his head around, he muttered, “Fucking hell.”
In the doorway to the exam room, Jane’s husband was draped in the arms of Red Sox, looking like he’d been run over by a car: His skin was pasty, his eyes had rolled back in his head, and . . . holy hell, his boot—shitkicker—was facing the wrong way.
Manny called out for the nurse. “Could you bandage this?” Glancing at his current patient, he said, “I’ve got to go look at—”
“Go.” The guy slapped his shoulder. “And thanks, Doc. I won’t forget this.”
As he headed for the newest arrival, Manny had to wonder whether that goateed big-mouth was going to let him operate. Because that leg? It looked utterly destroyed even from across the damn room.
Vishous was lapsing in and out of consciousness by the time Butch got him to the exam room. That knee and hip combo of his was beyond agony and into some other kind of territory, and the overwhelming sensations were sapping his strength and his thought processes.
He wasn’t the only one in bad shape, however. As Butch lurched weakly through the doorway, he knocked V’s head against the jamb.
“Fuck!”
“Shit—sorry.”
“Drop . . . in the bucket,” V gasped as his temple started screaming, the fucker harmonizing an a cappella version of “Welcome to the Jungle.”
To shut out the concert from hell, he opened his eyes and hoped for a distraction.
Jane was right in front of him, a suturing needle in one bloody, gloved hand, her hair pulled back by a headband.
“Not her,” he groaned. “Not . . . her . . .”
Medical professionals should never treat their mates; it was a recipe for disaster. If his knee or hip was permanently fucked-up, he didn’t want that on her conscience. God knew they had enough problems between them already.
Manny stepped in front of his shellan. “Then I’m your only option. You’re welcome.”
Vishous rolled his eyes. Great. What a choice.
“Do you consent?” the human demanded. “Or maybe you’d like to think about it for a while so that your joints heal up like a flamingo’s. Or the leg goes gangrenous and falls the fuck off.”
“Well, if that . . . isn’t a . . . sales pitch.”
“And the answer is . . . ?”
“Fine. Yes.”
“Get him on the table.”
Butch was careful with the layout routine, but even so, V nearly threw up over both of them as his weight was redistributed.
“Motherfucker—” Just as the curse was leaving his lips, the surgeon’s face appeared