Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [81]
I managed to keep my voice steady. “I’d be pissed off if the bullet would’ve hit just a little higher up and nicked something really important.”
Martinez didn’t respond with a cocky comment or a make-my-heart-race grin.
“Matching tattoos are passé, so you decided we needed matching bullet holes?”
His sole focus remained on me. His thumb absentmindedly stroked my cheek. His eyes held pain and pride and something else I couldn’t place—either fear or relief.
I turned my head and softly kissed the inside of his forearm, fully aware we had an audience, fully aware neither of us were into public displays of affection. “So you’re beyond a Big Bird bandage or me kissing it and making it better, huh?”
No response.
“If I promise to stay and plump your pillows and be your private wet nurse, will you promise to take the painkillers right now?”
“Julie—”
“Nonnegotiable point, Martinez.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. Then he patted the open side of the bed with his free hand. 288
I looked at the doctor, a sixty-something hippie with long graying hair and washed-out eyes, for approval or denial.
He frowned at me. “I don’t really think—”
“She stays. Right here. With me. Nonnegotiable,”
Martinez said with concentrated effort.
The doctor heaved a weary sigh and shrugged.
“Hang on a sec.” I stripped off my coat and snow boots. I tugged the soft wool blanket from the pile of discarded bedclothes and carefully crawled beside him. Martinez immediately reached for my hand and squeezed it.
I ached inside like he’d clamped his fist around my heart.
The doctor injected a needle into the Y tubing of his IV. The doc and Big Mike conversed in low tones. I propped myself on my side and smoothed the damp hair from Tony’s forehead. His skin was always warm, hot almost, never this cold, clammy flesh. My stomach roiled; I fought back an upsurge of nausea. The doctor leaned over Martinez. “You feel worse at any point, you call me. Don’t be a tough guy, hombre.”
Martinez whispered something in Spanish. The only word I understood was gracias.
The doctor left. Big Mike trailed behind him and stopped in the doorway. “I’ll be right out here if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I’m fine,” Martinez said.
Little did Martinez know Big Mike’s comments 289
were addressed to me, not him. I nodded.
Martinez sagged deeper into the mattress when the door clicked shut.
“They’re gone.”
“Good.”
I kept touching him, knowing it would appease his mind and his body and mine. “Tell me how you really feel, Martinez.”
“Fuckin’ hurts like a goddamn bitch.”
“You should’ve taken the painkillers sooner.”
“I couldn’t.”
I counted to ten. Then twenty. “Why not? Too much of a tough guy?”
“You should talk about being tough, blondie. But no, that wasn’t it.”
“What, then?”
Martinez brought my hand to his mouth and
dragged soft kisses across my knuckles. “I hated hanging around, seeing you drugged up, waiting for you to regain consciousness. I didn’t want to put you through that because it sucks.”
Don’t cry, Jesus, suck it up, Julie.
“While I appreciate that you were thinking of me, next time take the damn drugs, okay?”
“Okay.”
I noticed he didn’t dispute there wouldn’t be a next time.
He sighed. “I was about to give in when I caught a whiff of you in the main room, so it didn’t matter.”
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My hand stopped moving on his forehead. “A
whiff? You saying I smell bad, Martinez?”
“No. I’m saying I’d recognize you blindfolded in a room of perfume salespeople.”
“Are the drugs kicking in already? Because that was almost romantic, in a twisted way.”
He muttered something in Spanish.
“English.”
“Maybe it was meant to be romantic.”
My mouth opened but I couldn’t think of a single retort.
“Guilty as I felt about being apart from you for another night, I’m damn glad you weren’t around when that motherfucker opened fire.”
“Me, too. I might