I put down the bloody instrument-of-torture to pick up my pre-sanitized, pharmacy-grade tweezers. And with a firm grip on the chip, I tugged. But it just pulled at the skin, appearing to be bonded with the tissue. I would literally have to hack it away from his moist, bloody tissue. Feeling that dread would only add to his misery, I decided not to inform him of anything else.
How do you do the thing you don’t want to do?
You just do it. So I did, slicing it out of there as close to the oblong cylinder as possible while leaving the tissue behind. This I did while Pete banged into the plywood cabinet with his knee.
It was a hackjob to be sure, but the dadgum thing was out.
“Got it,” I announced in his ear before dumping a whole bunch of alcohol on the gaping hole left by my inexpert excavation.
An ugly guttural noise escaped his throat, but I didn’t bother blowing on the wound before mopping up the excess bloody alcohol from his neck with a sun-stiffened washcloth. Instead, I quickly cut strips of surgical tape, mentally chastising myself for not doing this chore pre-op. Then, squeezing the flapping-gap closed with one hand, I applied surgical tape with the other, praying it would hold the incision closed for the night. I smeared a thick layer of antibiotic cream on top, added the thin layer of gauze over that, and then watched, horrified, as it immediately seeped blood. Dang it! Using the last-resort-clean-washcloth, I secured it mightily over the soaked gauze using a double dosing of duct tape. Done.
I sagged over him. “It’s over, Pete . . . You can get up now,” I whispered while hands—the color of murder—covered my face. I breathed in and out the rusting-metal smell of his blood until I was able to stand long enough to wash it from my hands. Pete remained down a little longer, alternately groaning and cursing under his breath.
My hand trembled to his arm. “Pete?”
He rose to stare at my ashen face. “Well that was no fun.”
The understatement made me giggle like a loon for a hysterical moment. “Oh God, Pete! I’m sorry! I know that was awful!” I half-wailed, half-whispered.
“Good Lord, Kate! What were you doin’ back there? Diggin’ for gold?”
“I’m so sorry!” I snuffled into his chest, having to lean on him for support. He immediately fell back onto the stepstool, and my head immediately dropped onto his shoulder. I felt like I’d butchered him up for good. Tears amassed in my eyes.
He graciously put his arms around me and sighed, slack-mouthed. “Bioglass is designed to bond with the surrounding tissue . . . ‘snot your fault.”
I quit my indulgent sniffling. He was beginning to slur. If he passed out, no way I could pry him off the floor without a forklift. “Come on,” I urged, “let’s get you to bed.” As soon as Pete stood back up, he swayed, so I hug-walked him to my bed, where he sprawled out on his side facing me. His eyes closed so firmly I was half afraid if I lifted the lids, I’d be facing X’s.
Kneeling before him, I brushed the damp hair from his forehead. “Can I get you anything else?”
His eyes rolled open. “My souvenir.”
I nodded and turned the ceiling fan on for him before returning a moment later with the miniscule glass vial. I held it up for his inspection. He surprised me with the valor of his grin.
“Well done, Dr. Connelly!” he praised me, slipping it into the front pocket of his jeans.
A wobbly smile was all I could give him until I thought to run to the kitchen for a frozen bag of peas. After gently crowning him with it, I headed to the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned it up before the boys woke up to discover their bathroom looked like a crime scene.
It was rounding about midnight now, and I couldn’t believe Daddy had stayed away this whole time. I didn’t ruminate about it though, because Pete occupied all of my attention. I stared down at my patient, marveling at the role-reversal, as I prepared to stay up all night to watch over him.
A rousing growl from his throat. “Katie-Kat . . . come to bed.” He beckoned to me, half-in, half-out.
Didn’t have to ask me twice. After locking the door, I paused then hid behind my nightstand to slip out of my jeans and into my tree-hugger shirt. With an amused lip twitch, Pete scooched over, and I dove in, snuggling into his bare torso. He threw a heavy arm around me, tucking me in closer so that we fit as exactly as two Russian nesting dolls. The heat from his chest warmed my skin through my T-shirt, and the beating of his heart felt steady and sure against my back. He squeezed me tight, breathed in deeply, then exhaled as one does after a long ordeal is finally over.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
“Pete,” I whispered, another unanswered question just occurring to me.
“Hmmph?”
“What were those metal detectors really for?”
A heavy sigh stirred my hair. “A chip was found a few miles from your ranch. We were headed out to look for it that night. Tol’ you . . . was a coincidence we saw you walkin’ that night . . . good thing.” He squeezed me again, snuggling into me.
And that was the last thing I heard from him until the very soft snoring in my ear that I intended to tease him about in the morning.
40
SHARK IN A FISH TANK
I was sleeping, cocooned in the comfort of Pete’s arms, when something like an echo roused me into awareness. Not an echo exactly, more like whatever comes before an echo—a flicker of a synapse, a whisper of danger. Something. Daddy? Had he returned home to find his daughter sleeping in the arms of the cadet he trusted? I’d locked the door, but he could’ve picked the lock. It was as easy as poking one of his toothpicks through the miniscule aperture until the lock popped. No, if Daddy were aware of last night’s sleeping arrangements, I’d know it by the bellowing.
Instead of feeling relieved, I was alarmed. I knew, instinctively, to keep my eyes shut a little longer. Feigning sleep, I surreptitiously ran a hand under the covers along the ridges of Pete’s stomach. This elicited a pleasurable little groan and a slight tightening of his arms—not the reaction I was looking for this morning. I hated to pinch him, I really did, but my instinct was telling me it was time for the sleeping cadet to wake up.
I would’ve given anything not to open my eyes and face the music, or the buzz kill, or whatever was out there that needed my attention. After drawing in a last deep breath of intoxicating contentment, I gave Pete’s thigh a warning squeeze. Then flicked my eyes open. The sight that awaited me was so bizarre that I insta-closed them again, dismissing it as being way too preposterous to be real. Must be a dream. Scratch that—a nightmare. But just to be sure, I reopened my eyes . . .
. . . to Ranger. Kicked back in the armchair in the corner, legs splayed out and crossed at the ankles. Staring at us. Or I guess me since it was my eyes that were open. A huge comical grin split his face. That was weird enough. But what was weirder, the preposterous part—he was wearing my tortious-shell glasses.
“Good mornin’, Glasses!” he greeted in the same kind of voice one usually says Cheerio, top of the morin’ to ya!
I shifted into panic mode at the speed of light. For one: the grin on his mouth didn’t match the furor in his eyes. For two: he wasn’t even remotely trying to be quiet. For three: Ranger was in my bedroom!