“You want to tell me what happened?” I asked while I tended to the cut.
“I fell down.”
I pulled away from the wound. “I’m trying to help, so don’t be smart with me.”
She lolled her head to one side. “When I came out of the bathroom, the guy hit me from behind. Then he kicked me while I was on the ground.”
I prepared another gauze pad to clean the area. “What did he look like? Did you recognize him?”
“I didn’t see anything. When I hit the ground and he kicked me, I covered my face.”
“But you’re sure it was a man?”
“He called me names. I’m not stupid. It was a man’s voice.” Her reaction marked her as sensitive on some subjects.
“Nobody called you stupid. I was just asking.”
What kind of asshole hits a woman? What kind of super asshole kicks a woman on the ground? Only one answer to those questions: the kind who needed to be put down. If I ever caught the fucker, he’d learn a lesson about picking on women—a lesson he’d never forget for the rest of his pathetic life.
With the bleeding stopped, I got the glue ampule ready. “You’ll need to hold still for this part.”
She stiffened.
I changed my mind. The wound was too vertical with her like this. “Actually, you’ll need to lie down on the couch. On your side.”
She stood and moved to the couch, but this still wouldn’t work with her arm, where she held it to cover herself.
I tapped her elbow. “You need to move this arm above your head.”
“But…” she objected.
She couldn’t move her other arm enough to cover herself.
I brought over the sweatshirt. “Here, use this. If you leave your arm there, you’ll have your elbow glued to your side.”
She relented and did as I asked.
The sweatshirt slid, and I repositioned it to cover her tits.
“Now hold still. This may feel hot as the glue sets.”
She nodded.
I broke the glass ampule inside the pen, pressed the skin together and applied two coats of Dermabond over the cut before adding a bandage to protect it from abrasion. “This could itch a little, but don’t pick at it.”
“Yes, doctor,” she said with the first hint of humor I’d gotten out of her so far.
“Also, you need to keep it dry for now.”
“How do you know this stuff? I mean, vasi-vaginal whatever.”
“Vasovagal,” I corrected her. “It’s an overstimulus of the vagus nerve.” I wasn’t going into my history with her or anyone. “I just do. I read a lot.” I retaliated with a question of my own. “Why don’t you want to go home?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Instead she tapped her scalp. “What do we do about this?”
The bleeding had stopped, but blood caked her hair.
“Sit up, and let’s take a look.” I stood and separated the hair slowly to get to the wound site. The bump was going to be big, but the gash was clean and short. I didn’t have a staple gun in my kit—that was an ER-type thing, not for the field. Glue would have to do the trick again. I pulled the beard trimmer from my bag. Battery operated, and with a very narrow head, it was perfect for small areas around wounds like this.
Her eyes bulged when she heard the buzz of the trimmer.
“I won’t take much,” I assured her. “But I do have to clip around the cut.”
She didn’t say anything, but a sigh and eye roll gave me grudging acceptance.
A few minutes later, I’d trimmed as little of the hair as I could get away with and glued the cut. “You can put the sweatshirt on now. No bra, though. We can’t have anything rubbing that gash on your ribs. And you can’t get any of this wet for a day.”
She nodded, and I tried again. “Let’s get you dressed and get you home.”
“No,” she barked.
“Why not?”
“Why do you have to be so nosy?”
The subject was more sensitive than I’d thought.
The possible reasons home might not be safe for her ran through my head like a freight train with an abusive father or brother being the most likely explanation—another candidate for my style of justice. A moment later, I amended that thought. It could also be an abusive boyfriend. I hadn’t considered for a moment that she had a boyfriend.
Why was that? Because I’d been the one going into her store to buy beef jerky just to get a glimpse of her, that’s why.
Chapter 14
Debbie
Luke turned to put things back into his big, red first aid bag.
I prepared to put on the sweatshirt. “This won’t work.” It was a pullover.
He looked back, and his brows came together in concern. “What?”
I was ready to cry. Not being able to dress myself was the most helpless feeling. “Do you have something that zips?” I sobbed. “I can’t raise my arm.”
He smirked. “Sure.” In no time, he was back with a black, zip-up hoodie.
I took it with my good hand and waited for him to turn around. “A little privacy?”
He turned his back and returned to repacking his bag.
I dropped the sweatshirt, but couldn’t manage to get the hoodie around my back with my bad shoulder. Modesty be damned, I gave up. I couldn’t do anything right.
“A little help, please.”
He turned back, and his eyes didn’t fail to notice my boobs on display with the hoodie only up one arm. “Sure, turn around.” A second later, he had it so I could put my other arm in the sleeve and turned me again to face him. He pulled the zipper up slowly until he reached my cleavage.
“See something you like?” I asked in my most sarcastic voice.
He pulled my chin up with a finger and locked eyes with me. “What I see,” he said slowly, “is a girl with a ton of trust issues, who has had a rotten day.” He turned and lugged his first aid bag off without another word.
Now I felt like a total shit. He’d been nothing but kind to me, professional to a fault in his first aid, and I had to go and mouth off. And this was the guy that yesterday I would’ve done anything to have notice me. What the hell was I doing?
He held out a knit cap. “For your head, until we can wash it.”
I leaned my head forward. “Can you?”
“Sure.” He gently pulled it down to my ears.
I smiled my thanks. “I’m sorry. It sucks that I can’t do anything for myself.”
He turned at the door. “You can trust me. Now, lie down on the couch and rest.”
“I am sorry,” I called after him. It took me a bit to find a comfortable position, but the softness of the couch soon provided welcome relief.
He returned with a blanket and draped it over me.
It was about time for me to be nicer and more thankful toward him. “Thank you.”
He pulled a remote from the side table and clicked on the TV before handing it to me. “Entertain yourself while I get your car.”
I’d forgotten that my wheels were stranded at the gas station. “I can come along.” Starting to get up, I realized how stupid my statement had been.