Runaways

by Lily Harlem

  “I’m on it.” Mason disappeared again.

  Olivia held her breath as she pierced the bag of saline, then using gravity and the pole Mason had attached, primed the tube so it was full of fluid and no air.

  “Perfect.” Paul swiped it from her, and within a second it was attached to the needle in the man’s arm. He flicked the roller switch to full, and saline ran in a fast trickle from the bag to the tube. “This will buy us time while we stop the bleeding.”

  “Shall I go and get gloves?”

  “Yes, and sutures. They’re in the second drawer down.”

  “Okay.” She passed Mason at the doorway and narrowly avoided being stabbed by the scissors he was carrying.

  “Sorry, hen.”

  “It’s all right.” She dashed into the clinical room and started yanking drawers open.

  Damn it, it was getting dark.

  Gloves. Suture set. She paused then grabbed another bag of saline. The way it was pouring in, it wouldn’t last long.

  She ran back. The man appeared to be naked with just a small towel over his groin. It seemed his arm wound was his worst injury.

  “Good job,” Paul said when he saw she had everything and more that they’d need. “Now put gloves on. I’m going to need your help.”

  “Can’t Mason—?”

  “Ah hen, I would but…” Mason pulled a face. “That’s really not my thing.”

  Olivia studied him. He did look way out of his comfort zone and almost as pale as Lucas had been. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it. No problem.” She grabbed the gloves.

  “Mason, get me the suction machine and some damn light, I can hardly fucking see.” Paul pulled a small table close, snapped on gloves then opened the suture set. “I’m going to need you to suck the blood out with that little tube as I find the source, Olivia.”

  Olivia gulped. “Yes. I can do that.” At least she hoped she could.

  When the suction machine was there, Paul showed her how to use it as Mason shone a torch into the wound. “Now get ready,” he said. “When I take the tourniquet off, it’ll bleed, but that will show me where it’s coming from.”

  “I understand.”

  She held the tube poised as the belt was released.

  A spurt of ruby red blood shot forward then began to fill the wound.

  “Fucking hell,” Paul muttered, peering into the wide gash that tore across the man’s upper arm. “Suck this up, will you.”

  She angled the tube lower and was pleased with how it removed the blood. The thing was pretty efficient.

  “There, there, I see it.” Paul pushed his finger into the wound. “Big fucker, but it’ll stitch. Pull the belt tight again.”

  Olivia did just that.

  “Now pass me that needle.”

  She set down the sucker. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He set his attention on her, his pale eyes boring into hers. “You holding up?”

  “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” She nodded at his finger shoved into the man’s arm. “Do your stuff.”

  He nodded, once, then turned to his task.

  “This saline is empty,” Mason said.

  “I’ll do it.” Olivia jumped up. “I take it he needs another bag, Paul.”

  “Aye.”

  “Kwame! Kwame!” A shrill female voice pierced the air.

  “What’s that?” Paul said, not looking up.

  “Kwame! Do not die. My love…” A long wail followed by a bang on the door.

  “I’ll go see,” Mason said.

  “I need the light.”

  “Here.” Mason set the end of the torch in Paul’s mouth then left the room.

  Paul continued to concentrate on his task with his teeth gritted around the flashlight.

  As soon as Olivia had replaced the fluid, she took the torch. “How’s it going?” Several tight black stitches were set deep in the wound.

  “I think I’ve got the main bleeder. Take the pressure off the belt and let’s see how it does. But get the suction ready.”

  Olivia needed more hands, so she propped the torch between her teeth so she could release the buckle and be ready with the suction. It felt strangely personal after it had been in Paul’s mouth.

  “Good.” Paul nodded. “Really good.” He glanced at the drip. “And he’s got fluid on board so it’s not because he’s hypovolemic that he’s not bleeding.”

  She removed the torch from her mouth. “You did it?” she said. For the first time since they’d found the man, Kwame, she had a spark of hope.

  “It’s a start.” He frowned. “But I need to do more stitching, internal and ex. And he’s going to need antibiotic cover, more fluids. And I hope he hasn’t had a whack to his head, he’s pretty out of it.” He reached for another needle and thread. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “I’ll stay, all night. Whatever you need me to do, just tell me. I’m here…for you and him.”

  He paused and looked at her. “Thank you, Olivia.”

  She tore her gaze from his. “This man has to be our priority. We can’t let him die.”

  “We won’t.” Paul continued to work. “No bloody way.”

  His determination and confidence sparked something in Olivia. He was so damn cool under pressure, his thought processes clear and his instructions concise. Plus, what he was doing was so delicate and important yet his hands didn’t shake, despite the gravity of the situation.

  “It’s his wife,” Mason said from the doorway. “She’s outside, with Anya. I told her we’d let her see him soon.”

  “Aye, but not yet.” Paul snipped the end of a stitch. “When I’m done here.”

  Paul worked solidly for an hour and a half. Olivia added another bag of fluid, and he told her how to slow it down. Too much fluid would be as bad as not enough, apparently. Which made sense to Olivia, kind of like over-filling a manual gearbox with oil.

  Mason headed back to the tent, to give the others an update. He seemed relieved to be going.

  “There,” Paul said, sitting straight and wiping his forearm over his brow. The wound was stitched and dressed. “He’s going to have a whopping scar, and there’s some muscle and tendon damage, but as long as he doesn’t get an infection, he’ll keep his arm.”

  “And his life.” Olivia smiled. “Well done.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “It’s more than a job, Paul.”

  “I’ve only ever wanted to help people. People who had no one else to help them.” He reached for a stethoscope.

  “That’s very commendable.”

  “Commendable.” He paused as he set the end on Kwame’s chest and listened. “Perhaps, but…” He finished his task and tipped his head. “I worry that the good feeling I get when I’ve helped means I’m doing it for myself.”

  “How can you say that?” She gestured to Kwame. His lips were normal color again and his breathing steady. “I’d feel good if I saved someone’s life.”

  He smiled. “You just have. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Heat spread over her cheeks. “Sure you could have.”

  “You saw the particular shade of green my brothers went, and the other guys were more interested in finding the leopard. It was all you, my little nurse.”

  “Little nurse.” She laughed, and it felt good after all the tension. “Hardly, though…”

  “What?”

  “Maybe there isn’t so much difference between an engine and the human body.”

  “Not the circulatory system, there isn’t, it’s just a pump and a set of pipework.” He set his stethoscope aside. “His chest is clear. But I’m gonna fill him up with antibiotics. Can you wait with him while I go and get them?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then his wife can sit with him if she wants to.”

  “I’m sure she does. The poor woman must be frantic. I know how I’d feel if it was…”

  “One of your boyfriends.”

  “Yes. That.”

  He left the
room, and Olivia held Kwame’s hand, the one on the injured side. It was warm, which Paul had said was a good sign, and it would need checking throughout the night to ensure the blood supply was maintained.

  “You were lucky Paul was here,” Olivia said quietly. “But not so lucky to get attacked by the leopard, huh.”

  Kwame moaned, a strange throaty noise.

  “It’s okay.” Olivia rubbed her fingertip over his knuckles. “It’s okay, Kwame.”

  He moaned again.

  Olivia glanced at the door.

  It opened, and Paul walked in carrying a syringe and a small glass vial. Behind him were Anya and a woman in a long red dress, which was dusty on the knees and askew on her shoulder.

  “Kwame,” she cried, rushing up to the bed.

  “He’s waking up,” Olivia directed at Paul.

  “Good, that’s a good sign.” Paul puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath as though releasing an overly large sigh. “Really good.”

  As he administered the antibiotics, Olivia reached for two chairs and set them by the bed. Kwame’s wife and Anya sat down.

  “We will stay the night,” Anya said. “If that is okay.”

  “I’ll be here all night,” Paul said. “He’ll need regular checks.” He turned to Olivia. “But you don’t need to be.”

  “I’ll stay a while, help tidy this up. The suture needles need to go in a yellow sharps box, right?”

  He smiled. “Yes, that’s right, be careful with them, though.”

  “I will.”

  Olivia started to tidy up the room as Kwame’s wife talked quietly to him, and Anya sat with her arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” Olivia said when she’d done. “I left my water bottle in the clinical room earlier.”

  “Sure.” Paul’s gaze caught hers for a moment, then he turned back to Kwame with his stethoscope in place.

  The clinical room was quiet and dark. The new desk had several envelopes on it, a few sheets of paper, and the list Anya had drawn up during vaccinations. The small window was high to deter theft of the drugs stored in there, and a silvery crescent moon hung in the center as if framed.

  She reached for her bottle and drank deeply. Then washed her hands and splashed some water on her face. It had been a long day; she was tired, yet adrenaline was still pumping in her veins. She wasn’t sure she’d sleep. Thoughts of Kwame, and Paul, and how they’d worked to save him were pinging around too rapidly.

  She closed her eyes and saw Paul’s face, his brow furrowed in concentration. In her mind his voice lingered, calm and confident—he’d made her feel calm and confident, too.

  The clinical room door opened, then shut with a quiet click.

  Paul stepped in, reached for his own water and drank.

  She listened to him swallowing and studied his profile.

  When he’d finished, he put his drink on the counter and stepped closer to her. “Why did Dante pick you all?” he asked quietly.

  “Pardon?” It wasn’t what she’d been expecting him to say.

  “The five of you. Why not another five people, different people, to go with his son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.”

  He did?

  “Enlighten me, Paul.”

  He moved closer still. She caught a whiff of faded cologne, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill her vision. “Harry needed friends, real friends who weren’t interested him for his fame and money.”

  “How do you know we’re not?”

  “That’s not your style.” He kind of huffed and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

  She froze as his knuckle brushed her cheek.

  “You’re all smart,” he said, “Independent, and very successful people in your own rights. You’re all skilled and confident, none of you need Harry or his money.”

  “I wouldn’t like to be without him. So I guess that’s needing him.”

  Paul swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving a slight sheen of moisture there. “That’s needing him because you love him.”

  She didn’t reply. She did love Harry, he knew it and so did she.

  “And none of you are from America,” Paul went on. “You haven’t had the Vidal fame and fortune shoved down your throat for years.”

  Again she stayed quiet.

  “Maybe that was the wrong analogy.” His mouth twisted into a devilish smile. “Shoved down your throat.”

  “You think?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “And you know something else?” He spoke softly again, as if sharing secrets and cocooning them in their own world here at the hospital, in this room, in the darkness.

  “What?” She had a sudden urge to reach up and stroke his hair, see if it felt the same as Lucas’s and Mason’s, but she resisted the urge. She was feeling close to him, after everything they’d been through, but he wasn’t hers to touch.

  “Dante Vidal was more than a wee bit clever when it came to picking you, Olivia.”

  “My CV ticked all the boxes, nothing more than that.”

  “No, it was much more than that. I know what the twins went through for the selection process, all kinds of personality tests.” His eyes flashed as he looked between hers. “You were picked because you’re strong-willed, they knew you wouldn’t take any crap from him. You’re super sharp, accomplished, you’re not a Hollywood bimbo, and you’re…”

  “What?”

  “Jesus Christ…” He dragged in a breath. “You’re really fucking hot, you know that?”

  His mouth pressed down on hers. For the first second it was gentle, then he upped the pressure and wrapped his arms around her body and dragged her close.

  She gasped, shocked at the kiss, the sudden urgency in him, and in the unexpected need that was erupting in her.

  “I want you,” he said, stepping her backward until her butt hit the desk. “I can’t stop thinking about you, about being close to you…inside you.”

  “But… Paul… I don’t know if I can, I…”

  “You can do whatever the hell you want, Olivia, you know that as well as I do.” He slid his hand up her back and cradled her head. “The only question is…do you want me?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Olivia stared into Paul’s eyes. The light of the moon reflected off them and added to the passion, desire, and the urgency in their depths.

  Did she want him?

  Yes. Her body was crying out for his. Lust raced through her veins. Her heart was thudding, and her skin tingled, as if wearing clothes was too much too bear. But her men, what would they think if she fucked Paul, now…here?

  “Your boyfriends share you with each other. They’ll have no objection to me and you.” Paul kissed her again, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. “Why would they? I’m part of the gang.”

  He was right. They were a team here in Africa, and Paul had become one of her men.

  She kissed him back, absorbing his fresh, sweet taste, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

  “You’re in control here,” he murmured onto her lips. “You know that, I know that, and so do they.”

  He pressed her down, so she was laying on the desk. A few sheets of paper and the file skittered to the floor. “Yes.”

  “Is that a yes you want me, or yes you’re in control?”

  “Paul.” She drew her legs up and gripped his hips with her knees. He was all she could think of. He’d consumed her thoughts and taken over her body.

  “What?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Stop talking and just fucking do it.”

  He paused, then, “With pleasure.” He ground against her, his erection pressing through the material of their clothing onto her pussy. His mouth hit down on hers, and she returned the feverish kiss and dragged at his t-shirt. Their lips parted briefly as he helped her remove it, then they were locked together again.

  He snaked his hand up her top and cupped her right breast over her bra. Her nipples peaked. A coil
of need was winding up in her belly and dampness seeping onto her panties.

  She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, then across his warm chest, down his belly and gripped his pants. Within seconds she’d released the button, drawn down the zipper, and reached inside his boxers.

  His cock was hot and hard, the tip smooth.

  He moaned and started work on her pants. “Damn it,” he said, fumbling. “Too many clothes.”

  But it didn’t take long for one leg of her pants and knickers to be off and her abandoned boot on the floor. With his body, he pressed her down onto the desk again. The final sheaf of paper and a pen fell and the table legs scraped.

  His cock tip found her entrance.

  “Paul,” she gasped, clinging to his biceps. Her pussy was quivering with longing. “Get inside me.”

  As he plunged his tongue into her mouth, he plunged his cock deep inside her. She cried out, the throaty sound laced with both bliss and a stitch of discomfort. He was big, easily as big as his brothers.

  He shunted higher still, the table legs scraping again.

  “Paul,” she gasped, digging her fingernails into his skin. “Oh, God.”

  “You feel fucking incredible,” he said, his breath hot on her lips.

  She locked her ankles in the small of his back and gripped him tighter, closer.

  He kind of withdrew, but not all the way, then rushed back in, catching her clit with his body.

  She groaned and let her head fall back to the table.

  Swooping down onto her neck, he kissed and nibbled as he worked in and out and rocked over her. Each thrust took her closer. She clamped around him, lost to everything except the feel of him inside her, rubbing over her G-spot and his body grinding against hers.

  Sweat laced her skin, and his. Her breaths were hard to catch. The pulse in her ears was loud and competed with the sound of their panting.

  “Fuck… I’m going to…” he gasped.

  “Ah, me, too.” She came, a desperate, frantic, almost animalistic orgasm that shot over her body. Her spine arched, her legs shook, and her toes curled. Bliss extended as he, too, released his pleasure.

  She found his mouth again, cupped his face, and kissed him with a need that threatened to overwhelm her. In that moment, she knew Paul was special. The way all her men were.