by Cherry Adair
"I've bled worse."
She pushed his hands away as he tried to help her. "Let me do it. Hang on, let's see if—" Rummaging around in the metal box, she found a pair of scissors. "Perfect. I hope this isn't one of your favorite spy outfits!" The tight fabric sprang away from his body as she cut into it. His skin felt warm beneath her icy hands.
"What is this stuff, anyway?" The fabric wasn't silk; it was almost rubbery, cold and damp on the outside, but dry and warm inside.
"I call it LockOut."
"Why do you—" She stared at him. "Did you invent this?"
His cheeks darkened. "I told you I played around with stuff. Yeah, this was one of the better ideas. It's like a second skin. Traps in the body's heat. It also acts as a shield."
Marnie snorted. "That part didn't work so well."
"If I hadn't been wearing it, I'd be dead right now. It's not impervious. It did what it was designed to do—deflect the strike."
She shuddered. "It didn't deflect it enough for me. I'd demand a refund. And how did the bad guys get your invention, anyway? Aren't they wearing this same stuff?"
"Yeah, they are. But that's no mystery. Any special-forces operations have access to it. It's sold all over the world now."
"Great. In spy shops?" Marnie said under her breath.
She'd put off looking at the gory hole in his shoulder as long as possible. What was she supposed to do next? There was so much blood. Red. Thick. Pulsing. It blipped out of the jagged tear in his skin and ran in rivulets down his bare arm and chest.
For several seconds she thought she might just keel over. Considering her position between Jake's knees, she'd land nose first on his chest. His painful, bleeding chest.
"Tell me what to do!" How could her mouth be this dry when she was swallowing convulsively?
He leaned forward with a grunt. "Check out the back." He paused while she looked at the blood smeared over his hard muscles and tanned skin. "How's it look?"
Like cat food. She swallowed and said mildly, "Awful." It wasn't a hole. But it was a deep, nasty-looking canyon of a gash across the top of his shoulder.
"Yeah? Well, it can't look any worse than it feels, but it's just a graze."
Vertigo swamped her; she gripped the edge of the table with clammy hands. "That's good."
"Hell, yes. You won't have to dig a bullet out."
Thank you, Jesus. "Now what?"
"Get that brown bottle over there… yeah, that one. It's an antiseptic. Use a couple of those sterile gauze pads and clean it as best you can. Back and front."
Jake calmly gave her instructions and she followed them blindly.
"Talk to me."
Marnie dabbed carefully around the wound. "What about?"
"Tell me about your family."
She glanced up, the bloody cloth clutched in her hand. "Not now. I have to concentrate."
"Do that like you mean it, Marnie. I'm not going to break." He guided her hand more efficiently. "You can talk and do this at the same time." Jake gulped half the coffee and cradled the mug in one hand. "Come on, I need the distraction. Tell me about your grandmother."
Marnie suspected Jake wanted her to have the distraction while she worked. She swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth and dabbed more thoroughly at his wound.
Front.
Don't gag.
Grammy, guide my hands.
"I adored her. Bless her heart. Grammy was all of four foot eight, with a backbone like a steel rod and a heart big enough to shelter the world."
Don't cry. Clean. Disinfect.
How much blood does he have in his body? Fifty gallons? she wondered frantically as it kept seeping and she kept blotting. It seemed most of it was on the cloths she kept exchanging. Marnie ran her tongue over her dry lips.
"As—As far back as I can remember, her hair was white," she went on, her throat raw with tension. "She always smelled of Pond's face cream and Yardley's lavender eau de cologne, and she had the softest, most gentle hands in the world. Whenever I was sad I'd lay my head in her lap, and she'd stroke my hair."
Marnie worked to stanch the blood and felt it crust beneath her fingernails. She swallowed bile and doggedly kept going. Breathe.
"Put more antiseptic on the… Yeah, good. Okay. Keep talking."
"I'll remind you that you said that one day." Marnie forced a smile. "Grammy was a benign despot. She ruled the house with a hard stare and chocolate chip cookies. Every kid in the neighborhood wanted to hang out at our house."
"Hold that there a little longer. Up a bit." He shifted her lingers. "Yeah, here. That where you learned to cook? At Grammy's knee?"
"Hang on I have to concentrate—Yes, I did." Marnie paused to smile at the memories, then resumed what she'd been doing. "She was an inspired teacher. I had to spend so much time indoors, and she made cooking lessons fun. Even though I would've much preferred being outside with the boys, finally I did learn what she was trying to teach me. Along with how to cook a roast and how to crush the bejesus out of a clove of garlic, she had a great deal of advice to impart."
"Like what?"
"Like 'Never run after a man or a bus, there's always another one in five minutes.' " Marnie smiled without glancing up. "Like 'Live out loud.' Grammy was full of helpful little homilies for every occasion."
"How about, 'No good deed goes unpunished'?"
Marnie tsked. "Cynic."
"Pollyanna," he replied without heat. "It goes without saying she spoiled you rotten."
"Actually, she was the only one who didn't. She made very few concessions for my illness and allowed me to do a lot of things with the Musketeers that my dad had a conniption about later. She was the one who taught me to ride a bike when the males of the family thought it too strenuous. She's also the one who encouraged me to climb trees… How's this feel?"
"Fine. Did she spoil your brothers, too?"
"Of course." She glanced up to find him watching her intently, and gave him what she hoped to hell was a reassuring smile. Marnie swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth and bent her head to see what she was doing.
"It was really hilarious when they got into trouble. There was this itty-bitty little old lady confronting one or more of my six-foot-tall brothers. You should have seen them blush and quake. She never had to raise her voice, either."
She wiped her sweaty cheek on her shoulder. "I miss her so much." Dip. Twist. Wipe. "I wish I could cry for a week and get rid of this sore spot around my heart."
Jake frowned. "You haven't cried?"
"Not enough. It's there, a whole flood of tears just building up, waiting to explode."
"Did you cry when your mother passed away?"
"Big time. But I was six. She dropped me off on my first day of first grade and on the way home had an accident." She glanced up to find his eyes on her. "Drunk driver. She died instantly."
"Shit."
"I won't say it was easy not having a mom, but I never lacked for anything. Dad, Grammy, and the Musketeers made sure of that."
"No wonder your father and brothers are so protective of you. A bad heart, all those surgeries, no mother. Hell, it's understandable they'd want you to lead a stress-free life."
"I think having me to worry about helped them get over losing our mom. In a way, though, I let them keep on believing I needed them far longer than I really did. Oh, I didn't fake it. But I certainly went along with whatever they suggested when they suggested things, because I knew it made them happy. It became a habit. A bad habit. That's why I'm determined to change… to change… Never mind."
She was babbling like a fool. Talking about Grammy now, of all times. Knowing Jake could so easily have died out there made her voice thick and her throat ache.
The last thing she wanted to do was talk about death. Anybody's. The dam of grief hoarded behind her breastbone pressed for release. Her eyes burned, and her skin prickled, and moisture pooled in her mouth.
"Now what?" she asked roughly. The wound looked clean. Ick
y, but clean. She suppressed a shudder of empathy and felt no surprise when her tears refused to rip free. Now wasn't the appropriate time, anyway.
Jake explained patiently how to use the ninety-nine miles of bandage her nervous fingers had unraveled. With trembling hands she rerolled the bandage, then followed his direction.
She ducked her head and swallowed tears. "Your t-turn in the hot seat."
"I'm not in a chatty mood."
"I don't care. Do it anyway. Where'd you grow up?"
"Working-class neighborhood outside Chicago."
"Jeez, Jake, this is like dragging a kid to the dentist! What did your dad do?"
"To me? Nothing. Absolutely not a damn thing."
"No," Marnie said gently, "for a living."
"He was on social security. On permanent disability from some accident at the construction site where he'd worked. He was as healthy as a horse, despite chain-smoking and drinking himself into oblivion. But they paid him to sit home and watch game shows all day. And that's pretty much what he did."
It sounded like an awful B movie. Marnie's chest ache grew. "And your mom?" Please tell me she adored you and protected you from your father's neglect.
"She didn't get social security."
"I don't understand."
"She was exactly the same as he was. She just didn't get a check every week for it."
"That's child abuse."
"They never raised a hand to me."
"They neglected you. That's a form of abuse, Jake." She couldn't keep her palm from curling around his jaw. His cheek felt bristly and warm, and she wanted to lean forward and kiss him, but there was still bandaging and cleanup to be done. And Jake didn't look as though any show of sympathy would be welcome right now.
"So you ran away from home to join the navy. You said you were only sixteen?"
"Big for my age, and smart enough to fake ID—Pull that taut."
"Lift your arm. Does this hurt? Stupid question. Sorry… What did your parents have to say when you joined?"
Jake shifted so she could pull the elastic bandage around his chest and up over his shoulder.
"Since I wasn't there at the time, I have no idea." He didn't so much as flinch as she worked. "It probably took them a couple of weeks to notice I wasn't around. And before you get all misty about it, both my parents were alcoholics. If they remembered they had a kid, it was to send me to the liquor store for more booze."
"Were they at least happy with one another?"
Jake snorted. "Not a damn thing made them happy, except for the booze. Unhappiness hung like smog over my folks. Hell, over the whole house. My mother was forced to marry at sixteen. And she never let either me or my old man forget that she had been forced to be where she didn't want to be. Stuck with a kid when she was a kid herself.
"My old man was silent, long-suffering, morose. He drank to block out the complaints of my mother. My pathetic discontented mother drank to block out how useless she'd let her life become. Neither, as far as I know, ever did one damn thing to change their lives for the better. They whined, complained, and drank.
"I can't remember any occasion they weren't irritated or downright angry with each other or with me if I was in the way. It was a blessing to get the hell out of there. I left and never looked back."
"That's awful. Wasn't there an adult you could go to for help?"
"No."
"Friends?"
"I was sick of trying to come up with new excuses for people who—It was easier to—No, no friends."
Marnie wondered about the bottle of Scotch on his kitchen counter in the cabin above them. The sealed bottle of Scotch. Another way for Jake to show himself just how inviolable, how strong, he was?
"And before you ask, I don't drink, for obvious reasons. Doesn't mean the propensity isn't there, though."
Another conversation she should have left well enough alone. He was already physically hurt; now she'd made him talk about another painful time in his past.
"Yet despite all that, you've made a wonderful life for yourself."
Jake laughed. "Yeah, haven't I, though? Kicked out of the organization I've worked for half my life, marooned on this damn mountain with assassins after my ass, nobody to give a shit what the hell happens to me one way or the other. Yeah, I've made a damn fine life for myself."
"I give a shit."
"Yeah? And how long would that last in the real world?"
"As long as you'd want it to."
"Not interested, cupcake. Okay, wrap this up."
"I'm sorry, Jake, you're right. Let's change the subject."
"Let's." His words were counterpointed by the music still soaring out of the CD across the room. "Spinning Wheel." Now that was appropriate.
Bandage. Don't forget to breathe.
How could he tell a story like that and not show any emotion? How could he keep his expression so impassive when he'd lived his childhood like a little ghost to the people who should have cared for him the most?
What would Jake Dolan have been like if he'd had someone like Grammy to shower him with love and make him feel special?
She finished bandaging the wound, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. "Okay. I think I have it. How does it feel?"
Jake moved his arm. "Perfect. Thanks."
Marnie dipped a rag into the warm water, wrung it out, and started to wash the smeared blood off his arm and chest.
She swallowed roughly. God, would this cleanup never end?
Dip. Twist.
Wipe at the bloody smear near his navel…
Dip. Twist. Wipe.
What if she'd made the wound worse? What if she hadn't cleaned it well enough? What if—
She'd done it.
It was the best she could do.
Giddy, she dropped the rag she'd been using into the red water in the bowl and dried her hands on her jeans.
Jake closed his eyes for a second.
She stood. She wanted to be outside. She wanted to run fast and far. She wanted to feel the wind on her face. She wanted to find a warm, dark place to hide so she could sob her heart out once and for all. For Jake, for Grammy, and for herself. A lava of grief bubbled too close to the surface, and nausea made her skin clammy.
"All done." And I didn't even throw up.
He looked up, and gave her a half smile. "Very efficient."
She picked up the bloody cloths, the bowl, and first-aid box and stepped over his leg. "I'd have asked Duchess, but she's not as dexterous as I am."
Duchess, who'd watched Marnie's every move with worried eyes, gave Jake a gentle nudge on the knee, He rubbed the dog between her ears, his gaze on his nurse. "How're you holding up, Florence?"
"Just peachy!"
And then everything went black.
Jake paused, listening to the rhetoric on the other end of the phone. "Look, Leon, if you're too chicken-shit to do it yourself, find me someone who—I don't care. I'll pay you a hundred grand. Cash."
That got the guy's attention, he thought with satisfaction. Jake's heart pounded in his chest as he closed the deal, made the necessary arrangements, and gave the pilot the number to call back when he had a confirmed pickup time.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. A time bomb waiting to go off.
He clicked off the phone and set it on the trunk. Beneath the fingers of his right hand, Marnie's pulse leapt. He gave her a penetrating look as she opened her eyes.
"How do you feel?"
"Stupid, thank you." Her eyes appeared extraordinarily blue in her pale face. She gave him an apologetic smile. "Told you I can't stand the sight of blood."
He couldn't help himself. He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb across soft, smooth, delicate skin. He wanted to wrap her in cotton batting and put her away on a high shelf.
"You scared the crap outta me. I thought—hell—"
He'd thought she'd had a heart attack.
It was so sudden, so unexpected. Yeah, she'd looked pale, but that was to be expec
ted. It was pretty unlikely she'd ever seen a gunshot wound before, let alone treated it. But she'd been chirpy, chatty, philosophical, her normal self. When she'd keeled over, he'd about had a heart attack himself.
Jake figured he'd never moved that fast in his life. Still, she'd hit the floor with a thud. Water had gone everywhere, the dog had gone ballistic, he'd used every creative swear word he knew, and she'd been out like a light.
To hell with the fact that he'd ripped open his wound. She was unconscious, damnit.
Her eyes flickered from his face to the seeping bandage on his shoulder and back to his face. She sighed and struggled to sit up. "Now look what you've done. It's bleeding again."
"It's fine," Jake said quickly. "Don't look at it."
Duchess, who'd been walking circles around the couch since Jake had picked up her mistress, leaned her head over the back of the couch.
Marnie pushed upright and rested her back on the arm of the couch. She fondled the dog's ear and looked at Jake.
"Sorry about that. Just for the record, don't bleed, throw up, or cry," she said wryly. "I'll either pass out or join you. I have this empathy thing going. Otherwise, I'm sure I'd be a terrific nurse."
"I'll keep that in mind." His fingers itched to push her hair off her face. To feel her soft, smooth skin. To check and recheck her pulse.
Despite her faint, Jake came to a startling realization: This woman had surprising strength beneath her softness.
"First you save me from taking a header off the dam, now you patch me up like a trouper. You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
Marnie gave him an odd look. "I could hardly let you fall, could I?" She glanced at the floor and wrinkled her nose. "I'd better clean up that m—"
"Stay where you are," he ordered. "I'll do it." He wanted to stay beside her. He wanted to rest his fingers on the pulse at her throat to make sure she was really all right.
He rose. "How about some coffee?"
"No, thanks. I'm okay, really. Who were you talking to?" She drew her knees up, circled them with her arms, and watched as he disposed of the bloody cloths.
"A helicopter service out of Sacramento. I've used them a couple of times—personal stuff. They're not affiliated with T-FLAC. As soon as there's a break in the weather someone will fly in and pick you up."
