Fighting Lust: A Deadly Sins Novel

by Jennifer Miller

  Throwing up my arms in victory, I do a lap around the octagon and encourage the cheering. The guys all come inside the octagon and cheer excitedly, pat me on the back, and offer their congratulations. All the while, in between my celebrating, Jax keeps working on the bleeding. Considering the look on his face, it’s going to require just a bit more than what he has to offer, first aid-wise.

  Hands slide around my waist and startled I turn around to find a scantily clad blonde grinning ear to ear and clinging to me. “Congratulations, Playboy. How about I help you celebrate?”

  Grinning widely, I lean down to whisper in her ear, but am jerked back hard, making me curse. “Sorry, darlin’ he’s not available right now. He’s due for his post-fight concussion check. It’s protocol,” Jax tells her.

  She sticks her big lip out in a pout and I’m surprised when I feel her hand at the waist of my shorts. She tucks something inside and gives me a wink, “Call me,” she instructs, making it clear I am now the owner of her phone number. As I watch her fine ass walk away, I consider myself lucky to have obtained it.

  “Alright, come on,” Coach pushes me in the direction of Jax and I grin at him while he shakes his head at me.

  On our way to the back locker rooms, Jax continues to dab at my head with a cloth between several interruptions along the way – I must greet my fans and accept their congratulations – it just wouldn’t be right not to do that. I give him looks of exasperation and he just stares back at me in challenge. “Get changed quickly,” he tells me as we enter the room. “I want you to get to the hospital immediately.”

  “I don’t need a hospital. Just have them check me for a concussion, I’ll put a bandage on and be fine.” I gesture to the fight doctor.

  “Nope, not happening. You’re skin is laid out. You’re going to need stitches.”

  “No fucking way. I’m not spending all night in the emergency room to get two stitches. Put a bandage on it and stop being a little bitch about it,” I snap at Jax, aware however of the ever increasing throbbing in my head.

  Cole walks up and gestures for Jax to move the towel aside, “I’ll take him,” he says. Before I can protest he shakes his head, “Dude, it’s bad. You know we wouldn’t push it if it weren’t. You’ll bleed through a pressure bandage in no time. Jax is right.”

  “Thank you,” Jax says sarcastically but we ignore him.

  “Fine,” I mumble. Yanking my clothes off in anger and frustration, I turn to Cole, “I’m going to shower the best I can, then we can go.”

  Cole nods and follows me. I start to protest, but know he has to at least sit outside and make sure he doesn’t hear me fall or something in case I’m concussed. While this is annoying as hell, complaining is useless. Protocol is what it is.

  The whole time I shower, blood pours from my head. Head wounds bleed terribly – it’s ridiculous. It’s easy to feel like you’ve lost buckets of blood. I keep a towel pressed against it as best I can, but even I can tell I’ll need stitches – it’s just not letting up. Feeling bad for giving Jax such a hard time, I pat him on the back when I walk back out after dressing, prepared to go. He nods, “Good fight, man. Text me and let me know what the doctor says, alright?”

  “Yeah, alright.” Cole and I tell everyone good night and after a quick battle with Dylan and Levi, convincing them they don’t need to come with us, we head out. When we get to the emergency room, I’m happy to see it appears to be a slow night. There are few people in the waiting room and I didn’t see any ambulances parked at the entrance. We register quickly and take a seat.

  We don’t wait long before we’re called back. Cole comes with me even though I don’t need him to, but what the hell, it’s just stitches and he can keep me company. We discuss the fight as we’re shown to a triage room, and Cole talks excitedly about his own fight that’s quickly approaching. He’s been training hard and if he wins, it could mean a big pay out and more fights in his future.

  “Alright, Mr. King, my name is Tessa and I’ll be your nurse this evening. Can you please tell me what happened?”

  I look at her immediately when she walks inside the room. While it isn’t down like before, the red catches my attention. My entire body instinctively seemed to know it was her the second she walked in. I’m grinning like a stupid imbecile while I watch her wash her hands. She doesn’t even look at me while she’s talking. Clearly, she read my chart and is used to her practiced lines. Laughing softly to myself more audibly than I realize as she dries her hands, she finally looks up at me, confusion lining her brow. Grinning wider at finally having those beautiful baby blues on my face once more, I finally speak. “Well I’ll be damned. Wasn’t sure I’d see you again. Tessa you said, was it?”

  Her professional façade slips from her face and for a moment I see momentary perplexity in her gorgeous eyes, which appears to morph into understanding and then panic. She takes a step back in reaction, and I bark out a laugh when she actually utters, “Oh, fuck.”

  It’s been another long night at the hospital. I’m not sure why, but it’s dragging – a combination of not having many patients, any really interesting or complicated cases and just plain being ready to go home. I wonder if the increase of urgent care facilities across the area are taking away our business. I know I should be happy about that in a way – less people being critically injured or suffering serious illnesses that need our help, but for some reason, considering that does not provide any satisfaction. As exhausting as it can be, I like the busyness and even the controlled chaos. And while I’d typically use this time to get some paperwork done, or catch up on employee files and other managerial related work, I’m too antsy tonight. I don’t have the concentration or desire to do that type of work. Desperate to encourage the time to go by faster, I’m taking any patient that comes in. The residents are itching to treat patients themselves and the staff nurses are restless as well, but I’m putting them to work on general department responsibilities - restocking supplies, cleaning the med room, doing inventory, reviewing open charts, and other chores that we usually struggle to find time to complete. Most of them hate it. I don’t care. This is part of what it means to be on a team and some of these tasks are ones we could become more proficient at – and really, in this work, tedious tasks and paperwork are never in short supply.

  Noah and Natalie already cornered me, requesting me to make good on that drink I owe them – and to go out with them after work since I bailed on them the last time. I haven’t given either of them a direct answer and in truth, keep avoiding them at all costs. Earlier I heard Natalie’s voice down the hall and as it got louder, I ducked into the visitor’s women’s restroom to avoid her. She didn’t see me and I feel a little bad for escaping from her, but I’m really not in the mood for going out with them. It’s nothing against either of them, I adore them both, but I’m just not in the mood to drink, gossip about work people, or relive our worse patient nightmares. I’m actually looking forward to going home, running a bath and maybe reading for a little while before falling asleep. The thought alone makes me happy and even more eager to get the hell out of here.

  Walking around the corner, I see Rachel, the triage nurse, obviously having just checked in another patient. Pushing the portable vital machine that is used to take a patient’s temperature, pulse, blood pressure and oxygen level in their blood, and stethoscope in hand, she walks out of one of the exam rooms, closing the door behind her. I watch as she notates something in the patient’s electronic medical record located in an alcove next to the door. When I walk up to her, I hear muffled laughter through the barrier. “What have we got?” She smiles as I look over her shoulder on the entries she’s making and then I quickly page through the electronic chart to see what tests or radiology studies are being ordered, if any. Seeing the order for a head CT scan and findings related to a neuro examination, I quickly open up the patient information and documentation about the presenting condition. Clearly someone has suffered a head injury.

  “Adult ma
le that needs stitches above his left eye. Initial vitals and neuros seem ok. He needs a head CT and repeat neuros to rule out head injury or concussion.” She looks around and then leans toward me and whispers, “He’s freaking hot. Both of them are. He has a friend with him.” At my amused look she shrugs, “Just a heads up.”

  “Thanks for the information,” I laugh as she walks away. Looking at a few more things on the chart, I make sure to check his vitals giving special attention to his neuro assessment, and quickly scan the brief description about what happened before I walk inside the room. Heading straight for the sink without much more than a sideways glance at the men in the room, I turn on the water. “Alright, Mr. King,” I say as I pump soap into my hands, lather and rinse. “My name is Tessa, and I’ll be your nurse this evening.” I shake the excess water from my hands and grab a paper towel to complete the job. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you here tonight that resulted in the need for stitches?” I flip open the trash can with a tap of my foot against the pedal, throw the towel away and as I do so, am surprised when I hear laughter. Spinning around to find out what’s so amusing, I get a good look at the patient, then freeze, a tingle going up my spine, though the reason is initially lost on me.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Wasn’t sure I’d see you again. Tessa you said, was it?”

  My confusion and curiosity quickly turns to comprehension and immediate nervousness. I’ve run into men that I’ve slept with at a bar or club, but never here - not where I work. I guess part of me always knew it was a possibility – I mean, I’m no saint – there have been plenty of guys. The thing is, I refuse to sleep with a man more than one time. It can make for an awkward interaction if I’m approached more than once, but I don’t care. All it takes is a quick walk down memory lane to a time when I let myself fall for someone and that snaps me out of whatever nonsense I think I may be starting to feel. Scratching the itch I have always leaves casualties in my wake, but I don’t care, as long as I’m feeling better. I can’t believe this is happening here, in the emergency room, of all places. With an internal sigh, I square my shoulders and shake off this thought and attempt to set my professional demeanor firmly in place.

  “Oh, fuck,” I say in the process and then redden in the face realizing that my thoughts were said out loud. Great, that’s really professional. The man I now know as Ryder King, thanks to his chart, laughs out loud at my curse. His friend, however, looks really confused albeit amused as well.

  “Yeah, we did that,” Ryder laughs. Great, so he’s going to be like that – not shy about what we did at all. Fine, I can handle him.

  Gripping the dangling stethoscope tighter in my hand, I refuse to acknowledge his comment. “According to your chart, you’ve had a head injury and sliced the skin open above your eye,” I say indicating the bloody towel he’s holding there. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me a moment ago - can you please tell me what happened?” I’m able to get that out and even sound reasonably pleasant about it. Go me. This isn’t awkward at all. I can handle this.

  “You know, I can’t decide which is hotter. The red dress you were wearing in the bar, the black lace underneath, or the prim blue scrubs you have on now. Do you wear lace under those too?” Ryder places a hand behind him on the hospital bed and the paper that covers the top crinkles. He leans back on one hand and looks completely comfortable in his skin, even with a bloody towel covering half of his face. It kind of makes me want to punch him. He exudes sex appeal and it takes everything I have not to look him up and down, to see if my memory is as vivid as the real thing.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Now, tell me how you hurt yourself or perhaps your friend here can do so for you,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

  “Worried about me?” he asks with a wink.

  I’m not sure if I’d rather kiss him or smack him.

  “He was in a fight and took a blow to the face. It sliced his skin open,” his friend offers.

  “Thank you…”

  “Cole.”

  “Thank you, Cole.” He smiles, but it’s wary. He looks confused as he glances back and forth between Ryder and me. I don’t blame him. “I’m going to need to take a look.”

  Apprehensively, I approach a still grinning and nonplussed, Ryder. The towel he’s holding to his wound is soaked in blood. Head wounds are tricky that way – they’re happy bleeders. Turning back toward the sink, I momentarily wonder why Rachel did not attempt to at least replace the towel with an adaptic, but shrug off the thought, grab a pair of gloves and put them on my hands. Once they’re covered, I move once again toward Ryder and place my hand over his, and immediately feel a shiver of awareness run up my arm. It makes me quiver on the inside and feel surprise that even through the glove I would have this reaction to touching him. Ryder sucks in a breath and I have an immediate flashback to our hook up in the bathroom. His harsh breaths in my ear as he took me from behind, the feeling of our bodies moving together, the front of my pelvis smacking against the sink.

  Blinking rapidly, I briefly wonder if our touch stirred the same reaction in him, but quickly focus instead on the task at hand. Easing away the towel, I avoid a wince as a bit of his skin sticks to the fabric. I quickly turn, grab and open a bottle of sterile water from the cupboard behind me, and slowly drip a light stream of the water on the adherent area, pulling gently, as the skin separates from the towel. Realizing my answer to my prior question, I try to keep my attention on the task at hand, but can feel his unceasing stare directly into my eyes. As soon as the skin is fully separated, blood seeps out of the cut and runs into his eye. “It’s deep. I don’t know who you were fighting or why, but he got you good. It’s a good thing you came in because you’re definitely going to need stitches – which clearly you know. Dr. Charleston is the doctor this evening, and he’ll determine how many you need, but from the looks of things, I’m guessing four, maybe five, should close it up. We also need to obtain a head CT scan to make sure you didn’t sustain an injury to your brain. Did you black out or lose consciousness at all? Do you have a headache, nausea, dizziness? Can you follow my finger with your eyes?” I’m holding my finger in front of his face, silently praying that he chooses to look at it instead. I know I’m rambling but am not able to stop myself as I attempt to regain my professional footing.

  Ignoring all of my questions including the one about the fight that landed him here as well as my finger and continuing to look squarely into my eyes, he continues. “How long have you been a nurse, firecracker?”

  Pressing a clean non-adherent bandage to the wound on his head, I turn to his friend hoping it’s a smarter move. “The doctor will also check to make sure he’s not suffering from a concussion.” Ryder laughs and the corner of Cole’s mouth twitches. “You said this was a fight? Do the police need to be called, or have they been called? I need to make sure the nurses station is aware so when they arrive, the nurses know where to direct them to obtain his statement.”

  Ryder chuckles, “It wasn’t that kind of fight, sweet thing, but thanks for your concern. I’m an MMA fighter. It was a professional fight, not a street fight. What do you take me for?”

  Raising a brow at that question, I ask, “An MMA fighter?”

  “Mixed Martial Arts. I’m a professional fighter and I had a fight tonight. Makes me even hotter now doesn’t it?” He smiles at himself in amusement and dammit, I’m trying not to smile back.

  Clearing my throat, I do my best to look at Ryder sternly, “The doctor will be in shortly. After he sees you, I’ll be back to help him stitch you up.”

  “You’re going to put in the stitches?”

  At this, I finally do smile. I know I won’t be actually placing the sutures, but he doesn’t. Leaning towards him I ask, “What’s the matter? Scared?” Before he can respond, I walk out of the room. Leaning against the wall as soon as I shut the door, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Shaking my head as if the action can shake off the feelings, I make notes on Ryder’s ch
art, then go update Dr. Charleston on his next patient. Once I fill him in, he enters Ryder’s room and I remain at the nurse’s station waiting for a sign that he has finished his exam and needs some help. I hear loud laughter coming from the room and roll my eyes.

  “Did I tell you they were hot, or what?” Rachel asks as she sidles up next to me.

  “You did,” I smile without humor, not liking the twinge of jealousy I feel at her comment. Why the hell should I care if she thinks they’re hot? They are.

  “Would it be totally inappropriate if I gave him my phone number?”

  I don’t know which ‘him’ she’s referring to and I don’t care. When I see Dr. Charleston walk out of the room, I walk away from her, leaving her question unanswered. Dr. Charleston states that his neuro exam is negative – no concussion - and confirms what I thought, he’s sure that four or five sutures should do the job just fine. Assuming the CT scan is negative, he’s going to write a prescription for a mild painkiller. He expects Ryder to have one hell of a headache and nasty facial bruising when he wakes up in the morning. While he patiently waits, I get the suture kit from the supply cabinet and let radiology know that we’ll be bringing someone there in a few minutes.

  Walking back into the room, I find Cole sitting in the available chair in the room and Ryder lying down on the table. Without a word, I wash my hands, put on my gloves, open and set up the tray and other needed supplies on the small overbed treatment tray. I fill a syringe with the appropriate amount of lidocaine to numb the area. Dr. Charleston comes back in and we both move toward Ryder to stitch his wound. Advancing to the opposite side of the bed so I can better assist Dr. Charleston, I almost trip over myself at the sexy smile on Ryder’s face as his eyes roam my body. I remove the bandage from his head, and using more sterile water clean up the dried blood the best I can. I carefully dab at the area with a dry gauze. “I’m hoping four stitches does the job here,” Dr. Charleston says. I hand the prepared syringe to Dr. Charleston, and as he assesses the site to administer the numbing agent. “This is going to slightly burn and the suture placement may pinch a bit,” he’s told, as the needle enters his chiseled face. Keeping my eye on the wound or Dr. Charleston, I continue to avoid his penetrating stare.