by JD Nixon
“Three.”
“Morning? Afternoon?”
He smiled. “Three in the afternoon. Saturday.”
“Oh.” I gathered my thoughts. “I’m going to the Super’s party tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do. I want to party like a twenty-year-old,” I laughed to myself, feeling silly and lightheaded.
“You’re a bit late for that, Tessie,” he smiled.
“I don’t care. I feel really good now. The Super throws great parties. I don’t want to miss one.”
“Tessie –”
“Sarge! Don’t be a killjoy. There’s plenty of time for me to recuperate tomorrow,” I persuaded.
He took out his phone. “I’m going to ring her.”
“She’ll flay you alive. Especially after your last exchange,” I warned.
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Meh.”
He rang, explained and listened to a two minute rant that made his cheeks turn red with either embarrassment or anger. It was hard to tell from his resolutely composed features and compressed lips.
“Yes, ma’am, you’re an uncanny judge of character I will admit, but my question remains. Can Tessie come to your party or not? She’s still on the IV.”
He listened again to another rant.
“Okay, but I’m not going to put it exactly as you suggest. Perhaps a little more diplomacy might do the job equally as well?”
Another rant, but there was a distinct laugh at the end. He smiled in response, but didn’t let any emotion into his voice.
“Of course. As you command, ma’am.” He disengaged.
“Well?” I asked, on tenterhooks.
“You can come if, and I stress the if, a doctor says you can. But I have to accompany you and watch over you. And I have to see you home safely at a reasonable hour.”
I glared at him, annoyed. “Why don’t we just get married?”
“Why don’t we?”
That made me laugh. “You’re already engaged, remember?”
“Am I? I forget sometimes.”
“Have you heard from Melissa lately?”
“Not for over two weeks. Last time I heard, she was in Spain having a lot of fun with some men called Miguel and Rodriguez.”
“They might be tour guides or hostel owners.”
“They might be,” he agreed neutrally, then changed the subject. “Did Jake calm down?”
“Yes.” I sighed heavily. I wanted to say a lot more, but my natural reticence and years of not wanting to burden anybody with my problems kept me quiet.
“Do we both have difficult partners?”
“Jakey’s not difficult. But he’s been landed with a difficult girlfriend.”
“You’re not that difficult.” He came over to the bed and smoothed down the sheets, carefully tucking in the corners and fluffing up my pillows. “How are you feeling, Tess?”
“I’ll live,” I said, amused by his nursing skills.
He smiled. “You always say that.”
“I always do though, don’t I?” I countered, smiling back.
The door to the room suddenly flung open. The Sarge spun around, hand on his gun. I reached for my knife, tense, ready to roll over the bed to safety. Except I was connected to the IV. Shit! I was a sitting duck.
“Whoa! At ease, everybody. Put your weapons away,” implored a friendly voice. I laid back down on the bed, but the Sarge remained standing, tracking the newcomer, hand still hovering over his gun. “I’ve just come to check on the patient. I’m Dr Adam Freeman.”
He was late twenties with mid-brown hair styled in a very modern cut and the longest, lushest black eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man. His eyes were a spectacular green-brown in colour. He also had a killer smile with cute dimples.
“ID please,” demanded the Sarge coldly.
He groaned, rolling his eyes. “I just showed it to the other cops outside.”
“I’m not them,” the Sarge replied in his bland cop voice.
With a dramatic flair, the doctor handed over his hospital ID card for further scrutiny. The Sarge examined it carefully before nodding him on.
Relieved, the doctor hustled over to me. “Hello, princess. I figure you must be a princess at least, judging by all the cops around. Wow! And by how pretty you are. This must be my lucky day.”
I smiled at his blatant flattery. He made me feel better already.
“I’m not a princess,” I admitted.
“You should be, you’re so pretty. Bet you need a Prince Charming in your life too. I’m available for parties and weddings for a very modest fee.”
I giggled.
“I made the princess laugh. I’m happy.” He sat on my bed and took my wrist gently in his hand, checking my pulse. “What do you do if you’re not a princess? Supermodel? Movie star?”
“No,” I giggled dismissively. “I’m a cop too.”
His eyes grew round. “Get out! How hot is that? Do you want to search me later? I’m a very naughty boy, I promise.” I shook my head, giggling again as he checked my pupils. “Okay, that’s enough about you and me. Let’s talk about me and you now. What shall we call our firstborn?”
Unbelievably, I managed to giggle again. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, Officer Princess,” he said sadly, giving me puppy dog eyes. “Lucky I’m in a hospital because you just broke my heart into a million pieces.”
“Stop it!” I insisted, smiling.
He read my chart and his expression changed. “Good God! Shot and stabbed in the same arm in the same day by the same man, but at different times? Not just a princess after all. Also a humble superhero! I bow in your presence, my lady.”
I tittered again. The Sarge threw him daggers with his eyes. “Is there a point to your babble, Doctor?”
“Not usually,” he replied, giving the Sarge a brief blast of brilliance with that cute smile. “But it’s important in my profession. It’s called a bedside manner. You should brush up on it, police officer. You need some lessons. It would do wonders in your job too, no doubt.”
He asked me some pointed questions and wrote something on the chart that I couldn’t decipher upside down, despite my best neck-stretching efforts.
“Oh, are you interested?” he asked nicely. I nodded, so he plonked himself down on the bed next to me, forcing me to move over. He stretched out his legs, leaning back on my pillows, his head next to mine, and held the chart up in front of us. “Now, your gunshot wound is what we call a perforating injury, which means it went in and out of your body, so you’ve been left with an entrance and exit wound. Fortunately for you, the bullet only caused soft tissue damage on its way, with no damage to bones or veins. We haven’t stitched up the wounds because that can sometimes increase the risk of infection, especially as you presented with some wadding.” I stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You had some of your clothing caught in the wound. Clothing isn’t sterile and that can cause infection. We’re treating those two wounds with a course of antibiotics – that’s what is in the IV now – and we’ll check how the healing is going in a couple of weeks. No reason at all why it won’t heal well. Low-velocity gun injuries in the extremities mostly do, even though they hurt like hell at the time. And your wounds are fairly small in comparison to others that I’ve seen.”
I nodded to show that I understood what he’d told me. He shifted in the bed and flicked over to another page in my chart. “Hmm, now with your knife wound, it bled out a lot, but overall the penetrating trauma wasn’t too severe or deep. It’s a fairly shallow stab wound rather than a long slice. Again, you’ve been very fortunate to only sustain soft tissue damage, so we’ve bunged a few stitches in to secure that wound. As for ongoing treatment, instead of dragging you back here, we’ll just get your GP to check on your progress. We’ll only need to see you again if any infection develops. You should be well on your way to complete recovery in a couple of weeks. But –” He checked my chart. “But, Teresa, you do need to rest that arm for now,
Officer Princess Wonder Woman or not. It’s going to be very sore for a while. We’ll give you some painkillers and antibiotics to take home. Do you have any questions, Teresa?”
“Tess.”
He granted me a full dose of that gigawatt smile. His eyes were even more beautiful at close range. “A lovely name for a lovely lady.”
“Would you like some crackers with that cheese, Doc?” I laughed and he pulled a sad face.
“Don’t you have other patients, Doctor?” asked the Sarge, his voice pure barbed wire.
“I do, but none of them are this pretty. And they don’t let me get into bed with them either,” he teased, smiling at me.
I pushed him out of my bed with those words and he grumbled good-naturedly.
“She wants to go to a party tonight. Can she be discharged? And would you recommend that she goes?” the Sarge asked him.
His eyes widened. “Party on, princess! I wish I was going with you. Think of me when you’re dancing on the tables.”
I giggled again.
He turned to the Sarge and joked, “She is adorable. I want to take her home with me right now to meet my mother.” He received a cold and flinty glare in return. “Uh-oh. Obviously the wrong person to say that to.” And in an exaggerated stage-whisper, he asked me, “Is that the boyfriend?”
“No,” I laughed, “that’s the boss.”
“Really?” he commented, surprised, eyeing off the Sarge curiously. “Awfully territorial, isn’t he?”
He switched back to serious, addressing the Sarge. “I’ll ask a nurse to take her off the IV. She’s okay. Not great, just okay. I’ll discharge her now, but if she goes out tonight, she needs someone to make sure she goes home early and doesn’t do anything extreme. I guess you’ll be volunteering for that job.”
The Sarge nodded.
“Look after her, police officer,” he instructed before turning back to me. “Behave yourself, Princess Tess. And promise me you’ll rest your arm and keep your wounds clean.”
“I promise, Doc.”
He flashed his dazzling smile and blew me a kiss before leaving, waving his arms over his head and singing loudly in a pleasant voice about how girls just want to have fun.
“He’s so cute,” I said happily, climbing out of bed. Then I caught the Sarge’s stony stare. “What?”
“Nothing,” he snapped.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
We were saved from further awkwardness by a nurse hurrying in to disconnect me from the IV. I signed some paperwork, then I was free to go home.
The Sarge helped me gather my belongings and we both thanked the cops at my door. I wanted to thank everyone who’d helped me while I’d been in the hospital, but as I’d been unconscious during the crucial bits, I wouldn’t have recognised them anyway. I sent up a silent thanks to everyone.
In the Sarge’s BMW, I slumped back in the seat, tired just from the dash from the hospital to his car in the rain.
“Tess, I don’t think you should go tonight,” the Sarge said, buckling up and easing the car out of the parking space, wipers on full.
“I’m not missing the Super’s promotion party,” I insisted stubbornly.
“You need to rest.”
“You’ll look after me,” I said decisively, then more hesitantly, “Won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Otherwise the Super’s going to – and I’m paraphrasing her threat here – hang me by my balls from the nearest tree until they drop off, before locking me in a cell with Foxy Dubois for the evening.”
I snorted inelegantly with laughter. He’d already had a few terrifying close encounters with Little Town’s good time girl. Foxy, an ex-exotic dancer and renowned man-hunter, had taken a real shine to him and she wasn’t afraid to let him know about it.
“Poor you! She’d ravish you half to death. Your chastity would be violated.”
“My chastity is a very unwilling state of affairs,” he grumbled, carefully overtaking a slow-moving Kombi van full of dreadlocked campers. They smiled and waved at us and I waved back happily, floating on painkiller cloud nine.
“You need to convince Melissa to come home soon,” I told him.
“I sure do. Otherwise I’m going to tonsure my hair and start wearing a robe and sandals.”
I giggled. “Brother Finn.”
“Bless you, my child.”
I giggled again and wondered if it was the blood loss or the painkillers that was making me so silly. I couldn’t seem to stop laughing. We drove in silence for a while as he handled his car with confidence and skill in the deluge on the two-lane country road.
He dropped me at my house, insisting on taking my bag inside for me. Dad wheeled to the door anxiously. There was a lot of emotion between us when he saw with his own eyes that his precious only child was still alive and safe.
“Tessie –” he began, the powerful feelings in his eyes hinting at his conversational topic.
“No, Dad, not now. I’m okay,” I assured firmly, hopefully dispelling his fears.
“Pick you up at six, Tessie?” asked the Sarge.
“Sure. See you then, Sarge.”
“You’re not going out.” It was part-plea and part-order from Dad.
“It’s Fiona’s promotion party,” I reminded him.
“I don’t care. You need to rest, love.”
“I won’t stay late and the Sarge has been ordered by Fiona to look after me.”
After a few minutes arguing with me, he gave in, knowing that I’d never change my mind. We farewelled the Sarge before Dad led me to the kitchen where we examined the leaking ceiling with dismay. He had already put two buckets down to catch the drips, but a third trickle of water had started. I took a large saucepan from the cupboard and placed that on the floor to collect those drips.
“I’m going to have to get that fixed as soon as it stops raining,” I sighed. “I hope Jakey can help. I don’t have any money, Dad. I spent all my savings on next weekend. I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”
“Nonsense, love. You need to have some fun now and then, like any young woman. Don’t beat yourself up about it – something will come through. It usually does.” He was the master of optimism.
I wished I’d inherited some of that. “I guess.”
I ducked outside in the downpour to check on my chickens, my girls. They were miserable, absolutely hating the rain, which kept them huddled inside their coop and not pecking around my yard contentedly. They glared at me balefully as if I was responsible for the bad weather and their confinement. My favourite hen, Miss Chooky, even made a point of standing up and turning her back on me when I arrived. She’d always been a bit of a prima donna.
“It’s not my fault, Miss Chooky,” I pleaded, scattering a handful of extra feed to make up for their missed scavenging. That set everything to rights and I watched them for a while, hunched under my umbrella, finding peace in their routine activities and minor squabbles. It soon became too cold to stay outside though and I headed for the shower to prepare for the evening.
Chapter 8
The Sarge was a little early and while he chatted to Dad, I finished getting ready. I was wearing black jeans, teamed with a long-sleeved, low-cut jade top that flashed enough boob to get me some attention but not enough to get me arrested. And of course, I was also wearing this season’s must-have accessory for women in perpetual danger – a wonderfully sharp hunting knife. Because it was so cold and rainy, I’d decided on black high heeled boots instead of dressy sandals and as I had to have my arm in a sling, I’d chosen a soft woollen wrap instead of a jacket. I hoped I’d be warm enough. I’d applied my makeup carefully and kept my hair loose and simple. Some jade earrings and a lovely jade necklace that Jake had bought me for Valentine’s Day finished my preparations.
“Here’s the belle of the ball,” announced Dad proudly when I joined the two men. To him, I was a gleaming model of womanly perfection – he was impossibly blind to my many faults.
“Stop it, Dad,” I objected. “I look bloody awful and we all know it.” Despite my best efforts, I still appeared abnormally pale. I hadn’t wanted to overcompensate for the paleness with extra makeup though, because I’d only end up looking like Ronald McDonald.
“No, you don’t, love,” he replied, turning to the Sarge for support. “Does she, Finn?”
The Sarge smiled at me. “I think you look just fine, Tessie. Anyway, with that top on nobody’s going to be looking at your face, right? Ready to go?”
“Sarge!” I protested, but he and Dad only laughed. “I’m going to change right now.”
The Sarge grabbed my good hand. “No, you’re not. You look incredible. Let’s go.”
He pulled me to the front door. He was the picture of casual elegance himself, also in black jeans, but teamed with a dark blue shirt that matched his eyes and a black leather jacket – a different one to that he’d been wearing earlier in the day. Wow! He had two leather jackets, which was two more than I owned.
We spent the ninety minute drive arguing over a movie we’d watched together on his big screen TV the previous weekend. He claimed it was a gripping political thriller with a meaningful message about the dangers of monopolisation of critical world resources by multinational corporations. He reminded me that it had left him on the edge of his seat. I reminded him that I’d fallen asleep watching it.
“Well, you’re just wrong,” was his final statement as he manoeuvred the car into what was possibly the last free space in the Super’s suburban street.
“That’s no way to end an argument,” I insisted. I’d been baiting him deliberately the whole way. In truth, the movie was interesting, but I’d had a long day on duty sorting out a contentious issue between the town’s councillor, Mrs Villiers, and her new neighbours. Anything to do with Mrs Villiers instantly exhausted me and drained me of my will to live, and after a glass of wine, I probably would have fallen asleep watching a live alien invasion of Earth.
“You’re sounding like a shallow individualist,” the Sarge snapped at me with impatience.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I smiled.
He stared at me over the top of his little car, the umbrella shadowing his face in the glare of the street light. “Have you been teasing me all this time?”
