No Rules (15 page)

Donovan raised his
thobe
, bunching it up until he could whip it over his head in one clean movement, never losing track of his opponent. She stared at his white undershirt, gasping at a large patch of blood on his side. The next second it was hidden from view as he twirled the
thobe
around his left arm and advanced on the man. He circled, each of them watching and calculating. Without warning, Donovan lunged.

It happened faster than she could follow, a feint toward the knife, then a blur of motion as he kicked, spun, and grabbed. The knife clattered to the street and almost simultaneously a sickening
crunch
came from the stranger’s arm as Donovan shoved it behind his back. The man screamed and struggled. Donovan flinched at an obvious sharp pain, and the man took advantage of the moment, lurching away and cradling his broken arm, then running down the street. Startled yells followed him as two men tried to grab him, but he slipped past and disappeared around a corner.

Jess rushed to Donovan as he stumbled to lean against the donkey cart. She forgot about not touching him, pulling his bundled left arm aside to get a look at the blood spreading on his undershirt. Two other men reached him at the same time, one of them Hakim.

“Let me see,” she ordered, lifting his shirt.

“I’m okay, just a scrape.” His voice was brusque as he pushed her away, but Hakim held onto the shirt, exposing a slice on his side just above his hip.

For a moment, she felt light-headed and sick. It was more than a scrape. He needed a doctor.

Chapter Ten

Donovan tugged the undershirt from Hakim’s grip, stretching it loosely over the wound. A small circle of blood showed, but with the loose fit it didn’t absorb any new blood. She knew the cut was still bleeding down his hip, soaking into his pants beneath the shirt.

Jess wanted to touch him, to lift his shirt again and examine the wound closely, but the men were crowding close.

It might not be too deep, she told herself. It had been bleeding freely but not spurting. But she remembered the six inches of flashing steel and knew if the knife had gone in straight before slicing to the side, the injury could be serious.

Hakim took charge, slinging an arm around him and urging him toward the shop.

“No,” Donovan protested. He stopped, surrounded now by several neighborhood men and a few women. “I’m okay,” he insisted. Unwrapping the
thobe
from his arm, he rolled it and tied it around his waist in a makeshift bandage, wincing once as he secured it with a tight knot. “I can take care of this myself. The man is gone and you don’t need to get involved.”

She wanted to protest that he most certainly could not take care of it himself, that he obviously needed stitches, perhaps surgery, not to mention a good dose of antibiotics and painkillers. But she saw the hard look he sent Hakim and read the meaning there. Hakim was to maintain the appearance that they were nothing more than customers who had happened by his shop, then had the bad luck to be attacked in the street.

“Police,” someone said, and she heard the word echoed by others in the crowd.

Donovan lifted a hand and spoke over them. “Please, I don’t have time. I need to make my flight and filing a report will delay me and serve no purpose. The man is gone. I’m okay, really.” He grinned to emphasize it, and she wondered at the control it took. She’d seen the wound, as had Hakim, but the rest of the crowd had not. With blood not yet soaking through the rolled length of material at his waist, they seemed less insistent on calling the police. Two men made a halfhearted attempt in English to persuade him to stay and get help, but he waved them off and started toward the corner confidently, motioning for her to come along.

She hurried to his side, understanding they had to leave, and anxious to get away before he began to feel the loss of blood. Walking had to be exacerbating the bleeding.

She heard Hakim call out to someone behind them, then saw his grandson dart past, running to the cross street where he yelled to someone. A small cab pulled up as they reached the corner, and Donovan thanked the boy quietly, slipping him another bill. Jess climbed into the backseat and watched Donovan anxiously as he settled in beside her and told the driver where to take them. As soon as they started off, he pulled out his phone.

She was sitting close enough to hear Kyle answer.

Donovan ducked his head, speaking in a low voice. “How soon can you get back?” Jess couldn’t make out the response, but her stomach tumbled at the doubtful look he flashed her as he listened. “Do you think you can give Jess some help with a medical issue over the phone?”

Panic grabbed her. “What?”

He shushed her with one hand as he listened to Kyle’s reply. “Tell you later. You’ll just have to do your best and check it when you get back. Stand by, I’ll call when we get to the house.”

He closed the phone, then silenced her appalled look with a stern glance toward the driver who dealt with tourists every day and most likely understood English.

She said nothing during the ride, fidgeting nervously and casting glances at his side. She couldn’t see blood; maybe the bleeding had slowed significantly. Or maybe all those layers were soaking it up before she could see it.

And what in the hell was he thinking? Did he expect her to take temporary measures until someone more competent could get there, or did he actually think that she could stitch him up?

The six-minute ride seemed to take forever. When they pulled up at the blue door, she stepped out, then hovered, ready to grab his arm if he staggered. He didn’t. He paid the fare, thanked the driver, and gave a cheery wave. His steps were slow, but looked casual rather than painful. She knew different.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he grabbed his side and slumped. She was ready, slipping an arm around him for support. He leaned into her heavily, catching his breath, then pushed away. “I can do this.”

He put one hand on the wall and attempted the first step unassisted, then sucked in sharply and swore. “Stubborn idiot,” she muttered, grabbing him around the waist with a firmness that brooked no argument. With slow, patient steps they climbed to the third floor.

He was breathing heavily as she laid him on the couch. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, gathering strength, before panting out, “In the bedroom. Green bag. There’s a smaller black bag inside. Bring it.”

She found it easily. She raided the bathroom for towels, too, grabbing an armful of every size. When she got back he had removed the
thobe
that had served as a pressure bandage and was muttering curses as he lifted the undershirt over his head.

“Stop being so macho, and let me help,” she ordered. She pulled the undershirt off, then laid it over the couch beneath him to protect the fabric from blood. “Now lie down and let me see that cut.”

He grunted as he eased down. “What do you know about first aid?”

“I know when to call a doctor,” she said, biting her lip as she looked at the gaping dark red line that trickled fresh blood. “Now would be a good time.”

“Kyle’s a medic.” He dug his phone out of his pants pocket, grunting with pain as he moved.

“Kyle’s not here.”

“You are. I’m sure you can follow instructions.” He dialed. “You should probably wash your hands.”

She stood for a moment, racked with different emotions and not sure which he would respond to: fury, fear, sympathy, or—it seemed worth repeating—fear. He had a way of dragging her into things until she was over her head. In fact, that’s all he’d ever done, taking her to Chicago, taking her to Egypt, taking her to Hakim’s where a stranger had stabbed him. Now he expected her to play doctor and fix him up.

The presumption of it made her frustrated.

The idea of being responsible for healing him scared her to death.

The obvious pain he was in jerked her right back to sympathy, unable to bear the wincing she saw behind his rigid mask of manly fortitude. It didn’t fool her. He was pale and sweating, nearly in shock. It outweighed everything else.

She dashed to the kitchen, ripping off her
hijab
and
abaya
, then running hot water and looking frantically through the open shelves as she soaped her hands. Their only containers consisted of two pans, one small and one large. She filled them both, added liquid soap to the small one, and carried them back to the living room.

He was talking on the phone while leaning over, grimacing as he dug through the bag. She shoved him back, not gently since he tried to resist, and grabbed the bag from his hands. “That’s mine,” she told him. “Now lie still so I can see how bad this is.”

He looked surprised, but obeyed. As he related the attack to Kyle, she soaked a washcloth in the soapy water and began cleaning away blood. They undoubtedly had a disinfectant in their first-aid kit, but she knew without asking that soap and water would be best for cleaning.

Except…“Damn it. This is tap water. I didn’t boil it.”

“Don’t worry, I doubt he sterilized the knife before he stabbed me. Here, I’m going to put Kyle on speaker.”

He laid the phone on his chest and Kyle’s voice came through small but clear. “Describe the cut to me, Jess.”

She stuffed towels beneath Donovan’s side to soak up the water as she washed. “It’s about six inches long. There’s a lot of blood.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“Yes. Not much, though.” She sighed with relief, one fear eased.

“Okay, look in the bag for latex gloves. Then I want you to pull the edge of the wound back gently and tell me how deep it is.”

With gloved hands, she touched the edge of the cut gently, then pushed. Donovan hissed through clenched teeth. More blood ran out, and she pulled back, dabbing at it with a new washcloth. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Donovan’s steady gaze held hers. “I’m fine, just do it.”

“Can you see yellow, fatty tissue below the skin?” Kyle asked.

Ick. “Yes.”

“Is it more than a quarter inch deep? A half inch? Look all along the cut.”

Gritting her teeth, she gingerly parted the sides and touched the gaping center. Donovan’s jaw clenched and he looked at the ceiling, but said nothing.

“Between a quarter and a half.”

“Okay, that’s good. I don’t think we have any major damage, but we have to get the wound disinfected and closed. Look in the bag for a surgical mask—we don’t want you breathing all over the wound. Also Betadine, syringes, and meds. There should be a couple small bottles of antibiotic and something to anesthetize the area. Don’t worry about the gloves, you’ll put on new ones. Tell me when you find everything.”

She dug around, then in frustration, dumped the contents onto a towel. “I have a syringe, antibiotic, and Betadine. No mask. No painkiller.” She met Donovan’s gaze, biting her lip. He said nothing. “Do we have whiskey, or something like that?”

Donovan managed a tight smile. “Watched a lot of Westerns, did you?”

“It wouldn’t have time to take effect,” Kyle said. “How about needles and sutures? There should be a box that says something like surgical-gut sutures, plus a curved needle, like a large hook.”

She looked. “Got them both.”

She knew where these instructions were going, but refused to think ahead. Kyle’s voice remained steady and matter of fact, guiding her through preparations so that she felt like his assistant, more of a nurse than a doctor. Kneeling at Donovan’s side, she cleaned the cut again then, following Kyle’s instructions, handed him several clean washcloths so he could blot excess blood as she worked.

“All right,” Kyle said in his unflappable voice “Have you ever mended a tear in anything?”

“My teddy bear.”

“This is the same thing. Pinch the end of the wound together and take your first stitch. It’s like sticking a needle through an orange peel. You want to poke through the skin far enough away from the cut that it won’t pull loose.”

She glanced at Donovan. He nodded. “Go ahead, Jess. I trust you.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. She wanted to throw the needle down and back into a corner, but she couldn’t. There was no one else there, and Donovan needed her. Praying her fingers wouldn’t tremble, she punched the curved needle into his skin.

Donovan clenched his jaw and grunted as it slipped through. “Sorry,” she muttered, shaken at causing him more pain. Gingerly, she pulled it the rest of the way, shaking off a touch of nausea at the resistance of the suture passing through skin.

Only slightly less hesitant, she repeated it on the other side of the wound, then brought the ends up and tied and cut them. She tried not to watch his face, but she couldn’t avoid seeing the rapid rise and fall of his chest and hear the panted breaths he took. Beads of sweat stood on his brow.

“Kyle, he’s in pain.”

“He’ll live,” Kyle answered. Curt, but not without sympathy. He was more used to accepting the rough patches of life than she was. They all were.

“Jess.” Donovan’s words were short and interspersed with heavy breathing. “It’ll be better if you hurry.”

It would be better if she could deaden his pain. Or distract him from it somehow. And her reluctance wasn’t helping him. She needed to think of Donovan, not her own squeamish discomfort.

With sudden determination, she pulled off her gloves, then grabbed her T-shirt and whipped it over her head.

“What-?” Donovan’s voice broke. “What the hell are you doing?”

She glanced down at her bra’s lacy, demicup design—sexy, but nothing a low-cut evening gown wouldn’t show. Hardly enough to be a distraction. With a determined breath, she unhooked the bra and tossed it aside. Her nipples immediately puckered under his startled gaze.

“Sweet Jesus.”

She slipped on a new pair of gloves and met Donovan’s stare with a level gaze. “Focus on me, not the pain.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“What’s going on?” Kyle asked, his voice edged with worry.

“Nothing,” she told him. “Just making the patient comfortable.”

Without another word, she took a deep breath and a second stitch, this time without flinching. And a third. As she went on, she got faster, forgetting about Donovan’s intense stare and concentrating on pulling the stitches together without puckering the skin. His breathing didn’t slow, but it didn’t get worse, and he remained silent until she sat back on her heels with a sigh.

“Done. Thirty-four stitches. I hope that’s enough.”

“Is his stuffing coming out?”

“What?”

Kyle chuckled. “Is the wound bleeding?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Amazing.

“Then congratulations, you’re done. Grab some gauze and tape a nice fat pad of it over the cut. Then shoot him up with the antibiotic.”

“Got it.” She reached for the gauze, tape, and scissors. She almost hated to cover it up. The neat line of stitches looked professional, at least after the first few uneven ones. Far better than Pookie Bear’s had looked. She smiled, impressed with what she’d done. Despite all her fear and uncertainty, when forced to act, she’d done a good job.