Page 56 of Nicoletta
CHAPTER 20
NICOLETTA
A strong medicinal smell, then more pressure and packing. When he is done, he applies tape in precise strips, smoothing each one down from end to end.
He shines the light close again, then steps back. “Done.” He snaps off the surgical gloves and disposes of them in a container under the table. “Let me get you something clean to wear.”
“Grab a t-shirt for me too.” Bolt shrugs out of the tux jacket, and as he predicted, the back is split up the middle.
Diesel shakes his head. “Just like the fuckin’ Hulk.”
Bolt peels off the dress shirt and pitches it in the waste bin.
“I guess you won’t be getting the deposit back on that tux,” Blood laughs around his words.
Ezra returns with an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweat shorts for me and a faded t-shirt for Bolt.
Ezra points to the other side of the room. “You can change in the bathroom.”
Bolt slips on the t-shirt, then places his muscled arm behind my back. “Gonna ease you up, babe.” He slowly gets me to asitting position while keeping the sheet wrapped around me. “You all right?”
I nod. Even though the intense pain has subsided, I’m not quite sure about my legs.
“You want me to carry you?” Bolt asks.
Callahan spins around from the sink, where he’s washing his hands. “Ease her onto her feet. I wanna see if she’s able to walk.”
Bolt does as the doctor says, still bracing me from behind. I lean against him, feeling a bit wobbly.
“Just give it a minute and get your legs under you,” Callahan instructs.
I expected this man to be a barbaric butcher, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. He’s calm, confident, considerate, and totally professional, with steady hands and a kind smile.
I stand for a few minutes, then nod toward the bathroom. Bolt stays by my side until I enter the bathroom. I take off the rest of the shredded dress, pull on the t-shirt, and carefully ease the shorts up just below the bandage. I rinse my hands and face in the sink, get myself together, and when I open the door, Bolt is again at my side.
For the first time, I hear the music and the sounds of the bar bleeding through the wall.
Callahan hands a paper bag to Bolt. “Antibiotics that have to be taken every six hours.” His gaze shifts to me. “Finish the entire bottle even if on day four you feel great. Ibuprofen for the pain.” He nods to Bolt. “There’s something stronger in there, but only if she needs it.”
Bolt nods. Serious. Concerned.
His eyes haven’t left mine the entire time. Like a lifeline, I knew he was there holding me up. Even before, when Callahan told him to get the hell outta his light. Bolt moved a few inches to the foot of the table but still in my line of vision.
Then the doctor hands me a piece of paper printed with instructions. “Tomorrow, I want you to read this carefully. It tells you how to redress the wound, and what you can and can’t do over the next week. Any oozing outside the bandage area or a fever over one hundred, you call me.” Then his gaze shifts to Bolt. “And if there’s any red streaking moving away from the wound, you go to an emergency room. Immediately. No matter what the consequences.”
“And if we don’t?” Bolt asks.
“Then she dies.” Callahan’s voice is flat and firm. “Sepsis doesn’t wait for bad decisions.” Then he says, "No strenuous activity for two weeks.”
Bolt makes a sound.
"I'm aware," the doctor says dryly, "that the instruction is theoretical in nature.”
Bolt makes a face I can’t decipher.
"She should eat something. Preferably protein. She’s lost blood, and she’s running on empty and adrenaline. That only carries a person so far."
“Fish tacos?” For the first time all night, I’m actually hungry.
