Frontline (26 page)

Something tells me that Randall, Chris, and Sean are better at treating gunshot wounds than I am and that it’s
merely a ploy to get me alone with Trenton
. I work in the emergency room, but we don’t receive trauma patients.

Aside from my Red Cross stint, I did a school placement one semester on a surgical ward. Dressings I can do, but that alone won’t cut it with Trenton’s injury. Though, I have seen Dr. Shore assess and clean a s
core of nasty abscesses . . .

A waft of alcohol permeates the air immediately upon entering Trenton’s stuffy, darkened room, enough to make my eyes sting. He sits on the floor, his back against the side of the bed and his knees bent, wearing only form-fitting black briefs.

The sight of him in the moonlight is staggering: hard muscle, porcelain skin, tousled hair clumped together in thick pieces and curled at the ends. He would look perfect in this moment
—
the ideal cocktail of raw masculinity and beauty
—
if not for his suffering, which is strong enough to present him as but a shell of the man he was yesterday when he picked me up at my apartment.

What looks like the same
bloody rag from earlier staunches his wound. A thick coating of sweat glistens on his brow, his arms, and his chest. His breathing sounds short and labored, and his complexion looks so pale that the blue veins snaking through his torso seem to glow. A half-empty bottle of Canadian Club stands on the floor next to him, the cap off.
An unused tumbler is its companion.

I shuffle across the carpet, prompting him to open his eyes slightly, revealing blue pupils afloat in a sea of dark red. We stare at each other a long time, neither wanting to be the first to speak.

My skin warms and tingles, but my heart aches. How much of this ache stems from my obligation as a nurse to help those in suffering and how much stems from the feelings I’ve developed for Trenton since the moment I met him at the hospital? It’s an answer that can wait due to the serious nature of his injury, but one I fear I already know deep down.

“I’m here to look at your wound.” I motion to the bloody rag on his shoulder.

Trenton severs eye contact to stare at the hazy shadows projected on the wall in front of him. “It’s nothing.”

I settle onto the carpet beside him on his injured side, inundated with the stench of blood and damaged flesh mixed with whiskey and his faint, spicy musk.

“I would like to take your pulse first because it looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood. Although a blood pressure reading would tell me more, I’m assuming you don’t have a manual BP cuff or machine.”

Trenton sighs. I shift up beside him and take his hand. It feels hot and sweaty. I flip it over, revealing his palm, and feel his eyes burning into my face.

“Sara,” he whispers.

His free hand drifts to my cheek,
and that touch
—
that one beautiful touch
—
erases the hurt, the anger, the betrayal, and I float past the complications of the moment into a world of just him and me.

Slipping two fingers over his wrist, I feel his radial artery, my heart hammering as I bask in the sweet stroke of his hand down the side of my face. His pulse feels regular, bounding, and tachycardic, but I sense the frantic pace is not to compensate for blood loss. It’s backed by something else . . . the something that swims in his blue gaze as he looks at me; something I cannot decipher.

I use the wall clock as a guide to tell me when sixty seconds has passed, and establish an exact pulse that’s slightly higher than normal, confirming my initial assumption.

Trenton closes his eyes and places his head back against the bed, his arm falling limp. I survey his chiseled profile: his soft lower lip, the sweat beading his brow, the stitches from his previous wound webbed ov
er the corner of his forehead.

“Trenton?”

“Mmm . . .”

“You said it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing. It’s a gunshot wound. You’re already feverish, which could mean it’s infected.”

“It’s not infected. Leave me alone.” His right hand finds the bottle of Canadian Club and he lifts it to his lips without opening his eyes. I grab his wrist and squeeze it hard.

“Smarten up. This is not doing you any good.”

He relaxes his wrist and I take hold of the bottle and set it on the carpet an arm’s reach from me. He still won’t look at me.

With steady hands, I lift the corner of the bloody rag. Dried blood encrusted on the fabric sticks to the skin. Trenton’s eyes jolt back open as I start to tear it away. His right hand grabs mine.

“Sara, stop!”

I yank back my hand, knowing his reaction isn’t out of pain, but stubbornness and defiance.

And a bunch of macho stupidity.

“How long has it been since you changed the towel?”

“I haven’t.” His reply is a callous mumble. “I put it on yesterday and that’s it.”

I gape at him. “Did you at least clean the wound first?”

He shrugs and looks away.

“You mean you didn’t clean your wound after it was exposed to contaminated river water?”

Another shrug.

“I don’t care how much you protest, Trenton. I’m going to take a look at it.”

He grits his jaw and doesn’t respond.

The removal of the rag reveals a mess of a wound. Even Trenton’s alcohol-numbed nose ruffles with the stench. Dried blood, fresh blood, blood clots—it’s sanguineous to the max. It’s also weeping purulent, s
erous fluid.
The skin around it is white and soggy, indicating the wound wasn’t even dried before he covered it up.

The novice nurse in me is disgusted by his blatant disregard for his health. Luckily, he isn’t the only good liar around here.

“Let me see your back,” I say in a forced authoritative tone that supersedes the worry that I’m in way over my head.

Trenton sighs and leans forward.

I kneel and check the back of his shoulder. Just as I feared. There’s no exit wound.

“The bullet is still inside. I’m going to have to remove it,” I say, as though I’m an expert trauma surgeon. “Do you have tweezers or something? I’ll also need scissors, tape, gloves . . .”

He shakes his head.

Damn it.

“How about gauze?”

“No.”

“Antiseptic wash?”

“Nope.”

I try not to let my panic show.

“Um, okay . . .” I eye the whiskey bottle and pick it up. “This will have to do, then.”

Trenton’s face drops. “I’d rather drink it.”

“I think you’ve done enough of that tonight.” I stand and head into the en suite bathroom, where I gather a few towels and wash my hands with soap.

Back in the bedroom, Trenton remains seated on the floor against the bed, eyes closed. The cords in his neck strain with every breath he takes. My nursing intuition tells me the pain is more intense than he’s letting on.

If I have any hope in removing the bullet, I need better lighting. When I turn on the overhead light, Trenton squeezes his eyes shut as if the warm amber glow is more painful to him than his injury. It’s not the fluorescent lighting I’m used to at the hospital, but it will have to do.

I crouch down beside him again and pick up the whiskey bottle.

“Um, this is going to sting a bit.” Without further hesitation, I pour a good helping of whiskey on the wound.

Trenton’s head flies back as his spine curves and his muscles and tendons seize. A vicious curse escapes his lips on a howl. Apparently even overbearing CEOs have a tolerance threshold for pain. Hours ago, I wanted nothing more than to inflict the same torture upon him. Now, seeing him this way makes me even more determined to help him.

“Okay, well, that’s as sterile as it’s going to get for now.” I use a towel to collect the blood that runs down his pectoral and then dab it lightly over the wound. This time, he doesn’t even flinch.

The thick, dark blood oozing from his shoulder makes it even harder to see the wound. I pat it again with another towel, then place my hands on either side of it and stretch the skin to get a better look. Trenton’s clenched jaw traps faint sounds vibrating in his throat that could be whimpers. His nostrils flare with the cavernous intake and outtake of air through his nose.

Finally, I see the bullet. It’s lodged in his tissue, away from the bone, which explains why he can still move his shoulder.

“You’re lucky,” I say, and I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of my comment. “Well, lucky for someone who’s been shot. It looks like the bullet didn’t shatter any bones, but only an X-ray and physician can tell you that for sure.”

Under Trenton’s scrutinizing stare, I grab another towel from the
clean
pile on the floor and pat it over the wound. Then I do something with my non-sterile hands that would make Florence Nightingale, a staunch advocate for sanitation, clobber me over the head and oust me from the nursing profession permanently: I shove my forefinger and thumb into the wound, catch the jagged piece of metal, and pull it out of Trenton’s shoulder.

To Trenton’s credit, he doesn’t scream, opting instead for a series of grimaces and curses.

After tossing the bullet onto the nightstand, I do a quick mop up of the wound, which bleeds heavily for a few minutes, and then throw on some more whiskey for good measure. Trenton remains silent and on guard the entire time.

I secure another towel over the wound and hope he gets to see a doctor sooner rather than later. The bloody supplies land in the en suite wastebasket and I turn the taps on full to wash my hands again. Streams of d
ark blood flow into the drain.

“You should hopefully start seeing an improvement by tomorrow,” I say, stepping back into the room. “But you’ll still need a physician to tend to it properly.”

Trenton reaches for what’s left of the Canadian Club. I don’t stop him this time. His facial muscles contort worse than they did when he tasted the hot dog in Central Park, but his Adam’s apple yo-yos up and down in his throat with each gulp until the last mouthful disappears.

I watch him with pain and pity. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He slams the empty bottle back down on the carpet. “Why do you care?”

I
scowl. “Never mind. I don’t.”

I walk toward the bedroom door and turn off the overhead light, anxious now to leave the room and slip back into bed.

“I failed you.”

I wheel around to face him. “What?”

“I failed you, Sara.” His bloodshot eyes open again, but stay aimed at the carpet.

“Trenton.” I close my eyes for a moment, willing my cheeks to stay dry. “I don’t know who the hell those men were yesterday or why they wanted to kill us, but I’m alive today because of you. Refusing proper treatment and drinking yourself silly
—that’s how you’re failing me—and Chris, and Sean, and Randall, too. They need your leadership.”

“And what do you need, Sara?”

I take a few short steps toward him. “I need answers. But most of all, I need to go home.”

“Stay with me tonight, Sara . . . Stay in my room, in my bed.” Trenton’s eyes flash to mine. My heart twists and pulls me in two different directions: one back to the life I had before I met him. The other to his arms . . . to his
touch . . . to his lips . . .

My lower lip trembles. “I need to go home, Trenton.”

He reaches out and touches my leg. Warmth flares beneath my skin, unlocking the caged desire deep within me. With each passing second, more of my resolve erodes.

Trenton rubs his fingers over my calf, slowly elevating to my thigh. My robe parts slightly and the belt loosens. One tug and I would be exposed to him
—a strip of cotton fabric decides where I sleep tonight: alone and safe in the room down the hall, or in his bed, on a journey shrouded in darkness, our bodies flexing together, holding each other as one . . . until the first glow of morning illuminates the lies and shatters our union, ending the journey in heartache.

I move my trembling hands along the loose ends of the belt to tighten it.

“Randall said Chris and Sean are following up on a promising lead. What’s going on?”

Trenton’s chin lifts and he looks at me squarely. The warmth of his touch on my leg fades as his hand falls back to his side.

“I can’t tell you, Sara. I want to, but it’s not my place to say.”

I expect the same burning scorn I feel every time Trenton pushes me away to ignite, the same daggers of disappointment to pierce me and cut me down. But this time, something totally unexpected happens. I feel nothing.

“Sara, stay with me.”

He reaches for me again.

I take a step back.

Then another.

And another.

In the hallway, I pull the doorknob behind me. The latch clicks and I feel my way through the darkness. Twice Trenton calls my name, his voice muffled and distant behind the heavy oak door. When I step into my room, I close that door behind me, too, and his voice vanishes.