Harris (Alpha One Security #1) (15 page)

He just lifted an eyebrow. “Fuck paperwork. I ain’t gettin’ a lung transplant, here. No allergies, no relevant medical issues. Just the gunshot wounds.”
 

“You still have to fill it out, Thresh. At least the basics.”
 

With an irritated sigh, Thresh took the clipboard and pen from me. His hand was big enough he could almost span the width of the clipboard between his thumb and pinky. When he pinched the pen between his fingers, it nearly vanished, swallowed whole by the size of his hands. It was ridiculous. He was so huge it boggled the mind and defied comprehension.
 

I watched him scribble the most basic of information—name: Thresh; age: 37; height: seven feet and one half-inch; weight: 328 pounds; sex:
Yes please
.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Really? You’re Austin Powers, now?”
 

He just chuckled and handed me the clipboard. “There. Now, can we go?”
 

I eyed him. “Thresh…no last name?”
 

“Nope. Just Thresh.”
 

“You have to have a last name, Thresh.”
 

He shrugged. “Sure, I’ve
got
one. But I don’t use it.”
 

“And is
Thresh
your given name?”
 

He stared me down. “It’s the only name you’re getting, doc, so best quit while you’re ahead.”
 

“Ahead? How am I ahead? You won’t give me your real name, won’t give me your last name—why does it matter? What do you have to hide?”
 

“Got shot more’n four hours ago, doc,” Thresh said. “Not sure how much longer I can hold out.”
 

“Four
hours
?” I shouted this, exasperated. “What the fuck were you doing the whole time?”
 

“Flying here.”

“You flew here yourself?”

“No, my boss did. Harris. You were his doc, year or so ago.”
 

“I remember.” I moved with him, a step, two, toward the doors that led into the triage area. “Where were you that there were no hospitals closer than four hours?”

He tripped, and we nearly went down, but he righted himself, barely. I had to bend at the knees, use my deadlifting form to get him upright again. Good thing I work out.
 

“Jesus, doc, you’re a real beast, ain’tcha?” His voice was low, meant only for me, rumbling in my ear.
 

I glanced up at him, not sure of his meaning. “Excuse me?”
 

He reached down with his good hand—which was black-red with caked blood—and squeezed my bicep. “You got some guns under this lab coat.”
 

I flushed, but worked hard to keep my tone neutral, even a little sharp. “Hands off, Atlas.”
 

He chuckled. “Atlas?”
 

“You’re big enough that you could probably carry the weight of the world on those shoulders so, yes. Atlas.”
 

“He’s from mythology or some shit, yeah?”

“Or some shit, yes. Greek mythology, to be specific.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “A Titan, son of Æther and Gaia, if you listen to Hyginus. God of the moon, in some cases, and generally known as the Titan tasked with holding up the sky.”
 

I felt his gaze on me. “No shit? And if you don’t listen to Hyginus?”

“Some scholars say his father was the Titan Iapetus, and his mother was Asia, the Oceanid. Some say Clymene. Opinions vary. I like to go with Æther and Gaia. Makes the most sense to me.”
 

We were in the triage area, now, and I was desperately looking for a bed to deposit Thresh onto. I couldn’t prop him up him much longer and I don’t think he was faking the weakness—he’d clearly lost a hell of a lot blood. There was one bed, sitting in the hallway, freshly remade. I angled him toward it, backed him up to it, and he collapsed gratefully onto it, releasing his arm from around my shoulders. I felt light, free, as if I could float away, now that his weight wasn’t bearing down on me. I rolled my shoulders, straightened my back.

And I didn’t miss the way his gaze focused like lasers on my chest as I stretched. Not like you could see much, since I was wearing a sports bra as well as a tight camisole under my button down. I liked to keep my girls well contained while I worked, as I didn’t appreciate the attention I received if I revealed too much cleavage. I actually dressed far more conservatively than I even cared for, but I wanted to be respected for my talent, skill, and worth ethic as a doctor, not because of my DDD-cup breasts.
 

But he still looked.

I made sure he caught my gaze, made sure he knew I’d caught him staring. He just smirked, quirked an eyebrow, not looking apologetic whatsoever.

Nor did he look as faint as he’d acted just a moment ago.
 

But he did still appear rather pale, and it was clear he’d lost a lot of blood, and had to be in an enormous amount of pain.
 

I nudged his uninjured shoulder. “Lay down.”
 

He moved to comply, but slowly, stiffly. As if he wasn’t used to lying down, as if it hurt to do so. He lay on his back, looking uncomfortable, and unsure. “How’s that?”

“It’s a bed, Thresh. Try to relax.”
 

“You relax with a shattered ulna.” He rolled his injured shoulder, hissing. “Or a couple of rounds in your shoulder.”
 

As gently as I could, I pried his arm away from his body; he’d been keeping it clutched close for so long, it was probably cramped in that position. And yes, he was right in his assessment: his ulna was in pretty bad shape, although I wouldn’t classify it as shattered. More of a severe fracture. I peered at his shoulder, noting two entry wounds in the meat of his shoulder and pectoral muscle.
 

“Can you rock to the side for me? I need to look for exit wounds.” I tugged at him, indicating the way I wanted him to move.

He remained motionless. “No point, doc. There aren’t any exit wounds, cause the rounds are still in there. This ain’t my first rodeo. I know when it’s a through-and-through and when they’re lodged in there.”
 

 
I sighed. “Very well. You seem to know what you’re about.” I unlocked the wheels to the gurney. “Let’s find you to a room so I can get to work. I have other rounds to make, you know.”
 

“I know I could use some fuckin’ pain killers. You got any Tylenol in that sexy lab coat of yours?”

I stared at him, a blank expression on my face. “I don’t keep medication in my lab coat, Thresh.” I couldn’t stop my eyebrows from scrunching down. “And…sexy lab coat?”
 

“What? Nobody’s ever told you you’re sexy in that lab coat?”

I stiffened. “No. I think not.”
 

“Then whoever you’ve been hangin’ around with needs to get their eyes checked. That shit is
sexy
.” He lifted up on his good elbow, a sly expression on his face. “You ever walk around wearing just that lab coat? Maybe some black knee socks and a pair of high heels? Get that thick fuckin’ hair of yours out of that stupid bun, let it loose around your shoulders. Fuck, man.” He slumped back down. “I popped a semi just picturing it.”
 

We turned a corner, and I pushed the elevator call button.
 

I flushed again, and then my eyes, of their own traitorous accord, slid down, down, down. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Do
not
check out his package, Lola.
 

I checked out his package. And if that big bulge was a
semi
?
 

I got faint just thinking about it.

And then I got angry, both with him for making me look at his crotch and think about how huge his dick must be, and at myself for being so weak and easily manipulated.
 

“No,” I snapped. “I’ve never done…that.”
 

“You should. You could give a man a heart attack, if you did that. Real spank bank material, right there.”
 

“Spank bank?” I felt my cheeks going even more flame-red than they already were. “Jesus, you’re a real pig, aren’t you?”
 

“More of a bear than a pig, I’d say.”

I ran my gaze over his body, unwillingly—God, he was massive. Very much like a bear. Kodiak, maybe, or a polar bear, what with his blond hair and pale eyes.
 

And shit, shit, shit, he caught me checking him out. But he didn’t say anything, just smirked and covered his eyes with his good arm as the elevator doors opened.
 

“I don’t even own any knee-socks,” I said, and I wasn’t sure why I said that, or where the admission came from.

The doors closed, and Thresh spoke without looking at me. “You should get a pair. Nice, thick, muscular legs like I picture you having under those damn baggy-ass pants of yours? They’d looking fuckin’ bangin’, doc.
Bangin’
. Pair it with a short skirt and some heels? Man, I’d be done. Stick a fork in me, done like dinner.”
 

“Stop talking about me like that,” I said, and I admit I fairly snarled.

“What? Can’t a man appreciate a beautiful woman?”
 

I hated the curling warmth in my heart, the way part of me wanted to sit up and beg for more of the way he was talking about me. “No. I am a doctor. You are my patient. Plus, you’re objectifying me, and I don’t appreciate it.”
 

His voice was sharp, now. “Hey. I don’t care for that statement. I ain’t objectifying shit. I flew here from fuckin’ Nevada, doc, just to have you specifically look at my little booboos. Because I respect your skill as a doctor.”
 

“Thank you.”

“And because you’re fuckin’ hot as hell.”
 

I sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”
 

“A woman can be both beautiful
and
successful based on her skills and education, and I’m perfectly capable of recognizing that. Don’t be so fuckin’ uptight.”
 

“I am
not
uptight,” I snapped. I hated that, hated being called that with a passion. “I’m
reserved
, and
private
. I am
not
uptight.”

He chuckled. “All right, all right. Calm your tits.”
 

“Excuse me?” I snarled.

The elevator doors opened, but I didn’t move. I was so irritated. “
Calm
…my
tits
?” I got in his face. “If you want me to see to your wounds then I suggest you keep a civil and respectful tongue in your head. Do…you…
fucking
…understand me?”
 

His eyebrows lifted, and I think he fought a grin. “Yes ma’am. Read you loud and clear.”
 

“And I wouldn’t classify your injuries as ‘little booboos.’”
 

He waved his hand dismissively. “Bah. I’ve had worse and kept fighting.”
 

It didn’t want to think about that statement too closely. Or, at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself. I couldn’t help wondering, though, what it was he did. An army guy or someone from the armed forces would be seen to at a military base, not at a civilian hospital. So what was he doing here?
 

The idea that he’d come to Jackson Memorial from Nevada just to see me made my head spin, made me woozy and faint and made certain things ache and throb that had no business aching or throbbing—and I wasn’t talking about my yoo-hoo. My heart had been closed down and shut off for a long, long time, and for good reason. Without even trying, Thresh had pried open and breathed life into some long-dormant part of me I kept firmly closed and shut off.
 

When we got to a room and I cut his T-shirt off, I could see that he wasn’t lying; his body was a maze of scars, old, new, thin lines and puckered bullet wounds and jagged gashes.
 

Jesus, what had this man been through in his life to accumulate such extensive scarring?
 

I met his eyes, and for a moment his expression was full of world-weariness, followed by a hardness, a cold, calculating cunning that terrified me to my core, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared,
 
buried and layered under a scrim of warmth and humor.
 

I put my emotions away, shoving them deep down in the place where I knew they were protected.

I called for help. We gave him some local anaesthetics, and I went to work on his arm, first. I cleaned the wound, set the bone, checked for muscle damage, stitched it closed and wrapped it. He wouldn’t need plates or screws, thankfully, as it was a fairly clean break. Next, I began removing the bullets from his shoulder; he wasn’t so lucky there. The bullets had flattened and done fairly extensive damage to the muscle. He’d need physical therapy before he regained full use of this side of his torso.
 

Before I sent the nurses away I had them give him a Tetanus shot as well as a bunch of antibiotics mixed with painkillers. I watched him for a moment, sitting on the foot of his bed. He was awake, but out of it.

He was staring at me. Woozy. Tired.
 

“Rest, Thresh.” I hated how tender my voice sounded.
 

He was a pig. A bastard. The biggest, roughest, toughest man I’d ever encountered. Huge, hard, and beyond bad.
 

But the really bad news, the worst news, was that he was the kind of man I’d spent my entire life avoiding like the Bubonic Plague.
 

And very successfully, I might add…up until now.

Why did I feel so…

Drawn to him?
 

I shot to my feet, bustled out of his room without a backward glance, tugging on the ends of my stethoscope, unreasonably angry.

I heard a chuckle behind me.
 

Damn that man. Damn him to hell.

BONUS SCENE:

VALENTINE’S DAY

I wasn’t expecting much from Roth by way of a Valentine’s Day celebration.
 

We were parents, now, after all. Corinna Abigail Roth was six months old, and demanded pretty much every moment of our attention. My man had gotten his baby girl, which irritated me on some level. I mean, he’d decided he was having a girl, so we had a girl? How fair was that?