by V. K. Powell
“Any of that.” Finley flinched when Dylan eased the bandage back. “And I don’t need…to be here, but the sergeant insisted.”
“Maybe you’re right, but let’s make sure.” The quiver in Finley’s voice softened Dylan’s resolve to remain professional and she tried to distract her with one of the things cops loved to talk about, their work. “Tell me what happened while I clean this and take a closer look.”
“I was checking the DRC after an informant said he’d seen our second shooter hanging around. I thought I saw someone move in the shadows and ran toward him. When I woke up, we couldn’t find any trace of another person. I apparently bumped into a railroad tie with two spikes sticking up. Not too smooth.”
Dylan stood at the foot of the bed and rubbed her hands up the sides of Finley’s bare legs checking for fractures and sensitivity. Her muscles were tight and skin hot with no other signs of injury. Dylan released a breath and slowed her movements. Her stomach clenched, and her nipples hardened with arousal as she slipped from being a doctor checking a patient to a woman caressing another. That never happened to her on duty. Finley shuddered, and Dylan jerked her hands away. “Did I hurt you?”
“N…no.”
“What then?” Dylan summoned her professional persona and repeated the exam, certain Finley was being macho.
Finley’s gaze rested on Dylan’s hands as she moved up and down her legs from knees to ankles. “Your touch is so gentle. It’s—”
“Focus, Masters,” Dylan said, trying not to think about what Finley had said or how touching Finley felt personal to her as well. She cleared her throat. Damn it. She needed to focus. “Were the spikes rusty?”
“I didn’t check, but I imagine so. Those ties have been there for ages.”
“You’ll need a tetanus shot, if you haven’t had one in the past ten years.”
“I’m sure I have. I spend way more time here than I’d like.” Finley glanced down at her injuries and then quickly away. “Will I need stitches?”
“Maybe a couple. Shins are a little bony for staples, and I don’t think Steri-Strips will work in your case.”
“Why? They’re quicker, don’t hurt as bad, and I like both of those things, a lot.”
Finley acted like a kid anxious to play in the sandbox again, but her game involved danger and life-threatening situations. No matter how much Dylan disliked the thought of Finley in harm’s way, it was none of her business. “Will you stay off your feet for a couple of days so you don’t risk reopening the wounds?”
Finley shook her head. “I have to get this guy before he finds a way to skip town.”
“Stitches it is then. And you should probably have someone check on you during the night. You were unconscious, so there could be complications from the bump on your head. Maybe Anita could help.” Why did she say that? It was definitely not her concern who Finley spent time with or why. She stood and pulled back the curtain.
“Where are you going?”
Finley reached for her, but Dylan sidestepped. She couldn’t bear Finley’s imploring look any longer or seeing her in pain. “I’ll have a resident get you stitched up and out of here as quickly as possible.”
Finley scooted to the edge of the bed and was about to jump off.
“Stay right there.” Dylan said. “We don’t need your blood all over the ER.”
“But I thought you’d…” Finley clutched the locket around her neck and swallowed several times. “I wanted you…never mind.”
Finley asked for her help, and Dylan had wanted to comply so badly it scared her. Instead she said, “Our residents are perfectly capable of closing a laceration, and they need the practice.” She rushed toward the elevator, calling over her shoulder. “Resident and suture tray to treatment five. I’ll be in the canteen if you need me.” Disliking arrogant, reckless Finley was easy, but this vulnerable one aroused something in Dylan she didn’t want to acknowledge.
* * *
The flimsy gray-green curtain fanned in the breeze behind Dylan as she rushed from the treatment area, and Finley stared open-mouthed. What had she done that sent Dylan hurrying from the room this time? It was becoming a habit. And why did she keep asking, asking Dylan to help her? She didn’t need people and she certainly didn’t ask for help, except when Dylan was around apparently. Before she could examine the questions further, a peppy man holding a medical supply tray like a waiter offering filet mignon threw back the curtain.
“Okay, Officer, let’s get you stitched up and back on the job.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all night.” Finley lay back on the gurney, focused on the glaring light the young resident now trained on her legs, and tried not to think about what he was doing.
“You’ll feel a little stick and some tingling while I numb the area.”
Needles. She remembered being with Hank the past couple of days, the constant presence of nurses and doctors with needles, and then further back to her father’s bedside. She trembled.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and recalled Dylan touching her legs earlier. Finley had been excited, no doubt, but also comforted, a soothing feeling more intimately stirring than physically arousing.
“Okay, I think we’re good.” The man glanced at Finley as if expecting praise for his stitching efforts, but Finley didn’t even look at his work.
“Thanks. Can I go now?”
“Sure. Here are the care instructions for your injuries. Dr. Carlyle recommends you not be alone tonight because of the blow to your head. Otherwise, you’re free to go.”
Finley took the offered paper and gingerly stood, thankful that the pain from earlier was gone. After putting her boots back on, she found the sergeant and her other squad member still waiting in the lobby. “Is my patrol car here?”
“No, because you’re going home.” Her sergeant gave her a pointed stare. “I’ll give you a ride, and don’t come in tomorrow unless you’re one hundred percent.”
“But, Sarge.”
“Don’t ‘but, Sarge’ me. While you check out, I’m going to see Hank. You’ll probably want to do the same. I bet he’s going stir-crazy up there with nothing to do.”
“Roger that.” Finley completed the paperwork to check out and when she finished, the redhead who’d comforted Dylan two days ago was staring at her with a look she couldn’t decipher. She glanced at the nurse’s name badge. “Holly, is Dr. Carlyle around?”
“I think she went to the canteen, but I wouldn’t bother her if I were you.”
“Thanks for the warning and no disrespect, but you’re not me.” Holly obviously knew Dylan better, but Finley couldn’t leave without seeing her. After upsetting her at the Carlyle brunch yesterday and again today, she needed to explain, but what or how she wasn’t sure. Emotional situations and explanations weren’t her strength.
Finley stood outside the canteen, scanned the room, and located Dylan near the back at a small aluminum table overlooking an interior courtyard. She caged a beige paper coffee cup in her hands and stared out the window, her face drawn and pensive. Finley hesitated, second-guessing her intrusion, and then walked toward her. “Mind if I join you?”
“Can I stop you?” Dylan’s voice was low, almost pained.
“Yes, but I wish you wouldn’t.” Finley waited, clutching the back of a chair. “I wanted to apologize and thank you.”
When Dylan finally looked up, her brown eyes were filled with agony and tears until she blinked them away like drizzle on a windshield. She nodded toward a seat.
Finley eased the chair out, afraid if she made a loud noise Dylan might come to her senses and send her away. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday at your family’s brunch. It was nice…but I obviously upset you. And I’m sorry for walking out.” She shook her head. “Not what I wanted to say first. I should’ve remembered that your grandfather and father were killed in the line of duty. Sometimes I’m not really sensitive, not even close. I’m just no g
ood at…this.”
“What exactly is this?”
Finley fidgeted with her necklace and forced eye contact with Dylan. “Talking about stuff, sharing, especially feelings. But it’s not something I’ve consciously worked on either. I’m from a family of emotional morons, or so my father said.” Dylan shifted in her chair to face her, and Finley savored the minor victory. She had Dylan’s full attention, and the connection made her want to try harder to explain herself. “I can’t get away with diversions around you though. Not sure why.” Finley raked her fingers through her hair. Where did that come from?
“I like talking about things. Guess that’s in my blood,” Dylan said. “So, tell me about you and Hank. How did you get so close?”
“He was my training coach for eighteen weeks after recruit school.” Her voice sounded foreign, too timid and needy, but she continued. “That bonds you for life. He and I paced while Robin was being born. He stood with me at my father’s funeral. And I couldn’t keep him safe.”
“But you helped keep him alive and possibly saved his son’s life. You stepped up in a big way. And what you did for his son after the shooting means more than you know. Nothing is more important than family.” Dylan gave her a smile that lit up her eyes. “Why were you so uncomfortable Sunday, if you can tell me? I know my family can be full-on.”
“You’re all so close and you talk about everything. I didn’t grow up like that, which is probably why this is so hard for me. I felt like an outsider, not because anyone made me feel unwelcome but because of who I am. And, let’s face it, there’s about a million of you.” She poked at Dylan’s hand playfully.
“How did your father die?”
Finley withdrew her hand. She didn’t want to talk about her father, but she’d opened the door, and if she slammed it shut now, they might never have another real conversation. Was that even what she wanted—this intimate back and forth exchange? She swallowed hard. “He drank himself to death.”
“I’m sorry, Fin.”
It was the first time Dylan had called her Fin, and it felt like she was talking to an old friend who understood. But Dylan wasn’t a friend, just a gorgeous, accomplished woman with a perfect family that Finley didn’t fit into. She must seem like such a loser to Dylan. Tears threatened, and her father’s voice sounded in her mind. “Do something.” She shoved her chair back as she stood and said, “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I wanted to apologize.”
“Fin, wait.”
But she was already halfway across the room. She needed to go before she came totally unglued in front of Dylan. Finley took the stairs to the ICU, wincing with each step but determined to keep going in spite of her injured shins. She inched the door of Hank’s private room open and peered around the corner to make sure he was alone.
“Are you going to skulk in the shadows or come in?”
Finley dragged one of the cushioned green hospital chairs to his beside and flopped down. “I can tell you’re feeling better. You’re already busting my balls.”
Hank chuckled and nodded toward her feet. “Why are you hobbling?”
“Tangled with some railroad spikes and lost. Just a couple of stitches in each shin. The meds haven’t completely worn off yet, so it doesn’t hurt much right now.”
He shook his head. “You can’t stay out of trouble without me.”
“Fortunately, you’re being sprung soon, so there’s that.”
“Yeah, but I won’t be back on the job for a while. You’ve got to take it easy. We can’t both be riding a bed or recliner while this other guy is still loose.”
Finley felt a pang of guilt. She should’ve already figured out how to locate the suspect.
“And don’t beat yourself up for any of this. It’s not on you, Fin.” He studied her for a few seconds. “So, what else is bothering you? Woman trouble?”
“What? No way.” But she’d answered too quickly and with too much feeling.
“Who is she?”
Hank didn’t need to worry about her problems right now. “No one.” Nothing had ever been further from the truth. Dylan Carlyle was far from no one, but Finley wasn’t certain why she felt that way or how to explain it to Hank. He’d warned her away from Dylan once already.
She stood. “The drugs are making you sappy. Get some sleep. I’ll check by again tomorrow.” He started to say something, but she held up her hand, unsure she could take another serious conversation right now. She waved good-bye, closed the door, and stepped across the hall to the officer standing guard at Spencer’s room. “Is he still out?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you heard anything? Any chance he’s faking?” Finley asked.
“Nothing new. I don’t think he’s faking though. He’s definitely in a coma.”
“Damn it.” She cursed under her breath and pulled a business card from her pocket. “Give me a call when he starts to come around. Just me. Pass it along to your relief. Okay? I’ll owe you.”
The officer hesitated before he accepted the card, tapped her number into his mobile, and handed it back to her. “I’d like patrol to catch this guy. Detectives get all the glory.”
“Thanks, man.” She texted her sergeant that she was staying with Hank, went to the canteen for a coffee, and snuck back into Hank’s room. He was already asleep, so she stretched out in the chair beside his bed. She’d rather be awake here with a man she admired and cared about than at home remembering the one she’d lost long ago.
Chapter Ten
After her shift in the ER ended the next morning, Dylan stopped by the ICU to check on the Fairview Station patients as she referred to them. Neither was technically her patient, but she’d treated them first and would always remember them because of how their worlds had collided. Besides, Ben and Jazz would expect updates on the officer.
When she entered Josh Spencer’s room, he lay under white sheets tucked neatly that showed no signs of recent movement. His condition hadn’t changed either, still comatose. Did he, as Finley suspected, know where his brother was and if so, would he help police find him? And what would become of his daughter, Shea, who’d seen her father shot and shooting at others? Finley’s father had slowly killed himself with alcohol. Both situations left lasting marks on a child’s life. She wanted to know more about Finley’s childhood and her mother, but she’d looked ready to break last night before hurrying from the canteen.
Dylan finished reading the overnight notes on Spencer’s chart and walked across the hall to Hank Hinson’s room. She opened the door and stopped. Finley was slouched in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs at Hank’s bedside, still wearing the bloody-legged uniform she’d worn yesterday. Her chin rested on her chest, and she breathed heavily. In the relaxed posture of sleep, Finley’s features were softer, unguarded, and almost innocent. Dylan had seen a different side of Finley during and after the shooting—unselfish, loyal, kind, compassionate, and a bit afraid. This was the side Finley shielded behind her tough cop exterior, and the one that interested Dylan.
Hank mumbled in his sleep, and Finley jerked awake and rose to his side, flinching as she stood. “You’re okay, pal. I’m right here.”
“He’s probably dreaming,” Dylan said, moving from the shadowed corner into the light.
Finley whirled around. “How long have you been here?” She brushed a hand through her blond hair and wiped her chin.
“Long enough to see you drooling in your sleep. Very attractive.” Dylan was pleased the kidding eased the tight lines around Finley’s mouth. She nodded toward Hank. “He’s going home today. Maybe you want to change clothes and come back later. The discharge paperwork won’t clear until at least eleven. You have time.”
Finley nodded. “If you’re leaving, I’ll walk out with you.”
Dylan turned and led the way to the elevator. “Hank will be fine if he takes it easy and follows doctor’s orders. Would you consider doing the same and give your shins a chance to heal before going back to work, Fin?”
�
�I’m fine.”
“Of course, you are.” She’d fought this battle with her sisters too many times and lost to think she’d have any luck with Finley. When the elevator door opened and they crossed to the walkway leading to the parking deck, Dylan pointed. “I’m up there. I’ll see you around.”
Finley followed. “Me too.” When they reached her level, she unlocked the door of an older model red Jeep parked next to Dylan and climbed in. “Thanks for looking out for Hank.” She turned the ignition, and Dylan heard a clicking noise.
“You could trade this antique and get a Subaru like a good lesbian,” Dylan joked.
Finley nodded toward Dylan’s bright yellow VW bug. “If that’s yours, you’re not a good lesbian either.”
“I used to be, but I lapsed. My camping days are over, and I’m partial to yellow.”
Finley tried to start the Jeep again. More clicking. “Damn.”
“Problem?”
“I was going to get the battery and starter checked, but things happened.” Finley got out of the Jeep, waved, and started walking. “See you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a ride. Get in the car, Masters.”
“You don’t even know where I live,” Finley said.
“Can’t be that far if you were going to hoof it. Besides, I can’t let an injured person walk home.” Dylan unlocked the doors of her bug and got behind the wheel. When Finley settled beside her, she headed for the exit. “Where to?”
“College Hills.”
“That’s pretty far from Cone Hospital.” But she appreciated that Finley hadn’t taken her assistance for granted. “Have you lived there long?”
“Family home. It’s for sale if you know anyone who might be interested.” Finley stared out the window, her face blank.
Obviously a sore subject. Maybe Finley thought she’d revealed too much last night. Dylan preferred the more approachable, vulnerable Finley Masters, but to get her back, Dylan would have to open up as well. But she’s a cop. Dylan brushed aside the warning. This was just a conversation, not a lifetime commitment.