By this time Deck’s grin was back, but it was sloppier and more lopsided than before. His eyes were completely unfocused, but—Naim vehemently refused to acknowledge—they had yet to move from his doctor’s form.
Deck’s left arm had been put in traction to prevent him from engaging any muscles in the area, and Naim moved over him, pulled at the left shoulder of his hospital gown, sliding it past his shoulder and chest, exposing the bandages covering his wound. He ignored the miles of warm, living flesh and taut muscles. “Right then, let’s have a look.” Naim clenched his jaw.
“Loog’s good, don’ it, Doc.” Deck grinned at him.
Naim ignored him and pressed the button raising the back of his bed, sliding one forearm behind Deck’s neck to prop him forward. “Can you sit up a little for me please? I need to see both wounds and incisions.” The hair at Deck’s nape tickled his arm.
“I c’n be ehnyways ya wanna me to, Doc. Up, down, ov’r…” Deck waggled his eyebrows at Naim. “Unner. I c’n do unner too. Wha’ver you say. Yer th’boss. Top man.” He winked again, but this time it looked like he was trying to dislodge something from his eye.
“Would you like a hand, Doctor?” Laura moved to the side of the bed, giving Deck a look. “How can I help?”
Naim fought the urge to kiss her.
“Aw, Lu’ra. Don’ be uh cog’lock.”
“Deck, shut up.” Liebgott spoke through gritted teeth from the foot of the bed while Naim imagined taking his scalpel to Jen’s heart.
“Wha…? Imma—”
“If you could just hold him leaning there, that would be helpful. Thank you.” Naim indicated to Laura to keep Deck propped forward so that he could access the wound on his back.
Carnations. He would send Jen three dozen carnations. She was allergic to carnations. And bees. There would be bees.
“Mphhr. Rrfpph mffl.” Laura managed to jam Deck’s mouth against her shoulder.
“Excellent, that’s perfect.” Naim threw her a small smile and pulled the tape off the bandage on Deck’s back, lifting the gauze to inspect the wound. He pressed gently on the area surrounding the puckered skin that was stitched together. “How does that feel?”
“Phrs guuhhn,” Deck sighed from the front of Laura’s shirt. Liebgott coughed quietly.
“Good.” Naim blinked. “It looks to be healing well. Any itching in the area?” He pressed against the stitches.
“Uhii-uh. Cuh’oh eph ooin’ah? Phrs guuhhn.” Naim realized his left hand rested against the back of the man’s neck and almost imperceptibly kneaded the flesh, warm and soft through his glove. He snatched his hand away.
“That’s good. It’s to be expected. It tells us that you’re healing. Faster than anticipated, in fact.” He replaced the gauze and tape and reluctantly nodded at Laura. “You can let him lie back. Thank you.” Naim could feel his jaw tighten again at the thought of his patient having free range of speech once more.
To her credit, Laura seemed just as reluctant. Together, they lay Deck gently back against the bed and Naim adjusted the padding under his shoulder. Then he sighed.
“Okay, I’ll just have a look in front here, and we can wrap up. The wounds look good all things considered.” He wished he were the type to babble. He couldn’t think of anything to babble about, no matter how he tried, leaving an unfortunate opening for Deck’s yammering.
“Ahhh…ggud.” Deck was slowly closing and opening his eyes directly on Naim’s face, while Naim hovered over him, removing the tape and bandage on his chest. “Gaw yer pre’y.” Naim willed himself not to blush as Deck muttered and grinned. “How c’hm you’s din tell me m’doc w’s soooo pre’y?” he moaned, presumably at Laura and Liebgott.
“Dekker,” Laura said firmly as Naim pressed and inspected.
“Mmmm…?” Deck blinked in a contented haze, his eyes glued to Naim.
“Deck. Er.”
“Hhhhmm…?” He still stared at Naim, who lost the battle with the blood flooding to his cheeks as that lazy, stormy gray stare followed his face.
“Deck. Er.” Laura all but shouted.
“Fug’in—WHA?” He tore his gaze from Naim’s direction and made a face at Laura on the other side of his bed.
Laura glowered and rested her hand on her sidearm, fingering the holster with a pointed look. Liebgott coughed again.
“Shur’p.” Deck squinted at her. “Ha’chu.” Then he turned back to Naim. “I sav’d yoo.” He was all dreamy eyes and smiles again, blinking widely at Naim, who performed an excellent imitation of ignoring him. “’N then yoo sav’d mee. S’like…s’like…now we b’long t’each uth’r.” He drooled slightly, giggled, and lazily reached out and grasped Naim’s wrist just as he finished replacing the bandage over Deck’s broad, tan chest. “Yoo gunna come back’n seeme?”
Naim extracted his wrist from Deck’s hand and lifted the front of his gown back up over his chest. “I will likely be back tomorrow to check in on you. But everything is looking good.” His unintentionally soft tone belied his tension.
“I’do loo’good.” Deck winked again, but his eyes were at half-mast as he faded quickly. “C’mback an’ seeme, k?” he mumbled, still smiling.
Naim looked at Laura, who appeared both amused and distressed. He kept his voice low. “He won’t sleep for long. At his size, it would take much more to really knock him out. This reaction is more due to the fact that he’s not been using it at all.”
A snort punctuated his words, and three pairs of eyes looked to Deck, who was out cold, mouth hanging open and just beginning to snore. Naim cleared his throat and moved to the foot of the bed, where Laura joined him and Liebgott. He made a few more notes in Deck’s chart and then hooked it back on the bed.
“Make sure he continues to use the spirometer at least every hour that he’s awake, and feel free to hit him with the Dilaudid once in a while if you think he needs it.”
Liebgott chuckled, and Laura snorted.
“I’m sorry, I meant specifically if you think he’s in pain.” Naim bit back a grin, intensely grateful that his patient was unconscious. “What I said to him is true.” He winced as the snoring got louder and deeper. “If he is fighting pain, that will slow down his recovery; he needs all of his energy to heal, not fight what we can easily manage.”
“You’re right, Doctor. Thank you.” Laura gave Liebgott a look that Naim refused to try to interpret.
“Dr. Moreau, I uh…” Liebgott scratched the back of his head, mussing his salt-and-pepper hair. “I think I should apologize for Deck—”
Naim put a hand up, ostensibly to stop Liebgott but also, he knew somewhere in him, to physically distance himself from the entire experience. “No need, Lieutenant. Really, it’s okay.” He let his eyes smile at the man, wanting with all his being to leave that room and never come back.
“No, please. He doesn’t—well, he’s harmless, you know what I mean?”
“I do. And really, it’s fine.” Naim couldn’t imagine what world these people lived in, but harmless was the last word he could think of to describe the snoring bulk of a man in the bed.
“He’s just kind of socially retarded,” Laura said.
Naim laughed. “Believe me, it’s fine.” It was so. Not. Fine. He began to back away, trying to leave.
“Oh and also, Doctor?” Liebgott took a step with him. “How are you feeling?” he asked, indicating the stitches in Naim’s forehead.
Naim lifted his hand self-consciously to the slice on his head. “Oh, I’m fine. Fine, thank you for asking. It’s really nothing. Thank you, again.” Naim was touched by the man’s genuine concern but barely holding on to his discomfort and anxiety. At that moment, a tremendous snort resounded from the bed, and everyone turned, startled.
“Wha…whasgoinon?” Deck jerked, bewildered and blinking. His gaze found Naim immediately, and his face softened as he smiled. “Y’came back.” He lifted his good arm and reached out to Naim.
“I…um…” Naim cleared his throat. “I�
��ll be seeing you folks.” He nodded at Liebgott and Laura and bolted out the door.
He marched stiffly down the corridor, ducked into an empty room, and took his phone out of his pocket.
I fucking hate you. He didn’t often curse at work, but right now he had no other words. What the hell had just happened? His skin felt too tight, and his face was on fire. He felt sad and angry. And he was overcome by an adrenaline rush that he didn’t want to think about.
His phone vibrated in his hand: Jen’s reply, almost instantaneous. Told you. Did he use the Frankenstein’s vet line?
I’m going to set your house on fire.
It was ten thirty at night, and Deck couldn’t stop fidgeting. He was tired but not sleepy, and his body ached. He knew he’d been in more pain before, but the few hours of relief he’d gotten from it this morning underscored its presence now. He eyeballed the pump that Liebgott had left close to his right hand. One or two little clicks of that button and he would feel better. He glared at it. Deck hated that stupid button.
He’d spent one night in this hospital and was already losing his mind. Okay, two if you counted Sunday, but he hadn’t woken up from surgery yet then, so that didn’t count. One fucking night. And they expected him to last how long here?
Fuck.
He looked out the window of his private, post-op ward room, out onto the city, his mind wandering everywhere. St. Sebastian’s served his district, and he knew the area, commonly referred to as the Bottom. Sirens squealed, music blasted from car stereos that were more woofer than car, and shouts and screams came from the streets as fights broke out, ending in the far too frequent gunshot. It was a shitty district and a shitty part of town, and Deck loved it. As he stared out the window onto graffitied brick, streets dusty and orange in the lights, and the moonlight shining down into leafless November trees, he thought it was almost beautiful. He wanted to go outside.
He fidgeted again in his bed, trying to get a better view through the window when a sharp pain jolted through his shoulder. Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck. Deck raised his hand to his chest to rub it, then thought better of it. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, but the injury was pretty bad, and it frightened him a little. He could feel the tears in his pectoral and trapezius muscles all the way up his skull, down his fingertips, and he was pretty sure, somewhere in his ass. He growled to himself, trying to get comfortable with more care than he’d just used. And eyeballed the Dilaudid pump again.
He flipped it off.
That fucking pump. Everything after the hot doctor dosed him was a blur, but Laura and Liebgott wasted no time recalling every detail of his behavior back to him when he came out of his stupor—much to the delight of his other visitors, which by then included the entire squad plus Freya. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Keller not shown up for his one obligatory You still alive? and arrived right in the middle of the story. The fuckbag had made himself comfortable—at the foot of Deck’s bed, no less—as Laura started the whole goddamn thing over from the beginning, knowing Keller was friendly with the guy. Fucking pig fuckers. All of them.
Deck wasn’t mortified exactly. A little embarrassed, yeah, but surely the guy expected patients to act stupid around him. Nobody had any business running around being that hot and expecting sick people, all doped up, to act all dignified and shit. Hot Doctor was to blame for the whole thing. Who the fuck had asked him to hit the dope button, anyway.
You did, stupid.
Deck sighed. Okay, fine. Maybe he came on a little strong. He hadn’t meant to insult the man with his Moreau joke. It was just a little flirtatious teasing, right?
Moreau. Frankenstein’s vet. Heh. Deck snorted. It was a good goddamn joke.
He sighed again and, laying his head back, tried to close his eyes for the hundredth time in an hour. Except for every time he did that, he saw Moreau standing over him. He’d fought this all day, and now, alone, in the dark, restless and cranky, he didn’t have any fight left.
He’d laughed along with the others and owned his shit with great bravado, resisting the urge to punch Keller in the head when he texted Jen and told her to have Hot Doctor come for dinner with them as soon as possible. But now there was no getting away from himself. Motherfuck. Yeah, he was fucking mortified.
He probably could have held on longer with that spiro-gyro sex-toy thingie, but as soon as he caught sight of his doctor all the breath had whooshed right out of him. Deck had been grateful for the minute he had to collect himself before the man addressed him. Otherwise, he knew that somehow—who the fuck only knew how—but somehow, he would have made a bigger ass of himself. He probably would have started drooling before he got doped.
Good-looking men were a dime a dozen, and Deck had seen far more than a dozen in his thirty-three years. He’d never had a particular type; he dated delicate twinks, burly football players, and everything in between. But no one had ever blown him so completely away before, and sure as fuck not on sight. This man was smart, elegant, and fucking breathtaking. And he didn’t put up with Deck’s bullshit, which got under his skin more than anything else. Deck’s outrageous flirting always—always—earned him at least a humoring smile, even from the most hardened professionals. This guy didn’t look at him twice, and it drove him crazy.
He’d thought of little else since this morning. The doctor’s even-toned voice with the sexy, barely there accent, wide eyes bigger than his whole face and the color of expensive coffee, long hair so thick and black it was criminal not to have hands in it at all times. And that mouth…fuck. Deck groaned again. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the man’s face and form, and despite this morning’s epic humiliation, Deck wanted nothing more than to see the haunting man again. He wanted to talk to him, like a real person, ask him everything about who he was, where he came from, what he liked, what he hated, and could they have that conversation naked?
He was so fucked.
He huffed a frustrated breath and tried to get comfortable again, the entire left side of his body pounding with pain.
Fuck it. Fuck this. Deck snatched up the pump dispenser and jerked his thumb on the button twice. Stupid piece of shit.
Minutes later he chuckled. “Frankenstein’s vet. Heh.”
Comedy gold, bro. Comedy gold.
As soon as Naim got home, he threw his keys onto the table by the door, dropped his messenger bag on the floor, and headed for the kitchen to yank a beer out of the fridge. He jerked the cap off and slammed the opener back onto the refrigerator. After a long pull he fell against the sink, rubbing at his forehead, embracing the pain it brought to the stitches near his scalp. He hated this whole goddamn day.
Stomping to the couch, Naim flipped on the telly, channel surfed until he found a footie match, and threw the remote onto the couch next to him. Leaning his head against the cushions, he took a deep breath and ignored the screen.
Starting with his write-up, the day had gone to shit from there. He couldn’t bear to think about the firefighter and hadn’t had much opportunity throughout the day—thank God. He’d performed a gall bladder surgery and an emergency appendectomy, then scrubbed in on a knee replacement. And something had gone wrong every single goddamn time. The usually efficient Marie miscounted the sponges on the gall bladder, so they had to keep the patient under and open for an extra twenty minutes. The emergency appy ruptured on the table, forcing him to cut rather than go in laparoscopically, and the bone saw went out in the middle of the knee replacement, turning his scrub-in into a hunt-for.
That was just in the OR. Two of the children of one of his patients got into a fight in the middle of the fourth floor over her DNR, knocking Naim onto his ass when he tried to break it up. Later, some idiot in admin put rival gang members, both with GSWs, in the same goddamn room, nearly causing a riot, and a middle-aged man had threatened to sue Naim for sexual harassment for suggesting he have his prostate checked when the man complained of impotence.
Naim closed his eyes. He was tired, annoyed, and c
ranky. Now, made crankier by the fact that when he closed his eyes, a scruffy face with a deadly smile and liquid-gray eyes was all he could see. His attraction to the man pissed him off. It was irrational and pointless, and Naim had too much practice at controlling his responses to feel this bullshit now.
He wasn’t stupid and he owned mirrors; Naim knew what he looked like, even if his looks hadn’t defined him for the majority of his formative years. But handsome, charming men were a dime a dozen—if Naim wanted one, he could go out right now and be back in his flat within an hour, getting laid.
Except the one-night stand was something he’d done exactly once, five years ago, and he still cringed and shuddered when he thought of it.
He’d resigned himself to unintentional celibacy years ago. His counselor argued with him about it constantly, but that’s how it had to be for Naim. The occasional one-nighter wasn’t for him, as he’d learned from that catastrophe with whatever his name had been, and he couldn’t handle dating. He’d tried in college, but he’d learned quickly that it could only be disastrous for everyone.
So what the hell was so special about this guy?
Naim took another pull off his beer, leaned forward suddenly, and began to rummage through the drawer in his coffee table. Finding what he was looking for, he headed to the small balcony off the breakfast nook and opened the doors. Lighting his cigarette, he inhaled deeply, the head rush hitting him instantly. He rarely smoked anymore, but sometimes a guy just needed a fag.
Naim laughed and face-palmed at his own tragic choice of words. Sometimes a guy just needed a fag. Well, fuck. He smiled wryly and shook his head. Now wasn’t that just what had him so out of sorts he was smoking and drinking in the first place?
He thought of Deck again and scowled, taking another drink and another drag. He resented his attraction to the man on principle. That was bad enough, but then the guy had to pull the Island of Dr. Moreau gag. Naim hated that bit. If he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that stupid line, he’d be able to rebuild his clinic tomorrow.
Smoke and Mirrors Page 4