Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1)

by Holly Hart

  "I know," I sigh, my cramping hands getting to work after I noticed the flow of blood from the deep cut on his head has mostly halted, "he'll die. They'll get him, or he'll off himself – it's only a matter of time."

  "Isn't… Isn't there anything we can do?" Brian asks in an astonished tone of voice. "There must be something!"

  "Pass me the thread, will you?" I ask him, deliberately avoiding his question for a second – just to give myself time to think. The thing is, he's going to have to realize what it's like out here: hard, stressful and unrelenting. I had to, he will too. He hands it to me, eyes downcast.

  I clean the wound gently with a clear disinfectant spray, making sure there's nothing left inside it that could cause an infection. Luckily, if you can use that word to describe this kind of injury, the bullet didn't go through any cloth, so there's no need to dig that out. Scraps of fabric always cause problems. I start stitching up the wound, and my long practiced fingers make light work of it. Within minutes, the job's done. I silently thank Sophie for pulling him to sleep – it's always quicker when they don't move.

  "Listen, Brian," I start, with no great idea of where I'm going. "We can't do much, not out here, anyway. It's better we tell you now, you know?"

  "What do you mean?" he asks plaintively, looking like I've just stolen Christmas. "Of course we can, we've got to help them – isn't that why we're here?"

  I sigh. It is, and it's not, all at the same time.

  "I don't want it to be this way, believe me," I say, watching Sophie glumly clean up the bloody waste that's left strewn all over the operating theatre. "But it's true. There aren't enough of us, you must have seen that – this isn't a job we should be doing, it's supposed to be a doctor's job."

  "Yeah, but surely –."

  I cut him off. "Surely today’s just a one-off?"

  He nods, slowly, as though he's afraid of being caught out.

  I laugh bitterly. "I wish. No, there aren't enough staff, and there are too many soldiers for us to take care of."

  "Are more coming?" he asks hopefully. "I mean," he jumps in quickly – to forestall what he must expect is going to be a biting response from me, "I'm new, so maybe they are sending more, if they sent me?"

  I think it's the look on Brian's face, more than anything, that breaks me. I don't mean to be cruel, he need to know the truth, but watching the hope die in his eyes when I reply to him brings home all the stress, fear and tension of the last few months, right then and there.

  I shake my head sadly. "No, kid. We asked for ten –."

  He finishes off the rest of my sentence, hanging his head. "And you got me…"

  7

  Mike

  I hate hospitals.

  I like Katie, but I fucking hate hospitals. I think it's the smell – that acrid, clean, almost acidic scent that you don't get anywhere else. Lucky for me, they’re letting me out. And this place has been a shit show today. I saw, God – I don't know how many guys on trolleys being wheeled past me towards the operating theater earlier, bleeding out their guts. I won't miss it.

  I just need a nurse, anyone really, to check me out.

  "Sergeant?"

  My head spins round at the sound of the unfamiliar voice.

  "Sergeant Mike Carson?" a man dressed head to toe in Army dress greens asks – and as he looks at me, all I can think is that he has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen in real life.

  Still, it must be serious – the only time people stick a dress uniform on, in my experience, is when someone's telling your family you're KIA, or about to get court-martialed...

  "Yes sir?" I reply, the shock of what I just puzzled out reverberating through my skull as I do my best to snap to attention. My unconscious mind recognizes a few things about the man that my conscious brain doesn't register right away. First things first, the officer – whoever he is – doesn't have a name tag on his uniform. That's very Delta Force…

  "At ease, sergeant. You don't need to act like that around me, you understand?"

  I nod, though I don't take it too seriously. In my experience, listening to officers too often is a pretty good recipe for getting yourself killed.

  "Do you know why I'm here, Mike? I can call you Mike, can't I?"

  You already have… I think, but don't say. "No sir. Yes sir."

  Best to stick to the fundamentals. I don't even know why I'm experiencing such an immediate, visceral dislike of the officer standing in front of me, I've never met the man, but he reeks of the kind of ‘you go ahead and fight, I'll just stay back here and lead’ attitude that marks out so many of his comrades.

  "Son," he begins, and all I can think is whether he really has to call me that – it feels demeaning, "the President's heard about you, and he sends his deepest condolences for what happened to your friend –."

  "Tommy." I interject firmly. His name needs to matter, it needs to be remembered, and if no one else wants to bother, then I certainly will.

  “Uh, yes," the officer continues, slightly less self confidently, "Tommy. I'm here to tell you that you've been awarded the Purple Heart for your injuries."

  The news doesn't surprise me. After all, everyone gets a Purple Heart once they've suffered an injury in the field – it's no big deal. What does surprise me is what the fancily dressed officer says next.

  "And the Joint Chiefs are putting you up for a Silver Star - for bravery in the field."

  I certainly wasn't expecting him to say that. My leg gives way, and I end up sitting on my bed with a bit of a bump. Lucky, I think absentmindedly to myself, he gave me permission to stand at ease.

  "A Silver Star?" I croak, throat suddenly dry. "Sir, I don't deserve that. I just did what anyone would in my place. I don't want it."

  He looks at me with a surprisingly kind twinkling in his eye. I wasn't expecting that kind of empathy from the man – at least from what I've experienced of him so far. It makes me think that perhaps, in the midst of the anger and grief that’s come over me since Tommy’s death, maybe I’ve misjudged the man…

  "Sergeant, I'm not sure how much you remember what you did out there, but trust me – you're a hero."

  "I don't think so, sir," I mumble, voice barely audible.

  "Trust me, if you hadn't done what you did, your whole company would have died."

  "Tommy did, sir," I mumble, tears prickling my eyes as the memory of the friend I've lost comes to the surface of my mind, overpowering everything else going on in my brain.

  Surprisingly, the officer sits on the bed next to me, placing a hand on my shoulders. Looking at him through blurred eyes, I see something jump out at me on his uniform that I haven't noticed before – a little silver star. He’s been there, I realize – he’s done things no man should have to, to protect people who will never know. I know, right then and there, that I can trust him.

  "Yes, Tommy did," he replies, emotion heavy in his own voice. "And that's going to eat away at you for the rest of your life. Trust me – I know."

  Suddenly, seeing the little insignia on the left-hand side of his chest, I know he's telling the truth. He's been there, been in my shoes before.

  "But trust me, Mike – you are a hero," he says, punctuating each of the last three words by stabbing his finger into my chest, "what you did up on that hill saved an entire company. They had hundreds of Taliban primed to take the FOB, and you and your partner stopped them. Tommy died so that those men could live."

  The little stabbing motions of his finger against my chest are, weirdly, what sends me over the edge, and I break down into tears, Tommy's face the only visible constant in my new blurred reality, a thousand happy memories colliding against the truth of his death. He holds me, not saying another word, just allowing me to sob into his heavily medalled uniform. After a few minutes, I don't know quite how long, I pull myself together, drying my eyes on a tissue pulled from my bedside table.

  "Do you want me to sit with you, Mike? I've got nowhere else to be. I've got all day."

  "Than
k you sir, but I'd like to be alone – if you don't mind," I reply softly, all antagonism towards the man dissipated.

  "You got it, soldier," he says, respectfully touching his head in a caring salute, then pats me on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger, and leaves the room.

  I haven't cried in a long time, not since I was a kid. And even then, I'm not sure I ever cried like this, like a floodgate's been opened, and years of pain and emotion stored behind have flooded out in one long, cathartic flow of torment. I forgot how tiring it was – crying. I feel like I've run a marathon, or gone six rounds in the ring.

  I think it's the sobbing, the way your stomach clenches and crunches over, and over, and over. The worst thing about it is there's nothing you can do to stop it, you just have to wait, ride the pain. If you fight it, it's just going to come back, and harder.

  I'm wiping away the tears when I see her, and if anything she looks worse than I do. I smear my face with the back of my hand one last time to hide as much of the evidence as I can, but there's no hiding my red, puffy eyes. She's resting on a desk with her head held in her hands, and I watch as she stands there, unmoving, for a whole minute. I realize that she is in a bad way – and that I need to do something about it. It's not a conscious choice, not really, it's more of a drive, or an instinctual urge. I walk over to her, all thoughts of why I initially wanted to find a nurse – to get my discharge from this hospital sorted out – dashed from my mind.

  "You okay?" I ask in what I hope is a consoling tone of voice. The last thing I want to do is make it any worse for her, but I don't trust myself to talk much more, not right now.

  I don't think she realizes it's me, not at first anyway, because she stands up ramrod straight, surging back into position like she's being propelled by a taut elastic band. She turns to look at me, her face naturally returning to a professional, detached glaze, but like me there’s no hiding the puffiness of her eyes.

  "You've been crying," she says, looking up at me with soft, wet eyes. My heart breaks, and I don't know whether it's just because I'm emotionally vulnerable right now, after – after the visit – or whether it's because she looks so distraught. I suspect it's the latter. I don't try and hide it.

  "I have," I agree. "It's good to cry sometimes, I think," I say, hoping to let her know, maybe too obliquely, that she's got a shoulder to cry on if she needs it. I'm not good at this, though – the emotional stuff, and I don't want to overstep my bounds. At the end of the day I'm just a soldier, I've never tried to be anything else.

  Katie takes up my offer. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it. She takes a furtive look around, and my eyes can't help but follow hers. I think she's checking to make sure there's no one else left in the ward, and there isn't. It's getting dark outside, the sky has that heavy shade of grey that hits in the moments before dusk falls, and no one who doesn't have to be here would bother.

  Apparently satisfied that we are alone, she collapses into my arms. I'm not expecting it, and I have to brace my shoulder and arm so that the walking stick can share some of the burden. "I'm sorry," she says immediately, realizing from my momentary shudder of pain that she's hurt me, and tries to break away.

  "Don't worry about it," I smile, trying to relax my expression as much as I can so that she feels comfortable around me. Truth be told, the feeling of her arms clasped around my shoulders is nice – it's exactly what I need right now, and the last thing I want is for her to go anywhere.

  "I didn't mean –," she starts, but I don't give her the opportunity to finish. "I know," I say, smoothing her hair back in a proprietorial, caring manner. She rested her head, chest, apparently satisfied that I'm okay with it, and before long I feel the thin cotton material in my hospital gown sticking against my chest, wet with her drying tears.

  "Are you okay?" I asked, somewhat lamely. Like I said, I'm not good at the emotional stuff – but I'm doing my best. I give her a powerful, squeezing hug, hoping that at least she'll feel safe and protected.

  "Yeah," she sniffs, not looking up. "Just –," her voice breaks, "just a long day, you know?"

  She doesn't want to talk about it. I get that.

  "What about you?" She asks. "You don't look too hot yourself?"

  "No," I agree, "I've had better days… What a pair we make."

  The comforting contact between our two bodies stands in complete contrast to the awkward, stilted conversation. I guess, thinking about it, that conversation can be like that – difficult, harder to manage than our base, animal instincts. I've thought about this, sometimes, on a long patrol when your mind wanders, or sitting in a base at the top of some dusty hill for weeks on end – there's something comforting about physical contact.

  It doesn't matter if it's with your brother, your sister, your girlfriend, or your buddies – all that matters is that you get it. Sometimes, on a really hard day, I envy wolves. Not the soft fur coat bit, and definitely not the padding around a cold and snowy forest bit, but definitely the bit where they pile on top of each other to keep warm.

  That's what I'm gonna miss most about Tommy, just being able to give him a high five, or him patting me on the shoulder after we get back from patrol.

  Just the little things.

  Conversation, though, that a different kettle of fish. When you give your buddy a hug, there's not really too many ways he can interpret that, not many ways he can misunderstand you. Words are hard, though. Hard to say, and harder to get right.

  "Do you need to sit down?" she finally asks, and I have to admit, my leg is in some serious pain right now. I've not been taking the painkillers they give me – don't want to scramble my head, don't like the way it feels, and Katie knows that.

  "Yeah," I grudgingly agree – not wanting to break this hug. It's the best thing that happened to me since I got into this depressing hospital. The best thing since the last time I ended up with my arms clasped around Katie, anyway.

  "Come on," she says offering me her arm, "let me give you a hand." I don't need it, and we both know that – but like I said, words are hard. Actions, though, are simple. We limp over to my bed, and I sit down.

  "Aren't you going to join me?" I ask, when she doesn't sit down next to me. She looks like she's going to say no, so I do my best to wheedle her out of it. "Come on," I say, "just for a minute – what's the harm?"

  She takes another furtive little look around, and apparently doesn't see anyone around who could get her in trouble. It's just us left. She takes a seat next to me, leaning into my shoulder on my uninjured side. She’s warm, and soft, and I like it.

  We sit silently together for a long time – I don't know exactly how long, the seconds seem to tick away in two minutes, and maybe even longer. After awhile, out of nowhere, Katie starts talking to me. She doesn't sound like she wants a conversation, it's just like she's got something she needs to get off her chest – and I like hearing the sound of her voice, so I'm more than happy to oblige.

  "I don't think I'm cut out for this, you know," she says, posing a rhetorical question, "I've been here for nine months now, and I just don't think I can take it for much longer. Every day there's something new, something horrible – and it's dragging me down. I felt like that when," her voice cracks, "when I ended up in your bed, and things haven’t changed…"

  She pauses, and I wait – wondering if it's time to interject, whether I should just stay quiet and let her work through her problems. I choose the latter option, it doesn't feel like the right time, not yet.

  "I don't know how you can do it. I don't know how you stay so strong, for so long. I'm not built for it. I thought working back in the states was hard, but at least we had good, clean hospitals there, and enough staff."

  A visceral wave of anger sweeps through me – it's a reaction I know I shouldn't have, I barely know the girl who's warm body is currently, delightfully, sitting next to me – but regardless, the fact that someone or something is causing her pain is a factor feel I just can't tolerate, even if that someone or something is a min
dless, faceless bureaucracy.

  I know all about that, after all – I'm in the army. But she didn't sign up for what I did. I have every right to expect the treatment I get – a pair of broken night vision goggles getting taken off my pay check at the end of the month, even if the reason they got broken was an enemy bullet; or the stores charging me twenty dollars for water bottle I can get on Main Street for a buck, because at the end of the day I knew what I was signing up for.

  Katie didn't. She just wanted to help people, and what does she get? A filthy hospital, and not even enough warm bodies to keep the place running. My fists clench in an autonomic response, my body stiffening, the slight injection of adrenaline that comes as a natural consequence of anger providing an unexpected painkiller, soothing my aching, throbbing leg.

  "I can't –," she starts, her voice breaking, fraught with emotion, "I can't wait till I can leave this place."

  I put my arm on her shoulder, squeezing it, and she settles back into me for comfort. It's hard for me to stay as upright as normal – maybe it's because I can't tense my core properly without it hurting my legs, or maybe that's just an excuse I use, because I like the results. We fall backwards, or I fall backwards, and she comes with me, landing with a light thud on her back on the soft hospital bed.

  "I'm sorry –"

  "Are you alright?"

  We both start speaking at once, checking on one another, and she's particularly worried. But neither of us make a move to get up, tacitly accepting the situation – that we’re now lying next to each other on the bed. Like I said, words are hard – actions are easy. And accidents – they're even easier.

  "How long have you got left?" I ask, filling another long, comfortable silence. "Till you're out of here, I mean."

  "Only three months. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have unloaded all my problems on you – you've got enough of your own, and you've probably got longer left anyway –," she breaks off, going slightly red, "I didn't mean it like that, I didn't mean to suggest…"