Page 4 of A Dark Fall
“She won’t,” I tell him. I honestly have no idea why I’m so sure of this, but I am. “So, calm down, yeah?” I fix Kev with a hard stare until he gets me.
When I hear the door open a second later, I look back down even though everything in me strains to look at her. The thing she pressed at my neck is cream-colored—or was—and has purple flowers on it.
She comes back and sits next to me on the table, putting a leather bag on the floor between us. It’s a proper doctor’s bag. Brown, well-worn leather. As she leans down to open it, I look at her left hand. No wedding ring. She has a silver band with a green stone on her left forefinger, but that’s it. Her nails aren’t painted, just neat and manicured, and her fingers are long and slender.
What the fuck am I doing? Is this what happens when you can’t see a chick’s face—you get turned on by her hands? Am I turned on? No, I’m fucking light-headed from blood loss.
Then her hand goes to my neck, and she speaks again. Closer to my ear this time. Fuck. Is she doing that on purpose? Talking like that?
“When did this happen?” she asks me in a soft almost-whisper.
I look up at Kev, keeping my head turned away from her.
“Why the fuck does it matter? About fifteen minutes ago,” he grunts, taking his phone out. I really don’t like the way he’s speaking to her. She deserves more respect than that. More respect than the women he’s used to speaking to.
“With what?” she asks in the same soft tone, apparently undisturbed by him.
He says nothing and looks at me. I nod. She digs around in her bag, pulling out a small case, a packet of something, and some gloves.
“A kitchen knife,” he says.
She opens the small black case, which holds a syringe. “Was it clean?”
“How the fuck should I know?” he snaps.
I feel and hear her take a deep breath. “Okay. Well, I think the bleeding is slowing, but I need to inject you with this.” This, she says to me. “It’s an antibiotic. It’ll help stop any infection.”
Her tone continues to comfort me. She certainly doesn’t seem to think I’ll drop dead at any minute.
“Do you have any other injuries?” she asks me quietly.
I keep focused on my hands and shake my head.
“Well, that’s good, I suppose. Only this scratch to deal with then.” It’s light and reassuring, and I know then she must be a fucking amazing doctor.
I notice why her voice sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s because she says her words properly, tongue curling around each syllable, pronouncing every letter exactly how it’s supposed to be pronounced. I let my mind linger on thoughts of her tongue for a moment.
Okay, I’m definitely turned on. I imagine her screaming my name in that accent as I fuck her, and I have to shift my legs together and away in case she notices what’s going on between them.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t seen her face, I’m bleeding, and I’m semi-hard from the sound of her voice alone. Does that even happen? Maybe after you get stabbed in the neck it does.
She slides on a pair of white latex gloves, and a second later, I feel the sharp point of the needle pierce the crook of my shoulder.
“Are you able to hold this for a moment?” she asks me. This time, it has authority in it.
I do as I’m told and slide my hand up to take the scarf, grazing her hand as I do.
“I’m going to cut away your top now,” she tells me, and I nod. It’s so fucking difficult not to look at her then. I wonder where she’s from. Berkshire? Surrey? A fair distance from the Bow Bells anyway, that’s for sure.
A fair distance out of your league too.
Kev hisses some shit down the phone in a hushed tone, presumably at Paul, and so I focus on that instead. Instead of her. Instead of the increasing throb between my legs and the proximity of her and the faint floral scent lingering on her skin. But then her hand grazes my thigh accidentally, and I almost groan out loud. Fucking hell, doctor. I flinch reflexively away, the total fucking opposite of what I want to do.
“Do you need something for the pain?” she asks. I imagine it’s the tone she would use to tell you she loved you. I imagine the kind of wanker she says that to. I fucking hate that wanker.
I look back down at her legs, which are silky smooth and pale like cream. I really am a piece of shit. She’s helping me. She’s selflessly caring for me, and I’m ogling her as if she’s a fucking lap dancer. Classy, Jay. Really fucking classy. Only, how can I be ogling her when I haven’t even seen her face?
Okay, enough of this shit. Who gives a fuck if she sees me? I’m never gonna see her again anyway, nor her me. I need to see her face.