Still holding his hand away from me, he growls out, “Look, if this is just your Anders way of being inappropriate with me again, I’ve had kind of a long day. ’Bout at my limit as far as you’re concerned.”
Ouch. “Yeah, I deserve that.”
He sighs, examining his hand again. “Donottry to make me feel sorry for you while I’m sitting here dripping blood into my sink.”
His annoyance with me is a confusing mix of hurtful and tempting, like Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, or anything from my favorite noodle place in East Austin. I hate that he doesn’t trust me, but his grumpiness appeals to me.
There’s the fact that I have an effect on him, which strokes my ego, but then there’s the promise of whatever it is that’s layered under all his practiced calm and uncontrolled agitation. Hell, maybe it’s just more disdain, but…maybe not.
I hold up my finger. “Look, I know you’re the lead on this op, but this is a mess I can actually clean up. Let me do what I’m good at.”
His jaw tightens as he lets out a measured breath. “Okay, fine. But if you’re fucking with me, I’m going to beat you to death.”
I pat his cheek, unable to help myself. “Ah, there’s my grumpy Gus.”
I chuckle to myself as I jog back into the living room and grab my little emergency kit. I consider the case of syringes but decide against it. I’m back in the kitchen within a matter of seconds, washing my hands and gloving up before taking Omar’s hand in mine. This time, he doesn’t pull away.
Unfortunately, he’s managed to cut his palm pretty deep, and immediately I’m worried about his tendons and his ability to shoot a gun.
“Can you squeeze your hand around my finger?”
He looks at me like he’d like to take my head off my body.
I open my hands. “That’s a really deep cut. I need to test your grip strength.”
He squints at me, seeming to decide whether or not I’m telling him the truth, then relents. “Fine.”
With a smirk, I hold up my middle finger, and he rolls his eyes, grabbing it with a bit more force than is totally necessary.
“Mmmm, your hands are strong.”
I’m an adult, barely, but Parker might actually remove my face if I keep fucking with him, so I resist the urge to thrust my finger back and forth in his closed fist. Good news is, his tendons are fine, but Steri-Strips could become a problem in our op, so I go old-school and give him a few stitches. I go a little overboard, but I don’t want him to have an ugly scar from this.
“Okay, now grip my thumb,” I direct, holding my thumb up like a hitchhiker.
He looks at my thumb, then looks back at me. “Why can’t you ever be normal?”
“That answer would take more time than we have right now. Just grab my goddamn thumb.”
He complies and his strength is still good, and I’m convinced he’ll be able to work around the stitches.
“Mmm, yeah. Stroke it.”
“This is harassment,” he says, dropping my thumb like a bad habit.
Shit. It’s like I’m fucking not even aware of how problematic I am.Must be more conscientious.
I let out a frustrated huff. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Sorry. Really.”
His tilted-head stare is uncomfortable, but eventually he softens and dismisses me with a wave of his hand.
“I do have an experimental medication I’m not supposed to use on anyone, but if we get into the middle of things and your hand becomes a problem, just know we’ve got an option.”
He snorts. “Yeah, that sounds one hundred percent safe.”
While it’s true that I’m a dumbass prankster, it hurts to know I don’t have his full faith in my medical knowledge. Considering what I do in Wimberley, this stitch-up job is the simplest procedure I’ve done in weeks. But I can’t give him that context.
“I used it on my brother when he fucked up his knee, if that tells you anything.”
