“Guys?” I finally say, finally snapping out of the drama-induced hypnosis. “My brother is on the table with a huge gash up his side and is about to get worked on by an insane person. Can you two take all your unresolved sexual tension anddeal with it anywhere else?”
I may have yelled that last bit.
Erik looks confused, Ant looks hurt, and Anders may have had a point about my mental state.
God, I feel ill.
Charlie puts himself between us. “Erik—take Ant to the bathroom and get him cleaned up, then take the big truck back to the ranch and sit with him until I get there.”
Looking like a couple of chastised puppies, they head off to the bathroom, and I finally remember to check on my brother, who has regained consciousness.
Blinking against the overhead light, he asks, “Why is Bram yelling?”
Knowing I’m going to have to find a way to make it up to Ant, I try to calm my voice for my brother. “I’m okay, Lev. Shit just got intense.”
“Oh, okay. Why is Mama Bash here?”
“Hi, Levy,” she says softly. “I brought Anders his medical bag. He’s trying to keep you out of the hospital.”
“Oh, that’s good. Why am I only wearing a paper towel?”
“Sorry about that, dude,” Anders says. “The location of the wound makes it hard to stitch up with clothes on. Now, aside from being naked in front of a lot of people, where’s your pain level?”
He laughs, then winces. “Uh…it’s not too bad. I mean, it hurts, but I’m not dying. Except for this table. This shit’s fucking uncomfortable.”
I go to the living room and grab a throw pillow, then push past Anders to set the pillow under Levy’s head. He tries to reach out for me, but Anders grabs his arm.
“No moving, Levy-man. It’s not too deep a wound, but let’s not make it worse, okay?”
“Okay,” Levy says, slow-blinking. “Hey, where’d that kid go…?”
“He’s losing consciousness again,” I say, panic rising in my chest.
Anders holds up a syringe and points to Levy’s rising and falling chest. “He’s fine. I made extra sure he got the right meds.”
Nacho, who’s been quiet this whole time, heads toward the back of the house. “I’ll look for the kid.”
Hopper and his dog follow. “I’ll go with you.”
“Sweet,” Anders declares. “Bram, come over here and help me wash my hands.”
I watch Nacho walk off as I turn on the hot water and grab the dish soap. I snapped at him, and he was just trying to help. I’m gonna need to make that up to him. Fuck this night.
Quickly washing my hands first, I squirt a generous amount into Anders’ waiting palms. He proceeds to do a surgery-type scrub up to his elbows, then rinses his hands under the scalding water.
When he’s finished, he turns to me with kind eyes. For the record, that’s more disturbing than his murder face.
“Everything in that bag is vacuum sealed and labeled. Grab me one of the surgical towels. It’ll be blue.”
I do as asked, opening the plastic wrapping without touching the small flat towel.
“Nice technique,” he says, pinching the towel from its packaging.
“Please don’t compliment me. Just try not to kill my brother.”
“You got it.”
Once he’s dried his hands, I help him into gloves.
