There was onlyone place to go when blood was gushing out of my back and it felt like my internal organs were shutting down: Nick and Erin's place inCambridge.
Come on.Why would I bother with a busy emergency room when my brother-in-law was asurgeon?
I would not. Also, I fucking hated hospitals. Avoided them the way most people avoided venomous snakes and clowns. I'd sooner die of gangrene from a centuries-old rusty nail than drag my ass to a hospital. And my sister and her husband still owed me a few favors for keeping the lid on that secret marriage oftheirs.
The uphill trek from the Pinckney property to the Walsh Associates office—where my SUV was parked—was short, but walking there in a blood-soaked shirt certainly raised some eyebrows. There were a few "Sir, are you allright?" and "Hey man, I think you're bleeding" moments but I tipped my hat to those Good Samaritans and keptmoving.
A long-forgotten beach towel saved me from staining the leather seat, but it was teeth-clenching will that saved me from screaming in pain as every bump on the Harvard Bridge rattled my body. That wasn't even the most efficient route to their house, but fuck me if I could manage driving around the TD Garden or Museum of Science without mowing down some pedestrians in theprocess.
I didn't bother knocking when I reached their front door. Nope, no time for that shit. I barreled—or stumbled, same difference—right in with the towel wrapped around my torso and the shredded remains of my t-shirtinhand.
"Nicholas," I yelled down the hallway. "I require yourservices."
Erin came around the corner, wiping her hands on a checkered blue dishtowel. "What in the hell happened to you, kid?" Keeping an eye on me, she pivoted and called, "You might want to come outhere,Nick."
"I've got my hands in carne asada, darlin'," he yelled back. "What doyouneed?"
I gestured to the floor. "Should I stay here and bleed, or can I go into the kitchen?" I asked. "I'm woozy, Erin. Can't you let a man sit down before hedropsdead?"
She waved me forward. "I don't understand your life at all," shemurmured.
I followed her into the bright, open kitchen at the back of the house. I'd designed this space and the adjoining dining room, and always felt a pulse of satisfaction when seeing it used as I'd intended. I wasn't one to dictate how people lived, but it made my brain itchy when their interactions with the room missed the entire point of the design. That pulse was quickly followed by lightheadedness, and I steadied myself with a bloodstained hand on Erin'sshoulder.
Nick looked up from the butcher block and his easy smile immediately fell into a serious line. He nudged the faucet on with his forearms and started washing his hands as he tipped his chin toward me. "What's thesituationhere?"
I looked around, taking in the plates and utensils stacked on the farmhouse table, and mason jars filled with flowers. "You're making carne asada? Is that rice on the stove? Are you guys having people over? Am I crashing?" Iasked.
"Buddy, you've left a trail of blood from the front door and have yet to offer an explanation," Erin said. "Let's talk about dinner later. What the hellhappened?"
She propelled me toward a seat at the island and immediately unwrapped the towel. I reached into my pocket while she hissed at thecarnage.
"This fucker is to blame," I said, slapping the blacksmith-forged nail on the countertop. If I hadn't been so pissed about this, I would've admired the craftsmanship. "It stabbed me because I was trying to take astone."
Nick nodded toward Erin. "Would you grab the kit out ofmycar?"
She murmured in agreement and marched out of the kitchen. Nick came around the island with that stoic, professional expression in place. I felt his fingers on my back and flank, and gave into the desire to put my head down on the cool marble. I needed a minute. Just a minute before I turned to completeshambles.
There weren't too many things that I truly hated but blood was on that list. Specifically, large volumes of blood spilling out of bodies. No psychoanalysis was needed to find the origins, either. It was a straight shot back to my childhood. The one vivid memory I had of my mother was from the day she bled todeath.
And where else could you find large volumes of blood spilling out of bodies?Hospitals.
"I was gonna patch it up with some duct tape but it wouldn't stop fucking bleeding," I said, my words muffled. "Do you have some doctor grade of duct tape? Or medicalsuperglue?"
"Duct tape really isn't one of our options. Here's what we're going to do," Nick said after a thorough inspection. "You need thirty or so sutures and a tetanus shot. I'll take you overtothe—"
"Nope," I interrupted, sitting up quickly. Too quickly. Everything was fuzzy, even my ears. "Don't say it. You stitched up Patrick after that thing with thenailgun."
"That wastwosutures, and they were in hisfinger," Nick argued. He dropped his hand to the back of my head and guided me to the countertop. "And that gun wasn't shooting eight centimeter nails from"—he picked up the square blackspike—"1920?"
"1790, son," Icorrected.
"Holy shit," he said. His gaze zipped to the nail. "That's like American Revolution era." He shifted to study the wound again, and then blew out a long breath. "Listen. I'll patch this up, but I'd rather do it in the ER. I don't have the besttoolshere."
"It's good to want, Nicholas," I grumbled. "You've accomplished more in worse settingsthanthis."
That much was true. Nick had spent months in Africa and Central America on tours with Doctors Without Borders. He could handle a kitchen stitch-up, even if I was half convinced that I was meeting my death anyminutenow.
"Yeah, you know that medicine isn't a parlor trick, right?" he asked. "Just because I can perform a craniotomy in a tent doesn't mean it's my go-toapproach."
