"That's some singing voice you have there," said Jack.
Mikey's smile returned, along with a radiant blush. "Thanks. It makes me happy. There's way too much negativity in the world. Life's too short to be miserable."
Demarco looked to Jack and saw that his eyes had already cut toward him. They said nothing.
"Well," Mikey said. "Gotta keep moving. Uncle Sam wouldn't be happy otherwise. You probably know that as well as me." he said to Jack.
"Yes, I do."
"Will I see you at B.J.'s next Tuesday?" he asked Demarco.
But before Demarco could reply, Jack spoke: "Once all this blows over, you may see us both there."
"Good deal," Mikey said, turning to go and waving over his shoulder. "See you guys later."
He wasn't three steps away before he was singing again.
Bonnie Tyler.
Holding Out for a Hero.
13
As they entered the hotel room, Jack's phone rang and he answered it. His mood had lightened a bit since obtaining the photo from Mikey at the Circle... his conversation on the phone a little more animated. Again, Demarco was only hearing one side of the conversation, but his tone sounded encouraging nonetheless.
"I see... Lancaster... Clark?"
Demarco removed his coat, shifting to let it slide off his wounded shoulder. He held out his good arm and helped Jack with his own while he switched hands with the device. "Yeah, that's good," he said. "We'll checkout tomorrow... once I hear from you."
Demarco closed the closet door and turned. Jack gave him a slight grin.
"Yeah... you don't know. Thanks, Kip... for everything."
Jack ended the call and tossed his phone onto the bed.
"Well," Demarco said. "What's the verdict?"
"First, we deal with that." He pointed to Demarco's shirt. There was a small blood stain where the bandage had bled through to the fabric. "I should have never agreed to let you go out."
"Relax, Dr. Zhivago. It's only a flesh wound."
But Jack was already in the bathroom, rummaging through the hospital supply kit for fresh gauze. "On the bed," he said, pointing behind him without looking.
"Yes, sir." Demarco sat down and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Whatever you say, sir."
Jack returned, placing alcohol, swabs, a pad and some gauze on the mattress. He helped Demarco off with his shirt. The undershirt was a little trickier but they managed. And though he tried, Demarco couldn't stifle the muffledoomphhe emitted when Jack pulled it off.
"I should have never let you talk me into this," Jack said, unwrapping the soiled bandage and letting it fall to the sheets. He opened the alcohol and dabbed a swab with it. "It's not bleeding too badly, just a little seepage. This is going to sting."
Demarco, was swept up in the whole care-giving display, watching Jack's swift authoritative moves, hearing his short directives but hardly deciphering the words. "How do you make playing Florence Nightingale so butch?"
Jack pressed the alcohol-dampened swab on the wound.
Demarco sucked air in audibly as white-hot pain electrified his shoulder. His head went light and he was reclining.
"Nope. Stay up. I can't wrap it if you're lying down. I won't be long, I promise."
The pain was already fading. Deep, heated throbs resonated as he felt the coolness of the alcohol drying on the skin around the stitching.
