Right. Not a man who drank tea.
“All right, well, I’ll need to numb your lids first.”
“No numbing.”
“It’ll be painful, Mr. Blane. Like being splashed with hot bacon grease.” I know firsthand, she almost added but decided to keep that detail to herself. “And if you accidentally open your eyes, it’s… Look, I don’t recomm—”
“No numbing,” he repeated firmly.
“Okay, then. But I’ll have to insert eye shields. They’re like big metal contact lenses.”
“Sounds sexy.” His voice was low with what might have been humor—an apology, perhaps, for his abrupt words before.
George’s eyes flew to his to find him watching her, and rather than dwell on the way his gaze affected her, she looked quickly away and busied herself by collecting supplies. If nothing else, she could at least pretend to act professional.
She was, after all, a doctor.
OceanofPDF.com
3
Jesus Christ, the doc wasn’t kidding. This shit hurts.
Like poison, the Sultan ink hurt worse going out than it had being put on. There’d been other shit happening on the day Ape had gotten him, of course. Stuff like adrenaline. Fear too. Fear had been a distraction. Ape’s whispered words rushed back to him: I’ll pop your fuckin’ eyeball. He was still shocked the asshole hadn’t blinded him.
He’d been the traitor, after all. He’d deserved it in the eyes of the Sultans.
Here, Clay could feel the ink splitting apart with every painful pass of the laser, flooding his bloodstream, and one day soon, leaving him forever. Months. Months of this treatment, she’d said. It couldn’t happen fast enough.
Besides, what was a little more pain? It didn’t bother him. In fact, the burn helped center him.
A good thing, considering the goddamned racket the machine made. A fuck-ton of noise for such a small piece of technology. He eyed the big red Emergency Stop button on the machine’s console, wondering about the circumstances that might lead to pressing it. It let out these rhythmic beeps and zapping sounds that brought him right back to his room in the clubhouse, where he’d been caught like a rat. That feeling of being trapped and useless and alone, with the sound of gunshots tearing through the place. It was all he could do not to get up and bust the hell outta here. Or, more likely, cover his ears and curl into the fetal position, right there on the paper-covered table. He shut his eyes, tight, remembering Handles’s face just before that first bullet tore into his back. It was that face he saw over and over again. That look that told Clay the man wasn’t there to protect himself or his brothers. No, this was an execution. Pure vengeance. For taking them all in. For making them believe he was one of them. For making Handles like him, even love him, maybe, like a son.
But the woman—Dr. Georgette Hadley—kept Clay from losing himself in memory with calm, gentle touches. She moved his hand into place, held his body where it was, and kept his mind right there, in the room. Mostly.
He’d been fighting this thing for a while now, this compulsion to disappear into his head. Had fought it in the months at the hospital and the single week at home before they’d torched his place. He’d fought it while talking to that lawyer, Hecker.
Get that shit off your face, Navarro, the assistant U.S. attorney had said at their last meeting. You’ve got seven months to prep, and all you’ve gotta do is get your goddamned story straight, stay the hell outta sight, and get rid of the ink. I don’t wanna see a hint of that shit in the courtroom, you got it? At Clay’s resentful nod, the suit had headed to the conference room door before turning around and barking his last order. And for God’s sake, stop talking like a fucking biker.
I am a biker, he’d thought at the time. Although he didn’t feel quite so much like one without his chopper thrumming between his legs.
The laser skimmed over the knuckle of Clay’s middle finger, and he held back a groan, forcing his body to stay seated. Not an easy task, despite his claims of immunity to pain.
Not immune. He just knew there were worse things in life than physical suffering.
“Need a break?” the doctor asked, focusing the numbing blast of cool air on his hand.
“No,” he managed. “Don’t stop.” I’ll keep it together.
“I’ve got the levels low for today. But it’s still going to burn. That’s inevitable. You’ll blister before scabbing up. And I can’t guarantee you won’t scar, especially with the hands. We wash them and work with them. They’re the most painful, usually. Well, besides those eyelids. I don’t know what kind of work you do, but it could be a handicap. At least temporarily. Let me know if you need a note or—”
“Off the books, Doc.”
“Right.”
Two more knuckles, then the clock face on his wrist before she stopped and leaned over to shut down the machine. Silence, as loud as the buzzing had been, engulfed the room.
“You got good aim,” he said.
