Next, he awkwardly took off the jacket and another two layers of garments he used for his homeless disguise. Under them he’d worn one of his own T-shirts. The left side of it was solid red now, but the blood was already drying and sticking the cloth to his skin.
“Well, doc, you’ll be glad to know that I’m not gonna bleed out on you. It’s congealing.”
After gingerly peeling away the T-shirt, he pulled it over his head and assessed the wound more closely. The cut was deepest just beneath the left side of his rib cage, tapering off as it arced across his abdomen toward his navel.
With more relief than he would ever admit to, he said, “It is only a scratch.”
“A big, bad, deep one.” Dylan was giving the wound a lingering appraisal, and when he caught her at it, she, in an annoyed manner, began taking items out of the shopping bag.
“What all did you get?”
“Alcohol, gauze pads, antiseptic salve, self-adhesive bandages of various sizes, butterfly closures, Motrin, and a bottle of water to wash down the capsules. None of which is sufficient. That gash needs stitching.”
“Naw.”
With resignation, she handed him one of the gauze pads she’d already saturated with alcohol. He took a deep breath and applied it to the cut. He hissed, cursed, and gasped as he dabbed at the gaping wound. When that one was blood-soaked, she had another ready. They worked methodically until he felt he had sanitized the entire wound.
“Burns like bloody hell,” he said.
“It’s supposed to.”
“You could help by blowing on it.”
He flashed her a cheeky grin, which she responded to with a drop-dead look as she extended him the tube of antiseptic cream. He shook his head. “Just one of those bandages, please.”
“You need the salve first. Then use the clips to pull the skin together.”
“All I need for now is a bandage.” He reached across the console, grabbed the box of bandages, opened it, and shook the contents into her lap. He selected the largest, ripped it open with his teeth, and placed it over the deepest segment of the cut, then applied two smaller ones where it wasn’t as bad. He made sure the adhesive was sticking, then looked across at her. “Nothing to it. All patched up.”
But she wasn’t looking at the bandage on his abdomen. Shewas looking at the tattoo on his right deltoid. “That’s one,” he said. “If you’re curious about the other, I’ll have to get more comfortable.”
Rather than reacting to his innuendo, she looked up from the tattoo to meet his eyes. In her professional/therapist tone, she asked, “What does that represent to you?”
He was on the brink of spontaneously telling her, but caught himself and said instead, “A drunken impulse. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe you.”
That cool voice and the knowing look she’d fixed on him made him feel more exposed than being shirtless. “Can I have my windbreaker back?”
She retrieved it from her footwell where she’d dropped it after taking it off. He pulled it on and zipped it up, restarted the truck, and drove them back to the road.
Dylan replaced the first aid supplies in the shopping bag, shook two of the pain relievers into her palm, and passed them to him. He asked for a third and swallowed them with a long drink from the water bottle before placing it in the cup holder.
She said, “You could use what’s left of the water to sponge that stuff off your face.”
“It can wait. I’m used to looking dirty. Part of the disguise.”
“You’re no longer with the DEA,” she said, “but you were working undercover in New Orleans, which isn’t even your jurisdiction. Why there? Did Bowie send you?”
“That’s classified.”
“And that’s avoidance,” she snapped. “Who cut you, Mitch? Who was he?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
“Did he recognize you as a law officer?”
“He wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have. I think he took me for a homeless person.”
