More Than Enough (Pelican Bay 4)

Stop talking, Sawyer.

"Not that I don't want you on the bed because I do."

Dear God, Sawyer, shut the fuck up right now.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself, though it wasn’t really to myself since I said it out loud. My wayward outburst automatically had me looking around for Marcus before I realized what I was doing. I shook my head and reminded myself that I was in a place where the only reprimand I might get for my unruliness was from Newt and his swear jar, aka college fund.

I could feel Jett's eyes on me. I didn't need to look at his face to know he was probably completely confused and trying to figure out how he could make a quick escape from the crazy loon that was about to stick a needle into his skin.

"So where exactly do you want me, Doc?" I heard Jett ask. I swore I could hear a hint of humor in his voice.

Get control of yourself, Sawyer. Do you want people to know that you’re nothing more than gutter trash?

Marcus’s voice in my head did what nothing else could. It shut down all the noise in my head and the wall I'd worked so hard to break down in the past year reappeared without even the slightest crack in it. I was ashamed to admit it but part of me was glad for its presence because I understood that wall. I knew how to live behind it.

"You can just stay where you are. I'll sit on the window seat. You just need to turn around so I can do the one on the back of your neck first." I went into autopilot mode just like I had outside when I'd been treating Jerry, but this time it wasn't because I was trying to interact with Newt while I was trying to work. No, this time I wanted to do the very thing that I promised myself I never would again.

Hide.

As I began laying out my instruments, I heard the wheelchair move. I just assumed Jett was turning around like I'd asked, but to my surprise his fingers once again closed around my wrist, stopping me from organizing the things I'd need to stitch him up.

"Sawyer?" he said softly.

I stilled and told myself to pull free of his hold, but I found myself unable to move. That wall… that damn wall did nothing to keep out his gruff voice or stop the electricity that fired up my arm as his warm fingers gripped me.

"What just happened?" Jett asked.

I shook my head because what was I supposed to tell him? That even though it had been more than a year since I'd left my ex, his voice still rang loud and clear in my head and that I was terrified that it always would?

"We should get started. I still have a few patients left to see today," I said quietly.

Jett’s fingers disappeared from my wrist, and it was all I could do not to look at him. I wanted to believe that maybe he was disappointed that he had to release me, but I couldn't think like that. I needed to get the task done and get the hell out of there. This time when I heard the wheelchair moving, I knew Jett was finally relenting and turning around. I waited until things were quiet again and then turned to face him. Although I wasn't technically facing him.

I focused in on the gash at the base of his skull and cleaned the wound for a second time just to make sure there wouldn’t be any infection. When it came time to press the needle into Jett's skin, I hesitated. It wouldn't be the first time I'd stitched up a person, but something about knowing I was going to inadvertently hurt Jett in the process stayed my hand.

"Are you sure you want me to do this? I'm out of lidocaine so you're going to feel everything. The hospital would—"

"Just do it," Jett muttered. His voice had that same angry tinge that had been in it when I'd entered the room. God, had that only been a couple of minutes ago? It felt like I'd been through a marathon of emotions since stepping through that doorway.

When I pierced Jett's flush with the needle, he didn't flinch. The only evidence that he was feeling any kind of discomfort was a soft breath that escaped his lips. I worked quickly because I knew in my gut that if I offered the hospital option again, he’d probably tell me just to get the hell out of his room altogether. By the time I turned Jett’s chair around so he was facing me, my stomach was rolling. As before, Jett didn’t make a sound as I stitched up the wound but the sweat on his brow and the occasional pull of air deep into his chest was further proof that he wasn’t a robot. Thankfully, I was done within less than a minute and when I sat back on the window seat, Jett looked as rough as I felt.