“Fuck!”
“Shit—sorry.”
“Drop . . . in the bucket,” V gasped as his temple started screaming, the fucker harmonizing an a cappella version of “Welcome to the Jungle.”
To shut out the concert from hell, he opened his eyes and hoped for a distraction.
Jane was right in front of him, a suturing needle in one bloody, gloved hand, her hair pulled back by a headband.
“Not her,” he groaned. “Not . . . her . . .”
Medical professionals should never treat their mates; it was a recipe for disaster. If his knee or hip was permanently fucked-up, he didn’t want that on her conscience. God knew they had enough problems between them already.
Manny stepped in front of his shellan. “Then I’m your only option. You’re welcome.”
Vishous rolled his eyes. Great. What a choice.
“Do you consent?” the human demanded. “Or maybe you’d like to think about it for a while so that your joints heal up like a flamingo’s. Or the leg goes gangrenous and falls the fuck off.”
“Well, if that . . . isn’t a . . . sales pitch.”
“And the answer is . . . ?”
“Fine. Yes.”
“Get him on the table.”
Butch was careful with the layout routine, but even so, V nearly threw up over both of them as his weight was redistributed.
“Motherfucker—” Just as the curse was leaving his lips, the surgeon’s face appeared over his own. “Word up, Manello—you don’t want . . . to be that close to me . . .”
“You want to punch me? Okay, but wait until after I’ve worked on your leg.”
“No, sick . . . to stomach.”
Manello shook his head. “I need some pain control over here. Let’s get some Demer—”
“Not Demerol,” V and Jane said together.
V’s eyes shot over in her direction. She’d gone across the way and was down on the floor, leaning over Blaylock’s stomach, stitching up a mean-looking slice. Her hands were rock-steady and her work was absolutely perfect, everything about her the very picture of professional competence. Except for the tears running down her face.
With a moan, he looked up to the chandelier above him.
“Morphine okay?” Manello asked as he cut through the sleeve of V’s biker jacket. “And don’t bother being tough. The last thing I need is you woofing all over yourself while I’m poking around down there.”
Jane didn’t answer this time, so V did. “Yeah. That’s cool.”
As a syringe was filled, Butch stepped up into the surgeon’s grille. Even as incapacitated as the cop was from the inhaling, he was straight-up deadly as he spoke. “I don’t need to tell you not to fuck my buddy. Right.”
The surgeon looked around his little-glass-bottle-and-needle routine. “I’m not thinking about sex at the moment, thank you very much. But if I was, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with him. So instead of worrying about who I’m tapping, how’d you like to do us all a favor and have a shower. You stink.”
Butch blinked. Then smiled a little. “You have balls.”
“And they’re made of brass. Big as church bells, too.”
Next thing V knew, something cold was rubbing on the juncture of his arm; then there was a prick, and shortly thereafter, he went on a little ride, his body turning into a cotton ball, all light and airy. From time to time, pain broke through, rocking up from his gut and nailing him in the heart. But it wasn’t connected to whatever Manello was doing to his injury: V couldn’t take his eyes off his mate as she treated his brothers.
Through the wavy pane of his vision, he watched as she dealt with Blay and then worked on Tohrment. He couldn’t hear what she was saying because his ears weren’t really working all that well, but Blay was clearly grateful and Tohr seemed eased just by her presence. From time to time, Manello asked her something, or Ehlena stopped her with a question, or Tohr winced and she paused to calm him.