Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)

I feel for Rhett’s hand with my good one, clutching his fingers as we make our way through misery and despair to a front desk where a bored-looking nurse looks up.

“What’s your problem, love?”

When I sway, Rhett catches me. “I cut my finger.”

She pushes a clipboard with a form across the counter. “Fill that out.” She scratches her head with a pencil and points at an area at the far back. “Waiting area’s over there.”

We pass an examination room. A naked man lies on a bare mattress. He’s handcuffed to the iron bedpost. A nurse is washing blood from his legs. The floors are dirty, and the walls are stained. There are no pillows, sheets, or dividers. Our eyes connect. I avert mine quickly, but feel his follow me until we’re out of sight.

All the seats are taken, but I don’t want to risk sitting on the germ-infected floor. Rhett takes the pencil from me and calls out the questions while I tell him what to write.

From the way the cloth is soaking up the blood, the bleeding hasn’t stopped. I’m starting to feel the effect of the blood loss, or maybe it’s delayed shock that’s making me feel like fainting.

“Come on,” Rhett says gently, taking my arm to lead me back to the reception desk when the questionnaire is completed.

The nurse takes the form, but is in conversation with a colleague and doesn’t look up to acknowledge us.

“How long does she have to wait?” Rhett asks tightly.

“What’s that, love?”

He jerks his head toward the long line of people. “How long?”

She chuckles. “See that man over there?” She points at the one with the gash in his arm. “He’s been waiting for twelve hours.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no point. These people are in as much need, if not more, than me.

I touch his arm and say softly, “I think we should do it at home.” I won’t be able to hold the severed piece in place and stitch. “Can you help me?”

The nurse’s attention is already on her colleague again. They’re laughing together, sharing a joke.

He nods at my hand. “Show me.”

I unwrap the cloth slowly to reveal my thumb. Blood pumps from the digit as if bubbling from an underground fountain.

Rhett blanches. “Jesus Christ.” He sweeps me up in his arms and starts walking with long strides back in the direction from where we came.

“Rhett! What are you doing?”

“There’s a private clinic in Brixton. It’s only seven kilometers from here.”

“I don’t have medical aid. I can’t afford a private clinic.”

“I’ll pay.” He shifts my weight in his arms. “Don’t worry about the money, okay? I’m not leaving you in this dump for one second longer.”

“We can do it at home,” I insist.

He doesn’t say anything, but the hard set of his jaw tells me he disagrees.

Twenty minutes later, we’re going through the same procedure at the Garden Clinic, but the change is remarkable. The building is clean and sterile. A nurse takes charge of me the minute we enter, and no less than ten minutes after Rhett put down the cash for my treatment—which was required upfront—I’m wearing a hospital robe, lying on a gurney outside the operating room. Rhett is pacing the hallway, his figure passing from left to right and back in front of the door window, his phone stuck to his ear. The doctor who introduces himself as the surgeon tells me the good news is that he can try to save my thumb, thanks to my foresight to recover and bring the missing piece. As they start pushing me toward the operating room, the door slams into the wall, and Gabriel rushes into the corridor, his limp heavy and his short hair messy.

“Excuse me,” the doctor exclaims. “You can’t barge in here.”

He doesn’t look at the doctor. He finds my eyes and holds them. “She’s with me.”

“I don’t care if she’s with the queen of England.”

Gabriel’s blue eyes grow hard. His face sets into a frightening mask, and when he turns it on the doctor he says in a cold voice, “I’m staying with her.”

Gabriel reaches for my uninjured hand, but the doctor cuts him short.

“Get out or I’ll have you removed.”

His gaze fixes on my covered wound, and like Rhett, he pales.

“Good thing you’re not squeamish, huh?” I smile at him, feeling a little high from whatever they injected me with to kill the pain.

“Call security,” the doctor tells the nurse.

Gabriel lifts his palms. “Calm the fuck down. I’m leaving.”

“I guess no one is eating meat tonight.” The thought sends a sudden rush of hysteria through me. “Oh, my God, Gabriel. The dinner.” I trip over my own words, trying to get them out. “It was a stupid accident. I didn’t pay attention. I’m so sorry. Please don’t let Magda kill me.”