Damn. What a night.
"You know, Jack—" Monica pitched away bloody gauzes "—it would have been helpful if you'd given me your correct medical status regarding your thigh instead of going for the laugh line about being shot in the ass."
Jack yanked his gaze off the bloody bits of shrapnel glistening in a silver pan. "Just trying to lighten the mood, bring everything down a notch."
"Not funny."
"What are you going to do to me? Feed me crappy goat stew and shoot me in the ass?"
"Hmm, did I remember to give you your tetanus shot?"
"Yes!"
"I'm not so sure. Maybe you need another."
She cleaned up with steady hands. He would have thought her calm except for her tight lips. Pale face.
Contrition tweaked. "Sorry. Guy thing, you know, joke instead of whimpering like a baby."
Worry pulled her chalky skin taut across her high cheekbones. "You need to lay down."
"I'm fine." Definitely a male thing. No way was he going to be a wuss in front of everyone.
"Of course you're fine. But I also know that very shortly you'll be working your not-shot ass off. You should take advantage of this time when there's nothing to do and give your body a break."
Irritation nicked harder than the shrapnel. His body was revved for battle, not napping.
"You'll be more efficient later if you do."
Score one for the doc. "You're good at maneuvering flyer egos."
"Practice." Crossing her arms over her chest, she smiled her victory.
A flight suit never looked so good as it did drawn taut over Monica's full breasts. God, she was hot, leggy with curves and a sensuous mouth. Oh, yeah.
His revved body found another target for all that adrenaline. "How about this? I'll head up to the crew rest compartment and stretch out...if you'll come talk to me."
Yes. Yes. Say yes, damn it, before the top of his head exploded.
"And you're getting good at maneuvering the flight surgeon."
"I'm only interested in convincing you."
He led the way up the narrow stairwell, wincing at each tug to his leg working its way through whatever numbing shot Monica had given him before digging out the bits of metal and stitching him up. And he couldn't afford to take mind-mussing pain pills.
Clearing the last step to the cockpit, he found Crusty sprawled in the aircraft commander's left seat eating a handful of chocolate-chip cookies by the hazy neon glow of a chemstick.
"Take a hike." Jack jerked a thumb toward the stairwell.
Crusty looked from Jack to Monica, back to Jack. "Seat's comfy here and there's nobody around to snitch my food. What's in it for me if I leave?"
Not getting pounded for yanking my chain? "I could pull the senior officer gig and order you out, but since I'm a nice guy and a little off my game after being shot in the ass—''
"All right! All right." Crusty rolled to his feet. "No need to play the sympathy card."
"Thanks. And, hey, Crusty, if you keep anyone else from coming up, there's a bag of licorice down in my flight bag that's all yours. I need to talk to Monica." Talk being the euphemistic understatement of the century. Oh, yeah.
"Licorice? Consider me a Berlin Wall between you and the rest of the folks down there." Crusty disappeared into the stairwell.