Small-Town Redemption

Before he lost what little control he had left.

The medicine they were pumping into him made his head heavy, his thoughts blurry—like when he’d spent most of his time wasted, wanting nothing more than the next high. The room, the sights and smells of the hospital, the sound of doctors being paged, of codes being called, tortured him with memories.

The only time he could breathe, could forget for a few minutes where he was, could pretend his past wasn’t pressing down on him, was when Red came in the room.

She was a distraction, he assured himself. That was all. A way for him to forget the pain. Yes, she was interesting and intelligent and, he supposed, attractive in a unique way. But that wasn’t why she occupied his thoughts. Focusing on her was a way to keep his control.

She looked so naive. Innocent. It was partly the freckles, he thought, taking in her profile as she laid out the instruments needed for his stitches. Hard to come across as mature and tough when it looked as if God himself had sprinkled cuteness across your nose and upper cheeks. Or maybe it was her hair. No adult should have hair that bright.

But, he had to admit, the particular shade of orangey-red suited her, went with the pale creaminess of her skin, the new super-short cut accentuating the sharp angle of her jaw, the shape of her eyes.

She was in her element here, surrounded by the sick and injured, the constant noise and odd smells. Gone was the awkward, slightly gawky girl he’d first met at his bar when he’d pissed her off by asking to see her ID. There was no sign of the angry woman who, a few weeks later, had accused her older sister of stealing her one true love, or the nervous, desperate woman who’d come to his apartment. Here she was confident and in control. In charge.

It suited her.

Someone knocked and the doctor, the one who looked like some actor Kane couldn’t quite put a name to, came in.

“How are we doing, Mr. Bartasavich?” Dr. Movie-Star asked in nasally, flat tones that should be illegal in the good old U.S. of A.

“If I had to guess,” Kane said, tired enough to let out his own accent, “I’d say you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me at the moment.”

Washing his hands, the doctor grinned at Kane over his shoulder. “I’d have to agree with you.”

Charlotte took the bandage off Kane’s cut and cleaned the cut, then the doctor gave him a shot to numb the area. Kane almost asked to forgo that step. The sting would give him something else to focus on, something other than the panic trying to wash over him.

But he wasn’t a masochist. Just completely messed up.

“We’ll give it a few minutes to work,” the doctor said while Char cleaned up once again.

They left. He almost called Char back, almost said something else like his inane comment about her hair to keep her in the room with him. It was easier when she was with him, all bright and capable and whip-smart. But once she left, it was as if she took all the air in the room with her. His heart rate increased. The memories threatened, there, at the edge of his mind, pushing, pushing, pushing to be let loose.

He stared at the TV mounted on the wall, the images of an old movie flashing by, the sound muted. Concentrated on nothing more than his next careful breath. Inhaling, he filled his lungs, his ribs pinching, and counted to five. Exhaled for another five. Again. And again.

Finally, they returned. “All right,” the doctor said, putting on the gloves Red handed him. “Let’s get this done so you can go home.”

He could do this. He could do this. But his stomach turned. His throat tightened.

The doctor put in the first stitch. Other than a slight tugging, Kane didn’t feel anything, but anxiety settled in his chest, growing and growing, pushing even the shallowest breath from his lungs.

Bile rose. He swallowed it down and stared at a spot above the doctor’s head. Tried to forget.

“You okay?”

Red’s voice, calm and concerned. He couldn’t speak, though, and nodding while someone stitched his skin together didn’t seem like the best idea.

She moved to the other side of the bed, brushed her fingers against his forearm. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re doing great.”

And she covered his hand with hers.

He jolted. Met her eyes.

The doctor said something in a sharp tone, but Kane didn’t catch it. Couldn’t. The blood was rushing in his ears, a roar of sound drowning out everything else. Until Red spoke, barely above a murmur, but to him her voice was clear, the low, soothing tones easing the ache in his chest.

“Try to stay still.” She sent him a small smile. Gave his fingers a squeeze. “Only a few more.”

Moving was not an option. He was frozen, held immobile by her light touch, the feel of her cool fingers on the back of his hand, the power of her gaze on his. He should pull away. Let her know in no uncertain terms he didn’t want her assurance. Didn’t need her comfort.

He sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

But he was weak. So weak he turned his hand, linked his fingers with hers and held on tight.

* * *

THERE WAS SOMETHING wrong with Kane.

Something other than the injuries he’d sustained, Charlotte amended. Something—dare she say?—deeper. Emotional or psychological or a combination of both. Something that had him clutching her hand as if the link between them, the very basic, instinctive need for human contact—skin-to-skin—was the only real thing in his life. The only thing keeping him grounded.

Keeping him safe.

She would have shaken her head if she hadn’t been afraid to break the eye contact between them. Keeping him safe? Some sort of deep, emotional issue? Please. Her imagination was running wild.

There was nothing deep or emotional about Kane. He was hard, caustic and cynical. Thinking there was more to him was ridiculous. Thinking he needed her to protect him from a few stitches, to save him from whatever had produced the haunted look in his eyes, bordered on delusional.

And she was too smart, too careful and way too afraid of making another grand mistake to let delusions ruin her life again.

But that didn’t stop her from murmuring nonsense to him, careful to keep her voice soft, her tone calm as she repeated how great he was doing, that it’d all be over in a few minutes and he just needed to hang in there. She was there for him.

Time slowed. She had no idea how long they stayed that way, eyes locked, hands clasped. All sound seemed to dissipate so even her own words disappeared, though she kept up the mindless chatter. Her entire world narrowed so the only thing she saw was Kane. Color slowly seeped back into his face. His gaze sharpened, came back into focus. His hand warmed against hers, his palm rough, his fingers twitching with every pull of the thread. He inhaled, quick and shallow.

“You’re okay.” She kept her voice quiet, her own breathing deep and even in the hopes he’d follow suit. “You’re okay.”

“Last two stitches,” Justin said, his low tone mimicking her own.

She stood, but Kane didn’t let go. She patted his hand. “It’s all right now. Dr. Louk is done, but he needs my help.” For a moment, she was afraid Kane didn’t hear or understand what she was saying. But then he slowly, reluctantly, slid his hand from hers.

Wiping her tingling palm down the front of her thigh, she crossed to the hand sanitizer on the wall, cleaned her hands, then walked around the bed, all the while hyperaware of Kane’s intense gaze on her. She held the scissors out for Justin, hating the unsteadiness of her hands, of her heart. The way her mind raced with questions, with concerns. She wanted to get to the bottom of Kane’s behavior, wanted to ask him what had brought it on, what she could do to help him.

She must be a complete idiot.

Because no matter what had come over Kane, the last thing she needed was to try to fix him.