The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,29
you admit you’re in pain.”
“Only if you cop to being a democrat.”
“I’ll say that with pride.”
Edward was of a mind to continue the riffing, but his neurons had become overrun with too much sensory information, none of it good. And as he grunted and cursed, he was very much aware of Shelby standing off to the side, watching the show with a glower.
“Can you flex it for me?” Qalbi asked.
“I thought I was.”
After two more hours’ worth of torture—okay, it was more like two minutes, tops—Dr. Qalbi sat back on his heels. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
Edward shot a look over at Shelby. “Really. Imagine that.”
“It’s dislocated.”
As Shelby’s right eyebrow I-told-you-so’d into her hairline, Edward refocused on the doctor. “So put it back in place.”
“You said you did this in the stables? How did you get back here?”
“I walked.”
“Not possible.”
“I’m drunk.”
“Well, there you go. We need to get you in to an orthopedist—” “I’m not going to any hospital. So either you fix it here, or leave me be.”
“That is not a course I’d recommend. You need to be—”
“Dr. Qalbi, you know damn well what I’ve been through. I’ve spent my lifetime allotment of days in hospitals already. Rather efficient, really. So, no, I will not be going anywhere in an ambulance.”
“It would be better to get—”
“Primum non nocere.”
“Which is why I want to take you into town.”
“And PS, the customer is always right.”
“You’re my patient, not a customer. So your satisfaction is not my goal. Appropriate care is.”
But Qalbi fell silent, and did the whole steady-eyed regard thing—although it was not clear whether he was making further medical assessments or waiting for his “patient” to come to his senses.
“I can’t do it alone,” the man concluded.
Edward nodded at Shelby. “She is stronger than you are. And I’m sure she would like to hurt me right about now, wouldn’t you, darling.”
“Whatcha need, Doctor?” was all she said as she came over.
Qalbi stared straight into Edward’s face. “If there is no dorsalis pedis or tibialis posterior pulse after I’m done, you’re going to the hospital.”
“I don’t know what either of those are.”
“You’re the one who started throwing around Latin. And those are my terms. If you decline them, I will leave, but I will also turn you in to social services as a failure-to-thrive case—and then you can have all kinds of fun dealing with the welfare folks.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” came the calm response.
Baby face, my ass, Edward thought.
“You’re a hard negotiator, Doctor.”
“Only because you’re being ridiculous.”
And that was how, a few moments later, Edward ended up with his jeans rolled to scrawny thigh, his mangled leg bent at the knee, and Shelby straddling him with her hands locked on his pathetic hamstrings. Due to injuries to his hip, the straight-leg position wasn’t going to work, according to the good doctor.
“I’m going to pull on three.”
As Edward braced himself, he looked forward … directly into Shelby’s rather spectacular backside. But yes, that was the end result when you made your living at physical labor and you were twenty-something.
Across on the kitchen wall, the old-fashioned phone started to ring.
“Three—”
Edward screamed and there was a loud snap. But the pain receded to a dull ache quickly. And as he breathed through it, Dr. Qalbi did some probing.
“Pulses are strong. Looks like you dodged a bullet.” The doctor got to his enviably functional feet. “But this incident begs the larger question of where you are in your recovery.”
“In this chair,” Edward groaned. “I am in this chair, obviously.”
“You should have better mobility by now. And you shouldn’t be self-medicating with alcohol. And you should—”
“Isn’t the word ‘should’ a modern anathema? I thought there were no more ‘shoulds.’”
“Pop psychology doesn’t interest me. The fact that you are as weak as you are does.”
“So I gather this means that a prescription for painkillers is out of the question. Worried about getting a second member of my family hooked on narcotics?”
“I’m not your mother’s treating physician. And I assure you that I wouldn’t be handling things as they are if I were.” Dr. Qalbi bent down and picked up his bag. “I urge you to consider a short readmission into a rehab facility—”
“Not going to happen—”
“—to build up your strength. I also recommend an alcohol treatment—”
“—because I don’t believe in doctors—”
“—program. The last thing you need to do—”
“—and there is nothing wrong—”
“—is add alcohol to this mix.”
“—with my drinking.”
Dr. Qalbi took a business card out of his back pocket. Offering it to Shelby, he said, “Take