Silver Lining (Diamond #3) - Skye Warren Page 0,7
adrenaline. What else is there to do but lift his shirt away from the wound? We both fumble with the project until the formerly gray fabric is over Adam’s head. There’s more blood underneath. Too much to see what I’m doing. “ I’m going to help you, but first I need to freak the fuck out. Wait here.”
“No, I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important meeting.” A wry smile curves his lips, but he lays his head back on the arm of the couch and clenches his jaw.
I soak a clean towel through with hot water, studiously ignoring my shaking hands. And then I return to where Adam’s breathing fast and shallow on the couch, the bloodied t-shirt clenched in one fist. He lets out a breath when I perch on the couch next to him, and another one when I touch the towel to his skin. “Be quick about it,” he says, his teeth gritted.
When the worst of the blood has laid claim to the towel I can see the wound.
Small. Raw. Circular. A bullet wound. I thought my heart couldn’t beat faster, but it does. “You need a hospital. I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on TV. This is ridiculous.”
“No fucking hospitals.” His eyes go black with this, spearing through mine.
“You’re delirious. You’re drunk on pain and probably blood loss.”
“I’m stone-cold sober.”
I fold the sacrificed towel up and toss it toward the kitchen. “I don’t know how to treat a gunshot wound, Adam. What am I supposed to do? Put a Band-Aid on it?”
His eyes do that thing again, sliding away from my face to some distant point behind me, and a cold point of fear pricks at my gut. His lips curl in amusement. “Google it.”
“That’s not funny.”
The shake in my voice seems to sober him. “No. It’s not funny. I’ll need tweezers. And towels. Lots of them. More than that scrap you had before. All the towels you own, probably.”
“I hope this part is a joke.”
He narrows his eyes. “And alcohol.”
“To clean the wound?”
“No, to drink. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”
Not a joke. Not a joke at all. This has passed a new threshold for serious situations in my life. A man is literally dying on my couch. I’m the only one here to save him.
“Now,” prompts Adam, and up and moving again. Tweezers are in the bathroom. All of my clean towels are shoved into one rickety closet, and the closet won’t give them up. It’s like the closet wants him to die. Fuck the closet. That’s not happening tonight, not if I can help it. And I’m going to have to help it. There’s nobody else.
In the kitchen I pull down a single fifth of vodka from the cupboard over the fridge. It’s never been opened. The top refuses to give, my fingers slippery around the ridges, until I take a deep breath and force it.
Back in the living room, Adam has dropped the t-shirt and has one hand pressed next to the wound. Not on top of it, but close, as if he can’t bear to touch it. He takes the vodka with his free hand and drinks and drinks and drinks until I’m forced to think about stopping him. How much alcohol is too much when you’re trying to save yourself from a gunshot wound?
The bottle’s half gone when he puts it down on the floor and holds his hand out for the tweezers.
I take a deep breath. “Are you sure—”
He snaps his fingers, and I drop them into his open palm.
Adam doesn’t hesitate. For a guy who’s just downed too much vodka, he’s surprisingly deft as he flips them into his fingers and digs them into the wound. My entire body freezes, watching this. Watching the serious lines in his face get overtaken by the pain. His teeth catch his lower lip and press down hard. My heart goes wild with how useless I am, with how raw this is, and I’m going to explode. I’m on the verge of begging him to stop when he gives the tweezers a sharp yank.
A bullet dangles from the end of them. Adam holds it up in front of his face. Inspecting it? Reassuring himself that it’s out? His eyes roll back in his head and he’s out before I can ask.
I put a hand on his shoulder and rub. “Adam.”
No answer.
I check his pulse. It’s still there.
“This is really not funny,” I tell him, and he