Witches and First-aid
One of the best things about writing are the days when it’s just plain fun to work on a scene. The kind where you just feel yourself grinning the whole way through writing it. This excerpt from Whatever It Takes was one of those scenes for me. I’m gonna get back to my WIP now and hope that today I’ll find myself grinning through a new one.
Cursing under her breath for having the least bit of sympathy for him, she jerked her head at his arm. “Let me see it.”
“If it was fine, it wouldn’t be bleeding.”
Surprisingly, he didn’t disagree with that, but took a step away from her. She arched a brow, watching without comment as he pushed the sleeve of his T-shirt up to expose the gunshot wound on his left arm.
“Shit,” she whispered, moving closer. As frustrated as she was with him—for a lot of things—the sight of the injury greased her stomach with a fresh layer of panic.
Gideon backtracked so quickly he bumped against his car. “It looks worse than it is.”
“It didn’t just graze you, did it?”
He held up his good arm to keep her back. “No way.”
She frowned at the nervous tone that crept into his voice. “Problem?”
“There will be if you even think about trying to poke or prod at it.”
She waved his hand away. “I’ve had first-aid training.”
He snorted and moved to the trunk. “Would that be the same first-aid training you had four years ago?”
“Yeah.” Training that had come in pretty handy when he’d split the bottom of his foot open on a broken beer bottle left in the sand.
“Stay there,” he warned as he dug through his trunk, withdrawing a small tackle box.
“What do you think I’m going to do to you?”
“Subject my shoulder to the same torture you put my poor foot through.” He shuddered. “I’d rather take my chances with rubbing alcohol and duct tape.”
She scoffed. “Be serious.”
“Oh, I am. Deadly.”
“Is that some kind of tough-guy, hitman humor?”
He glared at her. “I’m not a hitman.”
“Well, finally we’re getting somewhere.” Assuming she believed him of course. He’d certainly killed McCall with the kind of ruthless precision she imagined hitmen were famous for.
He ripped open a sterilized bandage and pressed the gauze to his wound. He never took his eyes off her as she peered at the back of his arm in search of an exit wound. There wasn’t one.
Feeling a little squeamish at the sight of the blood that continued to seep from the wound, she glanced at the tackle box. “The bullet is going to have to come out.”
He snapped the lid closed and shoved it back into the trunk. “Back off, Florence Nightingale.”
Unable to help herself, she smiled. Every time she moved an inch in his direction, he gave her a wary look. He started to wrap the gauze around the wound, but she shoved his good hand out of the way to take over. The longer they remained out in the open, the easier targets they made if Chalmers somehow managed to track them through the woods.
Her hands were remarkably steady considering the last half-hour. “And I wasn’t that bad in Key West.”
“I still have a pronounced limp on cold, damp days.”
She rolled her eyes, and he grinned. Too easily reminded of what he’d done with that mouth earlier, she focused on tightening the bandage.
His hissed out a breath. “We need someplace to lay low for a few hours.”
“And then?” She moved to the driver’s seat.
“Then we’ll get the hell off the island and figure this out.” He frowned. “What are you doing?”
She held her hand out for the keys. “You’re hurt and you don’t know your way around the island like I do.”
“You’re not driving my car.”
“I drive or I don’t get in.”
“Passenger seat or the trunk. Pick one,” he growled.