“I’m just teasing,” Brother defended. “That gun’s half the size she is.”
“Maybe,” Rocky muttered. “But she can hold a machine longer than most men I know, and her art could be in the frickin’ Louvre. Wren’s only the second artist I’ve hired right out of apprenticeship, and I did that so I wouldn’t have to compete against her.”
Wren bent down and pretended to check the machine’s coils so she could hide the blush that painted her face. When she stood up, the ache in her back seemed to stretch down into her thigh. It felt sort of like cramps, but it stayed just on her right side, and her period wasn’t due for another two weeks. Gritting her teeth against the discomfort, she got back to work.
Ten minutes later, the BACA logo was done. But as she set down her tools and peeled off her latex gloves, Wren saw that her hands shook. It felt like a giant vice clamped her in half. A sheen of sweat broke out on her lip.
And then pain — like a white-hot blade — pierced her in the gut.
Bear looked at her and frowned. “Darlin’, you’re as white as a ghost.”
His bushy eyebrows were the last things she saw before Wren Blanchard passed out.
CHAPTER THREE
LEE WAS BEGINNINGhis second twenty-four-hour shift of the week when the attending doc in the ER called him down.
“I don’t think it’s appendicitis. No fever. No vomiting or diarrhea,” Dr. Leger said, pointing to the tiny heap on the bed in front of her. Upon a closer look, the heap turned into a girl curled in the fetal position. A girl with blue and black hair. “I’m thinking cyst rupture. She fainted at work and is presenting with acute abdominal pain with back and shoulder tenderness.”
Lee stepped closer and took the patient’s right hand. It was clammy to the touch, but his eye darted to the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, a flock of black birds taking wing. Beneath her blue bangs, her eyes screwed shut, her forehead etched with pain.
“I’m Dr. Hawthorne. Can you tell me your name?”
The girl’s eyes peeked open, and Lee made out green irises, but before she could answer, Christiana Leger broke in.
“Wren Blanchard. Twenty-five. Non-smoker. No prescriptions. No history of kidney stones. Her boss said she was fine one minute and on the floor the next.”
Lee kept the girl’s hand in his as he glanced back at Dr. Leger. He tried to swallow the irritation his colleague inspired. Most of his colleagues. The ones who had never grasped that you could learn so much just by listening to your patients.
“Fuck me, this hurts." Ms. Blanchard squeezed his hand as she hissed out the words.
One look told him he didn’t need to ask her to rate her pain. She was guarding, and her breath was labored. A nine, easy.
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” Dr. Leger asked.
Lee had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Stupid question,” the girl muttered, her eyes still closed. Then he watched a thought ripple across her face. “Seven.”
She’s tough.
“How long were you hurting before you fainted?” he asked, and her hesitation confirmed his guess. Lee knew before she answered that she’d likely hidden her pain as long as she could.
“About half an hour… maybe more.”
“Has this ever happened before?” he asked.
She gave a tight shake of her head. Then she opened her eyes, looked down at their joined hands, and released him. She squeezed her eyes shut again, as if that could block her pain.
“Canyoumake it stop?" Even though her voice shook with agony, she wasn’t begging.
Lee felt certain that she was vetting him, asking if he were up to the task.
And he wanted to say yes. He wanted to make the pain stop.
“Eventually. We need to find the cause first. Any chance at all that you’re pregnant?”
“Hell, no.”