Crash Into Me (Into Me Series Book One)

Chapter Three - Hold

"Alright, just hang tight. You're gonna be fine, but they're definitely doing to have to take you to surgery to get that bullet out," I tell the FRICKEN FBI AGENT in front of me.

Apparently, they were in the middle of some big bust of a child trafficking ring and some dumbass police officer shot one of the rescuers on accident and this whole big fight broke out and people got shot and here we are.

Fucking boys.

She smiles at me, "Thank you, Jet. I really appreciate it."
"Not a problem, that's why I'm here," I say, pulling off my dirty gloves.
"Hey, not to be too nosey or anything, but what happened to your arm?" she asks, pointing to the gauze that covers my stitches.
"I... uh..."

How the fuck am I supposed to explain this? Oh, lol, it was nothing, some psycho lady grabbed me by my ponytail and then got angry when I fought back and started screaming at me and then my nurse friend came to rescue me and that opened a whole new can of worms and then she spit in my face so I tried to restrain her and I grabbed her wrists and then she bit my arm and I pulled it back cause you know... instinct... and here we are.

"Um... so there was this patient I had earlier and she-"
"WE NEED HELP IN HERE!" a voice yells.

Oh, thank you Jesus!

Well, not thank you for trying to take someone, but thank you for getting me out of having to explain this. Oh my god Jet just stop talking.

Echm. Anywho...

I take off in the direction of the voice and look around until I see a gaggle of medical staff. Here's the thing. Us health care workers? We flock like locus. So, if you see more than three of us surrounding a patient, most likely, that person is fucked. I always tell my patients that you can tell how bad your situation is in a health care setting based on the amount of people in your room. One or two? You're fine. Four or more? Just try your best to keep breathing calmly.

There is a massive collection of people outside of the trauma bay, all with eyebrows knitted in concern. No one seems to move, though. It's like they don't know what to do or where to start. But if there's anything that ER and trauma nursing has taught me, it's that you just have to fucking start somewhere. Staring at the poor guy isn't helping anything. I push through the group and finally reach the patient.

"Jet, thank god," Dr. Barnes says.
"Bet you're happy they paged me now," I say, cocking my eyebrow.
He scoffs and rolls his eyes at me.
"Children, stop fighting," Mark warns.
"What do we need?" I ask.

Slow down. Breathe. Take a second.

Okay. GWS to the chest. Oh, this is the dumbass they were talking about! He's bleeding heavily, his breaths are agonal, his sats are total shit, he's tachycardic, and his pressure is in the toilet. My mans is kinda fucked.

Jet be nice.

Okay, he probably has a pneumothorax so we will need to insert a chest tube to reinflate the collapsed lung.

Dr. Evans cuts off the shirt of the man in front of me with his trauma shears.

My mans is ripped. He has a delicate silver chain around his neck, the clasp sitting right in front of his trachea at the moment. I want to fix it. And he's heavily tatted with some of the most beautiful Greek Mythology work I've ever seen. Damn. He's fucking hot. No, he's fucking gorgeous.

Stop. What the hell are you doing? This isn't like you. Focus, Jet.

My heart skips a few beats before someone lights a fire under my ass and I snap back to reality. What the fuck is wrong with me? I've never felt like this about anyone before. He's hurt and he needs help, so why the fuck am I sitting here begging him internally to wake up so I can hear his voice and see his eyes?