He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. He's probably had many guns stuck in his face before. The tension in the room is thick, the muted sound of Kendall's breathing the only thing breaking the silence.
"This the patient?" he asks, gesturing toward Kendall.
I nod, my throat tight, and Jimmy steps toward her, his leather bag creaking softly as he sets it down. His sharp eyes scan her injuries-the awkward angle of her shoulder, the stark white bandage standing out against her cheekbone like a brand.
"It's my shoulder," she says, her voice soft but steady, though I can see the strain behind it.
"And your cheek," he comments. His voice is calm, almost clinical, as if assessing injuries is as routine as brushing his teeth. "Let's get that shoulder stabilized, and then we'll see if you need stitches, yeah?"
Jimmy kneels beside her and takes her left hand gently, his fingers surprisingly delicate for a man who looks like he's seen his fair share of bar fights. She winces-just barely-but the pain flickers across her face like lightning.
I have to look away. The sight of her in pain twists something deep inside me, like someone tightening a vise around my chest.
"I popped it back in," I say gruffly, trying to sound detached. The memory of the loud, sickening *pop* still echoes in my mind, though.
Jimmy looks up at me, one eyebrow arched. "Did a good job, Camden. Did you go to med school?"
I snort, the sound bitter in the tense atmosphere. "Not exactly."
Years around wiseguys and bruisers taught me a lot. Watching people get patched up-sometimes in kitchens, other times in alleyways-was just another part of life.
Jimmy pulls a navy-blue sling from his bag, the fabric whispering as he unfolds it. He moves carefully, easing Kendall's arm into it. Her sharp intake of breath makes me flinch, but she barely makes a sound otherwise.
"I've got something you can take for the pain," Jimmy says, his tone soothing. He digs into his bag and retrieves a pill bottle, shaking two pills into his hand. The sound of the pills rattling against the plastic is oddly loud in the quiet room. He tosses me the bottle. "Every four hours, whether she asks for it or not. The first couple days are the worst."
I scramble to the kitchen, my boots heavy on the floorboards, and grab a water bottle from the fridge. The cold air hits my face like a slap, momentarily grounding me.
When I return, Kendall takes the pills with a faint nod of gratitude, her fingers brushing mine as she accepts the water. Her skin feels cool against my own, and I hate it.
"Does your cheek hurt?" Jimmy asks, his voice breaking through my thoughts. "I'll take a look as soon as the meds kick in."
"I don't even feel it," Kendall says, her tone breezy despite the fatigue etched into her face.
Jimmy chuckles, a low sound that makes the tension in the room ease slightly. "I wouldn't either, with that shoulder of yours," he remarks, setting up his supplies with the precision of a surgeon.
Kendall shifts slightly as he removes the bandage, exposing the cut beneath. The wound is angry and red, and I have to fight the instinct to glare at it, as if it's the enemy.
"Just a couple stitches should do it," Jimmy says, his voice even. "But you'll have a scar."
Kendall makes a face, scrunching up her nose, and Jimmy smirks as he lines up his tools-a small needle, black thread, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The sharp smell of it fills the air.
"It could be worse. At least, you're still beautiful," Jimmy adds, his grin faint but noticeable. "You could always be ugly with a scar."
I snort out a laugh, the sound startling me. Jimmy has a way with words, all right.
Kendall chuckles, too, a soft sound that makes my chest ache. She sits still while Jimmy works, though every now and then, a whimper escapes her lips. When it gets too much, I reach for her hand, and she squeezes it tightly. Her grip is stronger than I expect.
I can't watch. The sight of the needle piercing her skin, pulling the thread tight, makes my stomach churn. I stare at the wall instead, clenching my jaw so hard it feels like it might break.
After what feels like an eternity, Jimmy hums, a satisfied sound, and leans back.
"She's been sick," I blurt out before I can stop myself.
"I'm fine," Kendall interjects quickly, her voice thick, her brown eyes glassy as the painkillers start working.
Jimmy raises an eyebrow. "Sick how?"
"She's been throwing up a lot," I explain, my voice tight. "Stressed out, I guess."
Jimmy's expression shifts, his face suddenly unreadable. "I'll check her out," he says, his tone brisk. "In private."
I frown, my stomach twisting. "Why in private?"
"Because I'm the doctor. You said you didn't go to med school," Jimmy says dryly.
Before I can argue, he helps Kendall to her feet and leads her to the bedroom. The door clicks shut, and I feel a surge of frustration rise in me like a wave. I stomp outside, the cool night air doing nothing to settle my nerves.
I dig into my pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The urge to light it is overwhelming, but I shove it back into my pocket. What the hell could he be checking *privately*?
The wait is excruciating. When Jimmy finally comes out, he doesn't meet my gaze as he gathers his things. He walks past me without a word.
"Jimmy!" I yell, following him outside.
He turns slowly, his face calm. Too calm.
"What's wrong with her?" I demand.
"Nothing," he says easily, his tone too light for my liking. "Just the shoulder and the cheekbone."
"Yeah? She's not sick?"
"She's not sick," Jimmy repeats, but there's a faint edge to his voice that makes my pulse spike.
"Jimmy, tell me the truth," I say, panic creeping into my voice.
"I am telling the truth," he replies, getting into his car. The door slams shut with finality, and he drives off without another word.
I storm back into the house, my boots echoing on the wooden floor. My heart pounds in my chest like a war drum.
"Kendall?" I call out, my voice tight as I knock on the open bedroom door.
"Hmm?" she murmurs, her voice sleepy and soft. She's curled up on the bed, her injured arm resting carefully in the sling.
I sit on the edge of the bed, taking her right hand in mine. Her skin is warm, her fingers delicate but steady.
"What happened? What did he say?"
"It's nothing," she says, her brown eyes wide but distant. "I'll take care of it."
"What do you mean, you'll take care of it?" My voice sharpens, panic threading through it.
She frowns, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't have to do anything, Camden. Don't worry about it."
"Kendall, what the hell are you talking about?"
She looks at me, holding my gaze for what feels like an eternity. Finally, she whispers, "I'm pregnant."
And just like that, it's like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.