She hurried to his side, understanding they had to leave, and anxious to get away before he began to feel the loss of blood. Walking had to be exacerbating the bleeding.
She heard Hakim call out to someone behind them, then saw his grandson dart past, running to the cross street where he yelled to someone. A small cab pulled up as they reached the corner, and Donovan thanked the boy quietly, slipping him another bill. Jess climbed into the backseat and watched Donovan anxiously as he settled in beside her and told the driver where to take them. As soon as they started off, he pulled out his phone.
She was sitting close enough to hear Kyle answer.
Donovan ducked his head, speaking in a low voice. “How soon can you get back?” Jess couldn’t make out the response, but her stomach tumbled at the doubtful look he flashed her as he listened. “Do you think you can give Jess some help with a medical issue over the phone?”
Panic grabbed her. “What?”
He shushed her with one hand as he listened to Kyle’s reply. “Tell you later. You’ll just have to do your best and check it when you get back. Stand by, I’ll call when we get to the house.”
He closed the phone, then silenced her appalled look with a stern glance toward the driver who dealt with tourists every day and most likely understood English.
She said nothing during the ride, fidgeting nervously and casting glances at his side. She couldn’t see blood; maybe the bleeding had slowed significantly. Or maybe all those layers were soaking it up before she could see it.
And what in the hell was he thinking? Did he expect her to take temporary measures until someone more competent could get there, or did he actually think that she could stitch him up?
The six-minute ride seemed to take forever. When they pulled up at the blue door, she stepped out, then hovered, ready to grab his arm if he staggered. He didn’t. He paid the fare, thanked the driver, and gave a cheery wave. His steps were slow, but looked casual rather than painful. She knew different.
As soon as the door closed behind them, he grabbed his side and slumped. She was ready, slipping an arm around him for support. He leaned into her heavily, catching his breath, then pushed away. “I can do this.”
He put one hand on the wall and attempted the first step unassisted, then sucked in sharply and swore. “Stubborn idiot,” she muttered, grabbing him around the waist with a firmness that brooked no argument. With slow, patient steps they climbed to the third floor.
He was breathing heavily as she laid him on the couch. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, gathering strength, before panting out, “In the bedroom. Green bag. There’s a smaller black bag inside. Bring it.”
She found it easily. She raided the bathroom for towels, too, grabbing an armful of every size. When she got back he had removed the thobe that had served as a pressure bandage and was muttering curses as he lifted the undershirt over his head.
“Stop being so macho, and let me help,” she ordered. She pulled the undershirt off, then laid it over the couch beneath him to protect the fabric from blood. “Now lie down and let me see that cut.”
He grunted as he eased down. “What do you know about first aid?”
“I know when to call a doctor,” she said, biting her lip as she looked at the gaping dark red line that trickled fresh blood. “Now would be a good time.”
“Kyle’s a medic.” He dug his phone out of his pants pocket, grunting with pain as he moved.
“Kyle’s not here.”
“You are. I’m sure you can follow instructions.” He dialed. “You should probably wash your hands.”
She stood for a moment, racked with different emotions and not sure which he would respond to: fury, fear, sympathy, or—it seemed worth repeating—fear. He had a way of dragging her into things until she was over her head. In fact, that’s all he’d ever done, taking her to Chicago, taking her to Egypt, taking her to Hakim’s where a stranger had stabbed him. Now he expected her to play doctor and fix him up.
The presumption of it made her frustrated.
The idea of being responsible for healing him scared her to death.
The obvious pain he was in jerked her right back to sympathy, unable to bear the wincing she saw behind his rigid mask of manly fortitude. It didn’t fool her. He was pale and sweating, nearly in shock. It outweighed everything else.
She dashed to the kitchen, ripping off her hijab and abaya, then running hot water and looking frantically through the open shelves as she soaped her hands. Their only containers consisted of two pans, one small and one large. She filled them both, added liquid soap to the small one, and carried them back to the living room.