Rico Suave
1048 Words
Avery:
Another goddamn Saturday night in South Bay.
I shoved my locker shut, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. I was done — twelve hours of broken bones, screaming kids, and cranky old men who thought being in the hospital gave them a free pass to grab my ass.
I was five steps from freedom when Janine — Head Nurse and Certified Sadist — caught my arm.
"One more," she pleaded, wide-eyed.
I stared at her like she’d grown another head. "Janine, if this is another drunk guy with a fork stuck in his hand, I swear to all things holy, I’m going to lose my license."
She shoved a chart into my chest anyway.
Gunshot wound. Male. Approx 30. Stable but bleeding.
"ER’s packed," she said. "No rooms. You’re the best. Love you. Bye."
I bit back every terrible word I wanted to say and turned on my heels.
Midnight. No backup. No real space. Just me, a tray of supplies, and some asshole who couldn’t dodge a bullet.
It was a hell of a night to be me.
When I found him slouched in a wheelchair, I almost stopped breathing.
Not because he looked half-dead — he didn’t.
Because he looked like sin.
Tall. Broad. Tanned olive skin stretched over muscles I had no business noticing. Tattoos snaked up both arms, black ink against a golden brown backdrop. His buzzed dark hair was damp with sweat. Blood stained the shoulder of his shirt, dripping steadily onto the floor.
And his eyes — brown, intense, unreadable — locked onto me the second I got close.
He didn’t even blink.
Great.
A hot, probably criminal, definitely cocky gunshot victim.
Exactly what my night was missing.
"You're my problem now?" I asked, setting my tray down.
He smirked. Smirked.
Like getting shot was mildly annoying, but me standing in front of him was worth the inconvenience.
"Looks like it, mi reina," he said, voice low and gravelly.
Jesus.
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost gave myself a migraine. "Spare me the pet names, Rico Suave. Sit still."
He didn’t argue. Just watched me, completely still, as I snapped on gloves and tore open the bandages.
The wound was messy — clean shot — but deep. I’d have to extract the bullet, clean the tissue, stitch him up.
In the middle of a packed ER.
Awesome.
"You allergic to anything?" I asked.
"Bullets," he said without missing a beat.
I snorted before I could stop myself. "Cute. Real original."
I cleaned the area, feeling the heat of his stare the whole time. Most guys flinched. Twitched. Wussed out.
Not him.
He sat there like a goddamn statue while I dug into his shoulder, the forceps slick with blood.
"You’re either the toughest bastard I’ve ever met," I said under my breath, "or you’ve got a death wish. You just gonna sit there and act like you don't feel my fingers inside you."
"Little bit of both, but I'm normally the one asking that last question, mama." he murmured, with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Great. A philosopher, too.
I fished the bullet out, dropped it in the metal tray with a clink, and started stitching him up. Neat, quick, precise.
His skin was warm under my gloves. His breath ghosted out in slow, even exhales.
He never took his eyes off me.
It was... disconcerting.
And if I said it didn’t make my skin prickle in ways it absolutely shouldn’t have, I’d be lying.
"All done," I said, stripping off my gloves. A few minutes later, I slapped the discharge papers from the doc into his good hand. "Try not to get shot again. It’s annoying."
He grinned at that, a flash of white teeth against scruff.
I grabbed my stuff, desperate to finally, finally get the hell out of there.
Outside, the night was damp and heavy. My car was parked at the edge of the lot, and for the first time all shift, I could actually see freedom—
And there he was.
Leaning against the side of the building, cigarette hanging from his mouth, looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine that should come with a warning label.
"You’re still here?" I asked, more exasperated than surprised.
He shrugged, casual as hell. "Got dropped off."
"Awesome," I muttered.
I should have kept walking. Should have said, "Good luck, don’t bleed out," and gone home to eat cereal in bed like a normal person.
Instead, I sighed and rubbed my face.
"What the f**k am I thinking," I said to no one.
"Come on," I said louder, waving my hand toward the parking lot.
He flicked the cigarette to the curb and followed without a word.
No hesitation. No questions.
By the time we got to my car, it hit me how insane this was. I was giving a ride to a guy who could very well be a felon, or worse.
But when I glanced at him — bloodstained, stoic, gorgeous — I didn’t stop.
He climbed into the passenger seat like he did it every day.
"Where to?" I asked, starting the engine.
He rattled off an address — some bar on the edge of town where even the cops didn’t bother showing up unless there was a body count.
Good. Great. Wonderful.
I pulled up in front of a flickering neon sign that said THE SNAKE PIT and threw the car in park.
Before I could even shift into neutral, he reached over — slow, deliberate — and killed the engine.
"Hey!" I snapped. "What are you doing?"
"Buying you a beer," he said, flashing me that damn grin again. "Come on."
Against every shred of logic, I followed him inside.
I drank the beer he put in my hand.
I ignored the way his eyes never left me, like he was sizing me up, memorizing me.
Then, like I had a lick of sense left, I booked it out of there, keys rattling in my hand, heart hammering in my chest.
One and done, I told myself. Never again.
I didn’t know it yet — but he wasn’t the kind of man you walked away from.
Not once he decided you were his.
- Writer
