Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
No one gets another word out—not when we hear a car rumbling closer. Everyone turns as a sleek black Audi with red stripes slows to a stop at the butt of the Range Rover. I gauge their complete lack of apprehension right before the driver’s door opens.
Stepping out, black boots touch the ground, and I look up to see black slacks, black belt, and tucked-in black V-neck on a fit, masculine body. So many tattoos scatter his white skin, all the way up his neck. He swings out a trauma bag. Blows a bubblegum bubble, pops it in his mouth. Then lifts sunglasses up to his ash-brown hair—which I’ve seen dyed white, black, even blue before (but never in person, always online and in tabloids).
If “effortlessly cool” were a person, it’d be this guy.
“Famous ones,” he says to the Cobalts, his voice sounding naturally rough and deep while he stays chill. “Pop the trunk.” He’s already snapping on medical gloves. “Whoever’s bleeding goes first.”
I find myself locked in on him. On how he’s triaging Charlie and Tom. On his assured demeanor. He’s not a paramedic. He’s a Yale medical school graduate. He went through residency at Philadelphia General Hospital, according to my Wiki search on him.
He’s a doctor.
Seeing one in the wild isn’t like spotting a rare albino moose, okay, but this little seed of envy-adoration grows being so close to someone who’s made it. Who knows their shit. Who’s done the arduous leg work, came out with the M.D., practices medicine, and his patients trust him to help them. It’s clear the Cobalt boys called him at two a.m. to come to the rescue. Now he’s at a random NYC parking deck acting like this is just any regular Friday night.
“That’s Farrow,” Ben whispers to me, probably seeing me ogle the fuck out of him while Charlie hops up on the opened trunk. I sincerely hope Ben doesn’t think I have the hots for their family’s on-call concierge doctor.
I’m like ninety-nine percent positive that’s his job title because I’ve researched the position out of curiosity.
We’re all congregated at the rear of the Range Rover. Charlie’s bodyguard has even joined us, but I keep my distance from everyone.
Only Ben hangs beside me, and I whisper back, “Farrow Redford Keene, I’ve heard of him.”
“Hale,” Ben corrects with a small smile. “He’s married to my cousin Maximoff.” There’s a sweet reverence in the way Ben mentions his oldest cousin, and seeing as how he brought up Maximoff in the escape room, I’m sensing a lot of love there.
It’s cool knowing his issues with Xander haven’t tarnished his relationship with the other Hales. If Ben somehow hated Farrow, I would feel like shit for being this laser-focused on him. I don’t even tell Ben that I only know of Farrow because of his highly-publicized relationship with Maximoff. Otherwise, I doubt their family’s concierge doctor would be all over the internet.
Farrow crouches down and rolls up Charlie’s pant leg slowly, then faster (but carefully) once he sees shards of glass still lodged in his kneecap.
I bet he’ll need stitches. His cuts seem deeper than mine—like he anchored his weight on the glass. I’d feel guilty, but I didn’t ask him to drop to his knees. He could’ve just told me to stand up.
Red rivers of blood track down Charlie’s legs.
Tom sucks in a wince.
Eliot grimaces. “Oof. Don’t pass out, Tom.” He clutches his brother’s shoulder when Tom begins gagging. The bloodied wounds are fully displayed.
“That’s worse than what you described, Charlie,” Beckett says quietly to his brother.
“It’s barely even bleeding,” Charlie tells him.
“Eh, try again, Cobalt.” Farrow inspects the depth and size of the visible gashes. “This is not barely.” He asks him a few questions about how he feels. Like, “Dizzy? Nauseous?” After Charlie answers, Farrow cleans the wounds, then gathers a needle and vial of…lidocaine? I squint but can’t read the label from here. He explains to Charlie, “I’m going to give you local anesthesia—”
“Skip it,” Charlie interjects. Is he nuts? I would’ve gladly numbed my cuts before bandaging them.
Farrow frowns. “It’s just lidocaine.” I was right about that, fuck yes.
“I don’t need it.”
“Man, you have about five pieces of glass I’m going to extract. Then I’m going to suture at least two cuts. One might need four stitches. You’ll want the lido.”
“Charlie,” Beckett murmurs.
“Fine,” Charlie says. “Just hurry, I’m sure Tom is panicking about never being able to sing Bohemian Rhapsody again.”
“Not funny,” Tom croaks.
Farrow side-eyes him. “Don’t talk until after I check you out.”
Banter escalates between Ben’s brothers, but my attention has been usurped as Farrow administers a lidocaine shot in each knee. He asks Charlie if he can feel anything when he presses near the wound. When it’s numb, he moves on.
I watch him use forceps to pluck glass from Charlie’s skin. He’s in a squatting position, but he’s so still. Quick. Meticulous. His hands never tremble.