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)
When he brings out a suture kit, I stop myself from moving closer. Don’t be that fucking nosy, Harriet. I’m lucky to have permission to watch this at all.
Once Charlie’s wounds are stitched, cleaned, and bandaged, Farrow removes his dirtied gloves and puts on a fresh pair. Then asks Tom’s brothers, “How’d he strain his voice?”
“Stupidity,” Charlie answers.
Tom flips him off with two hands.
“He was yelling over a siren,” Ben tells Farrow.
“A siren?” His pierced brows rise while he chews gum.
“An escape game gone poorly,” Beckett clarifies.
Farrow spins around to Tom. He has a couple inches on him, so maybe he’ll do this examination standing. I’d need to make my patient sit down. “I’m going to touch your neck and check out your throat. You okay with that?”
Tom is a little red in the face. He’s also jittery, shifting his weight around and nodding. “Do it,” he rasps in a whisper.
Farrow presses his fingers around Tom’s neck. “Everyone be quiet for a second except for Tom.” He’s asking him to speak, and I wonder if he’s listening for rattling. Then Farrow has a little handheld light. “Stick your tongue out and say ahh.”
Tom does as instructed. “Ahhhh.” His voice sounds wheezy.
Farrow shines the light down his throat, then assesses. I can’t decipher the severity of the prognosis from his face, but he doesn’t take long to tell Tom, “You likely just have vocal strain, but I can’t rule out vocal bruising without a laryngoscopy.”
“Are you doing a laryngoscopy here?” I say, my excitement getting the better of me. Fuck, fuck. Everyone is staring at me. I death-grip to the fact that Ben is smiling.
“Harriet Fisher?” Farrow guesses. “Luna’s lab partner?” His memory recall must be insane because I’ve never interacted with him, and I highly doubt any Hale has mentioned me more than once.
“Former lab partner,” I nod.
“Farrow,” he introduces himself, and I’m shocked he doesn’t say Dr. Hale. He must offer his first name to all strangers, because there is no fucking way I’ve leveled-up to one of the inner-circles of these families. I have to still be somewhere on the outskirts.
To me and Tom, Farrow says, “I need to do the laryngoscopy in the office. It’s sterile and all the equipment is there.”
“That’s back in Philly,” Beckett reminds Tom.
Farrow runs down Tom’s options, which include having Farrow’s uncle, also a physician, bring the equipment up to New York. It dawns on me that Farrow isn’t the sole concierge doctor these families must hire.
Tom can also go to a hospital in the city if he wants this resolved like immediately.
“What happens if there’s a bruise?” Eliot asks.
“No permanent damage. A superficial bruise will heal quickly by itself, but if there’s a hemorrhagic polyp…a blood blister, it will require surgery, but the voice will typically return to its original capability even with surgery. So whichever way you flip it, your odds look great, Tom. Don’t stress. Just try not to talk at all. If you have to, you can whisper. Drink lots of fluids, use a nebulizer and humidifier, and don’t smoke. If it’s only vocal strain, your voice should heal in a few days.”
Tom decides on the option where he’ll have Farrow do the laryngoscopy tonight in Philly. No shot at me seeing it then. I try not to be bummed. Eliot offers to go with his brother, that they’ll just crash at their parents’ house, which is in the Philly area.
Must be nice to have an open-door policy with their mom and dad. Welcome back home whenever.
Farrow pries off his gloves. “Anyone else need looked at?”
That’s when Ben peers down at me. My heart flip-flops strangely, especially when I realize all four of his brothers are staring at me too.
“Yeah, Harriet does,” Ben says. “She knelt on glass.”
I’m frozen. “No…no, I…” My brows are furry little caterpillars of confusion. Farrow is already approaching. “Dude, I don’t pay for concierge treatment. I’m not a ‘famous one’.” I use air quotes to quote him.
“If you’re hurt, I’m going to treat you. I don’t give a flying shit about the pay.” He crouches down again, unzipping his trauma bag. “I’ve never been into medicine for the money.”
Me neither. I heard residents don’t make much anyway, I want to say. Is that true? I keep it inside and just roll up my sweatpants while he snaps on a new pair of gloves. “I already cleaned and sealed the cuts. They weren’t as deep as Charlie’s. I bandaged them too.”
“You sealed them?” Farrow asks, peeling off my bandage. “With…?”
“Superglue.” Why the fuck is my heart beating out of my chest? I’m so freaking nervous as he inspects the several cuts I sealed along my kneecaps.
“Keep an eye out for infection.”
I nod stiffly, my pulse still out of whack as I watch him adhere clean bandages to each of my knees. Then he rises so very high above me and peels off his gloves. “Nice work,” he says with so much light in his brown eyes. It’s a smile before his lips stretch. Then he’s packing up to go. Nice work?