Mile High Read online

  Mile High

  Second Skin Book Two

  Ophelia Bell

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Read On

  About Ophelia Bell

  Also by Ophelia Bell

  Blurb

  Three years ago, J.J. Santos, Jr. got himself killed—at least that’s what it said on paper. The DEA resurrected me as Mason Black, forcing me to leave behind everyone I’ve ever card about, including an angel in blue scrubs I can’t seem to get out of my head.

  * * *

  Her name is Dr. Callie Nicolo, and when our paths cross again, I’m in more danger than ever before. But I’m not about to leave her behind this time. Not even if it compromises my identity and my mission.

  * * *

  I’m the kind of man who wants it all. I’ll find a way to pacify the warring cartels on my tail and make up for lost time with the woman of my dreams. Most importantly, I’ll protect what’s mine—the doc who saved my life in more ways than one, and the little girl waiting for me back in Mexico.

  1

  Callie

  “Two GSWs incoming!”

  The charge nurse’s announcement rises over the wail of the alarm signaling an ambulance’s arrival. A spike of adrenaline blasts through me. I’m not usually assigned to the pit, but when I am, some ghoulish part of my soul gets a thrill out of the true emergencies. Not just one, but two trauma patients are headed our way.

  I tail Dr. Blanchard, UCLA’s trauma attending on duty, hyperfocused and ready to anticipate whatever she or the patients need when they arrive.

  The doors sweep open and a pair of gurneys rush in, one after the other, flanked by the paramedics who rattle off the victims’ ages, vitals, and details of their injuries. Two men with gunshot wounds, one a lower abdominal wound, through and through, the other a chest wound with no exit.

  All I see is blood-soaked gauze as my mind cycles through all the potential implications of both injuries.

  Dr. B is on the abdominal, trotting toward the room they wheel the patient into. Behind her trails a gangbanger wearing nothing but purple silk boxers. His hands are covered in blood, a distraught look on his face. More blood is spattered across his tattooed torso. The sight is almost too surreal for me to catch Dr. B’s gift.

  “Number two is a potential spinal injury, Nicolo. You’re welcome!” Then she disappears into the room with her patient while I jump into action on mine.

  “Sir, are you injured?” I overhear a nurse ask the tattooed man who is staring through the glass into the room I’m in. I just barely make out his response before a nurse closes the door.

  “I’m fine, just go help them. Maddox’ll never survive if his brother dies.”

  The crack in his voice sends a twinge of pain through me, poking an old wound of my own. I do my best to ignore it as I jump into gear. I have no intention of letting anyone die, but I can’t fool myself; I saw the carnage as it blurred by and brace myself for the worst before I get a better look.

  How the man is still breathing with a chest wound like this is nothing short of lucky, but a cardio attending needs to assess him, not a second-year neurosurgery resident like me. I order the nurses to page cardio and focus on the patient. The paramedics said there was no exit wound, so if the bullet managed to miss his heart, there’s a strong chance it hit a lung, then possibly lodged in his spine. I should page neuro too, but I am neuro for the moment. He doesn’t have a head injury, and if it’s his spine, it’s well within my wheelhouse to handle. I’ll order a CT scan and go from there once we’re sure his other wounds aren’t life-threatening.

  My heart leaps into my throat when his steel-gray eyes lock onto me over his oxygen mask. How the hell is he still conscious? He didn’t just take a bullet; from the look of his shirtless, bloody chest, he must have been tortured too. His face is a battered, bruised mess, both eyes swollen and bloodshot, and his entire well-muscled torso from shoulders to waist is covered in what appear to be electrical burns.

  Between the burns are numerous bruises, like he took a beating from someone with lead fists—brass knuckles, I’m guessing, based on the company he keeps. Not even his tattoos can obscure how grave the damage is.

  “Maddox…” he wheezes. He reaches out and grips my wrist, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

  I cover his hand with mine and smile, determined to comfort rather than alarm him. “Is that your brother? He’s in good hands, I promise. So are you, but I need you to try to relax. Can you do that for me?”

  The rigid cervical collar around his neck prevents his attempt at a nod, so he just slow blinks, his grip easing. “You do your thing, Doc. I’m not going anywhere. Especially since I can’t feel my legs.” The words are strained, and I think I catch a bitter half-smile behind the mask. But his lips have a bluish tint and he’s struggling to breathe.

  Cardio arrives and I step aside, moving to his bare, dirty feet to test his reflexes there. His lack of reaction confirms Dr. B’s statement, and the patient’s, but we still need more tests. Tests that will evidently have to wait, since he goes into cardiac arrest and is rushed to surgery a moment later.

  I’m in a daze when Dr. Yao, the neuro attending and my supervisor, pops his head in a moment later. “Nicolo, what are you doing? Get your ass up to surgery, you’re scrubbing in on this one.”

  “But I need to get his history, and cardio . . . ” I stutter, waving toward the door. Then it hits me that this isn’t just a cardio case. “His spine. There was no exit wound and he couldn’t feel his legs.”

  “Bingo. Come on, I’ll have one of the other residents get his history.”

  The shrewd, middle-aged doctor who oversees the neurosurgery department has never played favorites, which also means it’s been a challenge to get noticed. There’s no way in hell I’m missing this chance now that he’s offered it to me. It will be my first time scrubbing in, so I definitely won’t be performing any part of the surgery, but for some reason my teeth ache with the need to at least observe this surgery.

  My wrist still tingles from the force of the patient’s grip, and I can’t help the flutter in my chest when I step into the OR, scrubbed and ready to go. Even though I’ll only be observing, it’s still one of the most profound moments of my entire life.

  I take a deep breath, wanting to take in every detail. All I get is a lungful of surgical mask, but my senses are heightened. The cardio surgeon already has the patient’s chest open and is repairing a perforated lung, relaying a subdued play-by-play as he works. An orthopedic surgeon and Dr. Y
ao stand at the ready. I tamp down the nervous energy in my belly as I wait and watch.

  The surgery turns out to be straightforward and relatively quick. They marvel that the bullet missed his heart, but still don’t look optimistic when they turn him over to us. They’ve already taken an X-ray and determined that the bullet is indeed lodged against his eighth thoracic vertebrae. If this surgery doesn’t go well, he could wind up a paraplegic.

  We carefully position him face-down, the enormous C-arm imaging machine curving around and above the surgical field so we can have an X-ray visual of the procedure while it’s underway. His back is covered in a yellow surgical incise drape surrounded by another blue drape. Through the transparent material a hyper-realistic tattoo of a black and white koi fish swimming through water is clearly visible.

  “Impressive ink,” Dr. Yao says. “Shame we have to cut into it.”

  Of all the tattoos I’ve caught glimpses of on his body so far, none have been as striking as this one. When Dr. Yao makes the first incision down the center of the spine, I can’t help but wince at the slice that cuts straight through the fish’s side.

  I lean in as Dr. Yao begins talking through the steps of the procedure. He glances at the X-ray every few seconds as he deftly maneuvers his instruments into the incision to extract the slug lodged there.

  Out of the blue, he says, “Did you know that koi fish are symbolic? Black and white ones like this signify transformation. Rebirth.”

  I nod. I’ve watched Dr. Yao from the gallery, and he’s always spouting off random trivia in between teaching surgical technique. He goes on about what different colors of koi tattoos symbolize while I look on, soaking up every nuance of his movements.

  The entire procedure seems deceptively simple as it’s happening. I can feel the weight of the instruments in my fingers even though I’m not holding them myself, and when Dr. Yao surprises me with a question about the next step, I’m ready with the answer without even thinking. The corners of his eyes crinkle and he nods.

  “Good job, Nicolo. When ortho’s finished, see to the patient’s superficial wounds and stay with him in recovery to make sure he’s stable.”

  I’m positive he can sense my wide grin behind my mask, but I only nod once to maintain the illusion of professionalism. “I’d be honored, sir.”

  Once the bullet is out, I exhale, then step back and observe as ortho slips in to insert a pair of small screws, which are all that’s required to hold the fractured vertebra together. Then I watch with bated breath as they stitch the wound. I can breathe easier when it’s done and the tattoo looks as good as it can with a line of stitches down the center of it. He’ll have a scar, but with an artist talented enough to create a work of art like this, he can surely get a touch-up that’ll make it look good as new.

  The surgery a success, I float on an adrenaline-fueled cloud as I scrub out, then meet the patient in recovery. I finally have a chance to review his chart, and I learn his name is Julian Santos, Jr. On the way there, I checked in on the other patient, his brother, Maddox Santos, who is zonked out on painkillers but otherwise doing fine, and I’m happy to have good news to tell Julian when he wakes up. Maddox only sustained a flesh wound, the bullet passing clean through the muscles over his hip.

  Julian is breathing on his own, which is a good sign. His chest is covered with a gauze bandage and wrapped to immobilize several broken ribs, but there is still an impressive amount of ink visible on his torso. I’m more and more intrigued as I clean and treat each of the dozens—hundreds—of small wounds. Most are bruises and minor contusions, but in some places the skin is broken enough to need bandages, and there are several serious burns as well.

  He came in wearing only jeans, which we cut off shortly after he arrived. They likely protected his legs from damage, but I take a purely clinical peek beneath the sheet to check below his waist anyway. His muscular legs are unblemished, and I drop the sheet again quickly, face flaming though I can’t help my small smile at what appeared to be another very healthy and impressive feature.

  Shame on you, Callie. What would your mother say?

  I bend over and begin suturing one of the deeper cuts in the flesh beneath his collarbone, where whatever bludgeoning weapon he was hit with dug in deep. When I hear a weak chuckle from the patient, my spine goes rigid and goosebumps cascade over my body.

  “You were not just checking out my junk, were you, Doc?”

  I keep my gaze on the wound, focusing on the stitches—they’re through one of his more detailed tribal tattoos and I’m still at the stage where I need to be methodical about the steps. I don’t want to fuck this up, but it gives me an excuse not to look him in the eyes. “I’m a doctor, Mr. Santos. I checked out everything. You were in quite the fight today, weren’t you?”

  He groans and his hands tighten into fists. The bandages I wrapped around his wrists stretch with the motion. He’d evidently been shackled; the bloody abrasions around his wrists were the first wounds I bandaged.

  “Did they kill the bastard? Or is he at least maimed?”

  I finish the suturing and sit up straight, reaching for a fresh bandage to cover the wound. His gray eyes are intense when I meet them, and I shake my head. “I don’t know who you mean. Your brother is fine, though. Was there someone else?”

  “Delgado. The asshole who did this to me.”

  I vaguely remember a third gurney being wheeled in after his, but I didn’t keep track of that patient. “Give me five minutes,” I say, then stand and leave.

  I head to the nurses’ station, where I’m most likely to get a quick answer, and a few minutes later return with the information. He gives me an expectant look when I walk into the room.

  “Mr. Delgado has been admitted with a concussion and several broken ribs. He’ll be here overnight at least, then will be released into federal custody. Should I ask what your fight was about?”

  He eyes me for a moment, then shakes his head. “Better if you stick with what you’re good at, Doc.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Santos. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I lost a fight with a goddamn steamroller. But I’d feel better if you called me J.J. Mr. Santos is my dad. He could give the steamroller a run for its money.”

  Somehow I am not surprised that a man in his shape grew up with violence. Leaning down to check the wounds I just bandaged, my skin prickles, and I catch him staring at me, his gaze clearly aimed down the front of my scrubs.

  “Do you have questions?” I ask, giving him a pointed look.

  He blinks and clears his throat. “So, ah, what’s the damage here? Am I paralyzed? Is the equipment you were just admiring going to waste from here on out?”

  “Your surgery went well, actually. The bullet perforated a lung and lodged against your spine, but managed to miss your heart. You were very lucky on that count. We were able to take the bullet out and repair the damage to your vertebrae. Your spine is intact, but there’s some swelling that will likely impact movement and sensation in your lower extremities until it recedes. With therapy, you should make a full recovery.”

  “You seem pretty damn confident of that.” He trails off on a cough, regarding me skeptically. A closer look at his face reveals the gray tinge to the skin that isn’t covered in mottled bruises and dried blood I haven’t had a chance to clean off yet. He’s tough, but not impervious to pain.

  “I am. I’ve seen the scans. I won’t lie to you; it was close, but you were in good hands.”

  His gaze drops to my hands and he lifts his brows, lips twisting into a half-smile. “Was I now? Why don’t you make me a promise, then? If you’re so confident I’ll be on my feet, let me take you out. As a thank-you.”

  My cheeks heat and I look away, gathering myself before meeting his eyes again, heart fluttering and core heating under his intensity. This man clearly isn’t used to being turned down, but I know better.

  Deflect, deflect, deflect.

  “I wasn’t the one who performed the surgery,
J.J. I’m a resident, so I only observed. UCLA’s neurosurgery department is one of the best in the country, and your injury was well within our capabilities to repair. That was all I meant. If you owe anyone a thank-you, it’s the three excellent surgeons who actually saved your life.”

  J.J. grins. “You didn’t say no.”

  I purse my lips and give an exasperated shake of my head. “I need some fresh bandages so I can finish treating the rest of these cuts. I’ll be back soon.”

  As I walk out of the room, he calls after me hoarsely, “That wasn’t a no, either!”

  2

  Callie

  I manage to avoid discussing his proposal for the rest of my shift. What I should have done was hand off the task to someone else, but I genuinely like this man, and even though dating him is out of the question, I’m flattered by the proposition.

  I leave his room near the end of my shift floating—and kicking myself a little for looking forward to seeing him the next day. He’s just a patient, but an extremely handsome, charismatic one. I completely avoid the nagging voice telling me that he’s also likely quite dangerous. Whoever tried to kill him is someone the Feds will have in custody as soon as he’s discharged, and there are a couple men in suits lurking around the corridor outside J.J.’s room too.