Floored by Ainslie Paton Page B

enough.”
    “How about a couple of staples?”
    Her brain was saying ‘is he serious?’ His face was saying ‘you bet’.
    “I have basic training too. And a hospital grade staple gun.” He didn’t look like he was joking.
    “What? You tote a staple gun around in case of random slashing?”
    He laughed. “Something like that.”
    “Oh no! I know what’s in the hardware store bag. I am not stapling you with a staple gun from Bunnings.” She wasn’t, there was no way. He was insane.
    “It was Thrifty Link. It’s stainless steel, a sealed packet. It’s fine. I’d do it myself but it’s a little awkward.”
    “Why can’t I drive you to the hospital?”
    “Because I don’t like how they smell.” He gave a little mock shiver. It would’ve been amusing if it wasn’t horrific.
    She almost blurted it out. ‘You’re a cop, but I think you might be bad, and I’m your hostage, and we’re being chased by bikies, and I just want to go home, but I can’t because my ex-fiancé has probably tracked me down by now, and I’m more scared of him than I am of you!’
    Fetch was on his feet. He had hold of her arms and steered her to the chair he’d vacated. “Steady there.” His face came close till he was all soap and water and inky, lush black eyelashes. She dropped her glance. Under his eyelashes were his grazed cheek, his prickly beard, his clever mouth and his very touchable smooth chest.
    “The colour drained out of you, Driver. Are you all right?” He turned away and a moment later pushed a glass of water into her hand.
    She drank it down. Perhaps she was dehydrated and that’s what’d made her feel so light-headed all of a sudden. Or it was all the blood, or the thought of how much trouble she was in. Or the fact that he seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room and make her heart beat erratically.
    “I think you need to sleep. It’s been a big day.” He was standing over her. He was trying to manage her. Like Justin did.
    Patronising bikie bastard . She stood up. “I’m fine. A little thirsty.” She put the glass down on the table. If he wanted staples in his arm, he’d get them. Maybe they’d slow him up some. “Should I be giving you a bottle of brandy or a stick to bite down on?”
    “It’s not the Wild West.”
    “You’re making it feel that way.”
    “In case you’re thinking about it I don’t need teeth extracted or any moving parts amputated.”
    That’s not exactly what she was thinking, but it was in the same theme park. Right next to one of those rides that tipped you upside down and shook you about till your brain disconnected from reality. A bit like what was happening now.
    He waved a hand towards his shopping. “Well, Nurse Houlihan, there’s a bottle of Bundy in one of those bags.” He was being amusing, conjuring up Hot Lips from Mash .
    She found it and poured him a glassful. He took the bottle out of her hand and swigged. “The glass is for you.” He clinked the bottle against it in a macabre toast. “Courage.”
    He knew she was uncomfortable, and under all that fur he was laughing at her. She contemplated the glass, but her stomach was already unsettled. Maybe later. She put it on the table and turned to rummage in the hardware store bag for the stapler. If he wanted sharp bits of steel fired into his already damaged arm he could have them. She hoped it hurt. She planned to smile though every gasp he tried to tough guy muffle.
    She opened the packet. The gun was already loaded. It was the type of staple gun you’d use on carpet instead than paper, where the prongs stayed straight rather than folding over.
    “How many?”
    He’d painted his arm with the Betadine. He looked at her with one eye tight closed. His arm had to be stinging. “Three.”
    She gestured to the chair. She’d have better purchase if he was sitting. He picked it up and placed it against a bare wall, turned sideways. He sat with his good arm braced against the wall. He was boxing