“Okay, stay calm,” I mumble to myself as I reach over and shut off the tattoo machine.
“What’s wrong?” Melody lifts her head from the pillow, turning bloodshot eyes in my direction as she sniffs again.
Fuck.
I jump from my chair, snatching the paperwork she filled out from the desk near my station. “You said that you aren’t allergic to latex,” I say, my hands shaking as I check the form to be sure.
“I’m not,” she says, rubbing at her eyes again. “At least I don’t think I am.”
“You’ve been touched by someone wearing latex gloves before and been okay? By a doctor or in the kitchen or something?” I ask, hoping for a miracle even as the hives begin to spread across her ribs and down onto her bare stomach.
In six years of tattooing, I’ve never seen a case of severe latex sensitivity, but I know the signs and she’s exhibiting several—hay-fever like symptoms, red eyes, sudden rash—and depending on the severity of her allergy, things could get worse. Fast.
“Um…” She sniffs as she pushes up on one arm, careful not to touch her exposed side. “I don’t know, we always use nitrile at Ever After because…”
She trails off, her face paling as her red eyes go wide.
“What’s up?” I ask, my heart beating faster. “Talk to me, babe.”
“We always use nitrile gloves at work because Aria is crazy allergic to latex. She breaks out in hives and has an asthma attack if she touches the stuff. Shit. I’m allergic, too, aren’t I?”
“It’s okay. We caught it quickly. You’ll be fine,” I say, trying to remain calm as I mentally map out the fastest route to the emergency room. “I’m going to go in back to take off these gloves. I want them as far away from you as possible. Then I’ll wash my hands and come bandage the area I started working on. I wouldn’t normally do that without gloves, but you’re in more danger from the latex than my clean, bare hands.”
“Okay,” she says, her breath emerging with a wheeze that makes her eyes grow even wider. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I force myself to back away from her, though all I want to do is cross the room and hug her tight. “And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll get you bandaged and head to the ER. They’ll know what to do.”
Hand shaking, I strip off the gloves and scrub for a full minute with soap and water—hopefully washing away every last bit of latex dust that might be clinging to my skin. I finish up and hurry back into the other room, trying not to let my panic show when I see Melody.
Her hives are so big now that they form continents of swollen flesh across her ribs and abdomen. Her eyes look like they’re filled with blood, and the area below her jawline is a lot more swollen than it was a few minutes ago.
“Nick,” she rasps. “I don’t feel so good.”
“I’m sorry, baby. Just a second and we’ll get out of here.” Heart pounding, I clean and bandage the tattoo as quickly as possible, then help her pull her shirt down and guide her into a seated position.
“Ugh,” she moans as she sits up, bracing her hands on her knees. “Oh my god, I might throw up.”
Thinking fast, I grab the mostly empty wastebasket, dumping the contents onto the floor before handing it to Melody. “We’ll take this in the car.”
“Okay,” she whispers, clinging to the edges with white fingers.
“Let me carry you,” I say, reaching for her.
She puts a hand to my chest. “No, then I’ll definitely be sick. It’s okay. I can walk if you help me.”
“Of course. I’ve got you.” I wrap an arm around her waist and help her down from the table, and we begin to shuffle toward the door.
“Just hold on.” I push through the door without bothering to lock it. Thieves can come and steal every damned thing in the store for all I care right now.
Melody is the only thing in my world that can’t be replaced.
“Almost there,” I say, half-carrying her down the sidewalk to the Midget.
Thirty seconds later, we’re at my car.
We’re almost on our way to the ER—less than five minutes from the start of the reaction—when a voice growls Melody’s name from the alley beside the shop.
I spin to see who the hell has the nerve to talk to her like that.
A second later, a fist collides with my jaw.
Chapter 22
Melody
Seth charges out of the alley, his fist aimed at Nick’s face.
I try to scream, but my throat is too tight.
The sound emerges as a strangled yelp followed by a whimper as Nick’s arm is ripped from my waist, and I slide down the side of the car to the pavement, the little plastic trash can rolling from my hands.