Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SHORT
Godfuckingdamnit! Someone turn out the light. I’m going to kill whoever changed the bulb in my room, as it’s far too fucking bright. Wait a damn minute, why is the overhead light shining directly into my eyes? My bed’s not even beneath the bulb. It’s off to one side.
That confounded beep… beep sound isn’t helping any either. I’m going to kill the fucker that’s doing it if they don’t switch it off.
My eyes open as slits. Hold on, my room isn’t painted white. Raising my eyelids fully, I come completely awake with a start, immediately recognising my surroundings. I’m in the motherfucking hospital. But how, and why?
I would only have been brought here if it were a matter of life or death. Doc just normally digs a bullet out, patches us up, gives us painkillers, then lets us get on with the job of healing our own selves. To be here suggests my injury must be serious.
Life threatening? I do a quick assessment. My chest feels like a ton of weight is sitting on it, and my thigh throbs, but apart from that, I feel sufficiently alive to doubt I’m knocking at death’s door.
How did I get here?
I rack my brains, shaking my head to try to clear the fog in it.
Suddenly, it all comes flooding back—the Mojave Devils, me taking a knife to the chest and a bullet to the leg.
Tensing, I start thinking that if I’m here, the pigs are probably around waiting to question me as soon as I return to consciousness.
That’s the reason we usually deal with our injuries in-house.
Coming to the hospital gets the wrong assholes asking questions.
Before I go talking to anyone, I’m going to need to know what the club has told the medical staff.
Speaking of the club, shouldn’t someone have been sitting with me? Not just to comfort but to protect me. When one of our own is in a hospital, they’re a sitting duck for anyone wanting retribution.
And revenge was the cause of my injuries, I recall.
Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get back to the clubhouse, talk to the brothers around the table, and tell them what the MDMC suspects. If we can’t find a way to throw them off the scent regarding the disappearance of Griz, we’ll always be watching our backs.
Is Winchester alright? He’d taken a nasty blow to the head.
Is he in the hospital as well? I know Paint is alive or was when I passed out.
I recall him fussing over me, and saying something completely out of left field when he was talking on the phone.
He was discussing a tobacco pouch, which means nothing more to me now than it did at the time.
While I lay dying, was he really pining for a smoke?
Knowing lying here isn’t going to get answers, I pull myself up, and only then notice all the wires attached to me and a white bandage across my chest. For a second, the effort has me breathing deeply and…
Oh fucking hell, that hurt. I stay completely still, thinking it’s probably best not to move at all.
Then my eyes catch something, or rather someone, to the side of me. It’s Saint, asleep, his mouth open, and drool on his chin. I hadn’t been left alone at all, but for all he’s worth, I could well have been. I wish I had the mobility and energy to kick him.
“Asshole,” I rasp. “You supposed to be protecting me?”
Saint awakes with a start, wiping his hand over his eyes first, then over his chin to mop up the drool.
Looking sheepish, he catches my eye. “Shit, Bro. Just catching forty winks. I’ve been here all night.
” Gradually, his senses come back to him.
“How you feeling?” he asks as he stands and walks around to the monitor that’s the culprit for the incessant beeping.
“Your oxygen levels look better than they did.”
I don’t care about minor details. There’s only one question I want answered.
“Why the fuck am I here?” I hiss. “Why couldn’t you and Doc treat me at the club?
” I refer to the medical professional we pay well on retainer, on the understanding that he’s available to treat all our injuries whenever we need him.
Saint flicks his eyes toward the door. It’s closed, but he’s still cautious about being overheard.
“Clumsy asshole that you are, you tripped and fell on a knife in the clubhouse.” He emphasises the last three words.
“You had a pneumothorax.” As my eyes glaze, he clarifies, “You punctured your right lung.” He shakes his head, half closes his eyes and looks guilt-ridden.
“Couldn’t get there in fuckin’ time but talked Paint through the way to keep you alive – and, by the way, you owe him a pouch of tobacco.
” Before I can start to process that, he continues, “Doc came out to where we found you, but said you needed emergency surgery, he didn’t have the equipment for. That’s why you’re here.”
I’m not stupid. I pick up the critical parts of the story. One that I owe Paint for some unknown reason, and second, maybe no cops will be involved if the medical staff thinks it was an accident. Raising my chin, I let him know I understand. Then remember I have another injury. “My thigh?”
Lowering his voice, Saint leans in close. “Doc removed the bullet and stitched you up before the ambulance arrived. May not look pretty, as he had to do it fast. Doctors here think you’re accident-prone, and that bandage is just another injury.”
“They gonna put me on a psych hold for playing with knives?” I ask drily.
Saint snorts. “Better that than the cops.”
I hear him. Loud and fucking clear.
Just then, the door opens, and a nurse peeks her head around it. She brightens when she sees I’m awake, then frowns, probably because I’ve moved from the prone position she left me in.
After entering, she examines the monitor display, then announces, “The doctor wanted to see you when you came around from the anaesthetic. I’ll go tell her now.”
When she leaves, Saint throws me a meaningful glance. Again, I raise my chin to show I understand.
I’m obviously a priority patient, or a novelty, as it’s only minutes until the doctor appears.
At first, she seems more interested in reading what’s on the tablet she’s holding and checking my stats before she gives her attention to Saint.
“Could you leave us alone for a moment, please? I’d like to examine my patient in private. ”
I’m no weak-ass woman or child, and Saint isn’t a relative, so he’s got no well-founded excuse to stay.
He does pointedly look at the doctor’s name tag before leaving the room.
That alone gives me a sense of security.
If the medic does me wrong, then my VP will ensure she finds herself facing the whole club.
Once it’s just me and her in the room, the doctor doesn’t waste time.
“Mr. Ranger,” she starts, reminding me how much I hate my government name.
Folks might say my road name’s not much better, but it was honestly earned.
My actual surname I only inherited from folks who’d wished I’d never been born.
The mistake they’d had to live with, and one they’d never let me forget.
“I’m having a little difficulty understanding how you got stabbed. ”
In truth, so am I, well, at least according to Saint’s explanation. I wonder how I could have contorted myself and stabbed my chest. Knowing I’m going to have to give the performance of my life, I take a deep breath – which fucking hurts and makes me wish I hadn’t - then I start the fiction.
“I ain’t a good cook, man. But I try.” Shrugging, I appeal to her, trying to convey I’m just a male who hasn’t got the right hormonal makeup to do shit in the kitchen.
“I ain’t got boobs or a pert ass, but it was my turn to make…
” What time was it? Afternoon? So, yeah, that will do it.
“A late lunch.” Her face hardens but shows no other reaction.
“I was cutting up steak, or some shit,” I add fast, cursing Saint for not telling me the extended version of the story they’d woven.
“Then it all happened at once. Didn’t know there was oil spilled on the floor, or that I was holding that knife awkwardly.
Went down hard…” I try to pantomime how I’d fallen, unable to visualise it myself, but my limited mobility, as wires tether me to the monitor, would have prevented me from being convincing, even if I had been telling the truth.
“Landed on my own fuckin’ blade,” I finish, giving her what I hope is a lopsided grin full of boyish charm, and accompanying it with a dismissive shrug.
She looks unconvinced. “And the bullet wound in your leg?”
Fuck. She must have examined what was under the bandage when I was in surgery.
“Rookie error,” I say fast. “I didn’t realise I had a bullet in the chamber when I was cleaning my gun.”
She draws in a deep breath and raises an eyebrow. “And that’s your story?”
“That’s my fuckin’ truth,” I growl.
For a moment, her stance and expression are impossible to read. I tense, thinking she’ll either believe my story, which is unlikely, or call in the pigs, probably a sure bet. Working in a hospital like this, she’s undoubtedly got them on speed dial.
Her next words, though, surprise me. “Mr. Ranger,” she states, saying my name in a sympathetic tone as if to evoke some camaraderie.
“Gangs like the Kings of Anarchy have a reputation, and if you’re being bullied, or mistreated and abused, then I can distract them and give you a chance to get away. ”
Heaven only knows how I don’t keel over and fall off the bed laughing.
“Ma’am,” I start, but as her eyes narrow, I correct and start again.
“Doc, look, my brothers would never hurt me.” I give a chuckle to show her how ludicrous that thought is.
“I got here by my own misfortune and clumsiness. Doubt they’ll ever leave me alone in the kitchen again.
” I add a smile to reassure her. “All I want to know now is when I can get out of here.”