Chapter 41 #2
“I’m well aware,” he says drily, his words punctuated by shallow breathing, showing the pain he’s in. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Just get the bullet out, stitch me up, and I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can’t know that.” She turns to our own medic for backup. “Saint, tell him he needs—”
“No fuckin’ hospital,” Bullseye, who’d entered church without her noticing, states firmly. “We can’t let the heat start investigating what happened here.”
With her hands on her hips, she retorts, “This is beyond simple nursing. This man might die if he doesn’t get proper medical attention. And Freak and Words should be going in for scans. They’ve obviously got serious head injuries.”
Prez approaches her, looks down to meet her eyes, and says simply, “Every man in this room would give his life for his brothers, and that includes doing so to prevent them from being locked up in the pen for life.”
“Too fuckin’ true,” Freak remarks, his sentiment echoed around the room. “Ride free, live free. And fuckin’ die, if necessary to protect the club.”
Bronwyn’s face goes slack. For a moment, I think she’s overwhelmed, as she should be. I mean, fuck, she’s almost qualified, but as a nurse, not a doctor. Even her father would have been out of his depth at the carnage she’s being presented with tonight.
Bullseye knows he’s got her, but goes in for the kill just in case she’s wavering. “Your dad wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Fuck! If I were standing in Prez’s shoes, even I’d be intimidated by the way she spins to face him and actually growls. Then, she turns her attention to Saint. “Get Stalker on the table. I’ll deal with him first. You okay to start stitching up Paint?”
Without waiting for confirmation, she sifts through the contents of the first-aid box, taking out disinfectant and gloves, then, without asking permission, rummages through Saint’s medical bag.
She comes up with sutures. Some she passes to the man who actually owns them, laying the rest aside on the table.
She fumbles deeper and comes up with a scalpel and forceps.
Saint gives her a twisted grin. “Might have had to remove a bullet or two before myself.”
In response, Bron grunts. “I’ll need plastic sheeting,” she says to no one in particular. “Else your table’s going to be stained with blood. And…” she grits her teeth. “A bottle of rum.”
I doubt she’d like to be told how much like her dad she’s sounding, but it makes my mouth quirk. Not that I’d want to resurrect him, but there’s something definitely sexy about how, after Prez’s lecture, she’s accepted she’s the only lifeline Stalker’s got, and she’s taking charge.
Bullseye disappears, then re-enters the room, carrying the rum and telling her the other requirement is on its way. As he supports Stalker’s head while he drinks eagerly from the bottle, she focuses her eyes on him.
“If I’m going to do this again…” she tells him, pulling on the latex gloves as she speaks.
“I’m going to need a fully equipped medical room.
No expense spared.” She points her finger toward the prez.
“And don’t tell me you can’t afford it. You won’t be paying me the retainer you paid my dad.
I won’t be taking your money. I’ll work for free, for the kindness you’ve shown me and Trip. ”
“You’re part of the club, darlin’,” Prez answers her.
“And as for the medical room, if Doc had suggested it, we’d have complied.
Hope we don’t have a need for it, but when you’re done here, you give me a list of what you want, and I’ll fuckin’ deliver it.
” He gives a twisted grin. “It’s not as if we won’t have to be doing some rebuilding anyway.
Won’t hurt none to add more to that task. ”
The plastic sheeting arrives, and we all help Stalker shift onto it. His quieter moans suggest the rum’s kicking in. But still, Bullseye helps him get more down his throat, and then tips the bottle further as Stalker stiffens when Bron starts probing in his wound for the bullet.
While they’re working, I get a moment to question Prez, and find out that, sadly, Heathen was, up to now, our only fatal casualty.
I also had a word with Paint after his head was stitched.
Apparently, he’d been knocked out at the first onslaught and regained consciousness in time to make his presence felt toward the end of the action.
It takes a couple of hours in all before Stalker’s stitched up and passed out.
Words’ as well as Paint’s heads now holding together, another bullet extracted from Piston’s arm, and Freak subjected to her scrutiny to check for a concussion.
She and Saint work side by side, and it’s the VP who finally stitches my injury.
Bron looks dead on her feet. Prez waves us off, saying he and Saint will clean up and get Stalker up to a room. Gratefully, I lead her out of church and into the clubroom.
My path brings me face-to-face with Bigfoot, the prez who’d, with his men, saved our bacon.
“Short,” he acknowledges me, taking hold of my arm, pulling me to him, then slapping my back. I hide my wince. When Bigfoot hits you, even a big fucker like me feels it. “Fuckin’ glad you came out the other side. Sorry to hear about Tempest and Genie.”
He releases me, and I murmur something about how they’ll probably be fine, not much they can’t handle, which we both know is more optimism than truth.
I then notice he’s stroking his bushy beard while casting an appraising look at the woman at my side. “New sweet butt?”
I pull her close to me and growl, “Bronwyn’s my fuckin’ woman, and she’s a nurse. She’s been treating our injured.”
“Whoa.” He raises his hands. “No need to piss on her. I was only asking. Not that I’d be interested even if she was. I’ve got my ol’ lady Sammy waiting for me at home.” Now I remember, I realise how crass I sounded.
“Hey, Baffle,” he calls out to his VP. “Get the word out on Bron here.” He points to the woman I’m still holding tightly. “She’s Short’s. She’s also got medical experience if Grease needs that scratch he’d gotten stitched.”
“Grease is here?” I look around, but I can’t see him. “Is Glitch here too?” The two are brothers and often travel as a pair.
“Nah,” the New Mexico prez replies. “But Dime’s with us, as is Smooth. Had to bring him in case we lost our way on the road.” He gives a crooked grin as he refers to their road captain. “Oh, and Jester.”
Baffle snorts, stares at his prez, then offers advice to me. “Just watch out if Jester offers your woman his sweatshirt.”
“Shut it,” Bigfoot snarls.
It’s obviously a private joke, so I don’t question it, and anyway, Bronwyn’s tugging at my arm and telling me, “If there’s another man who needs treatment, I need to see him.”
She’s spent half the night stressing and half working. She’s worn out. “Grease in danger of dying?” I growl, directing my question toward the New Mexico prez. “‘Cause if not, Saint’s got the skills to patch him up. Bron needs rest.”
Bigfoot looks from me to her, narrows his eyes, then steps aside. “He’ll live,” he allows. “Just needs a couple of stitches.”
But before we move, I hold out my hand. “Thanks, Brother, for coming to our rescue. Hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived. You must have wings on your fuckin’ bikes to have gotten here in time.”
He takes the hand I’ve held out, pulls me in, giving me another, but thank fuck a gentler slap on the back, which I return.
“Fuck, Bro. Just glad we could help. Decided to set off soon after Bullseye’s initial phone call.
We’d heard word that the Mojave Devils were up to something and thought you might need us sooner rather than later. ”
And he was right.
If he hadn’t turned up, I hate to think where I’d be tonight. Probably Hell if I think about it too much.