Chapter 9
Nova
Everyone’s tense and the atmosphere in the clubhouse is stifling, so I go outside to get some air.
No one tries to stop me or even looks my way, which tells me there’s more going on than just normal club stuff.
Creed’s conversation with Stone two nights ago has been playing in my head on and off all day, and my gut says the two things are related.
Everyone knows the Kings aren’t into the really heavy stuff like human trafficking or drugs like heroin and fentanyl, but no one’s stupid enough to think everything they do is legal.
Since I’ve been at the clubhouse, I’ve heard enough to put together that there’s some element of business happening today.
Based on what Creed and Stone talked about, it involves travel, but I don’t know more than that.
I don’t want to know more than that. I may be more comfortable here than I was when I first arrived, but I still don’t belong, and everyone knows it.
I slide my hands into my pockets and stroll toward the gate, feeling the eyes of whoever’s on watch today.
I don’t plan on leaving—haven’t even thought of it in more days than I can remember—but they’re still watching me.
Because even with Creed’s announcement that I’m his old lady, they don’t accept me as one of them.
Maybe I’m just grumpy today because this whole thing with Creed is really fucking with my head.
When we’re in public, he’s constantly touching me and giving me these heated looks.
Sometimes, I could swear he wants to tear off my clothes and teach me all the things that my singular experience with sex didn’t cover.
When we’re alone, though, he looks like he can hardly wait to get rid of me.
Then, last night, when he walked me to the door of my room, his fingers brushed my arm, and it felt like electricity racing across my nerves.
The way he jerked back makes me think he felt it, too, but of course, he didn’t say anything…
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an approaching engine, and I’ve been here long enough to tell it’s a motorcycle, not one of the few trucks or cars the guys keep around for club use.
I’m planning to ignore it when I realize there’s something wrong with it.
Whoever’s coming isn’t slowing down. I frown, turning back toward the gate just as whoever’s on guard opens it.
Knowing they wouldn’t open for anyone but the MC or an ally, I have a moment of relief, thinking one of the members is in a mood this afternoon, but that relief becomes horror when the rider barrels into the parking lot and skids to a stop, both bike and man falling to the blacktop.
Shit.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time with the Kings, it’s a man has to be almost dead to let his bike drop like that.
Marco comes running from the gate house, shouting to one of the prospects who’s also on guard duty. By the time Nix reaches the fallen biker, I’ve shaken off my paralysis and head their way as well.
“Fuck!” Nix shouts. “He’s bleeding out!”
“Cutter!” Marco yells toward the clubhouse. “Cutter!”
I’m close enough now to see it’s Crusher on the ground, his hand pressing against his side as he fights to stay conscious. His face is pale under dirt and blood, and his hand is covered with blood.
This is really bad.
“What’re you—” Cipher’s question turns into a string of curses and then he’s next to me. “Get him inside!”
“Where the fuck’s Cutter?” Marco asks.
“Still at his daughter’s,” Cipher says as he helps the other two men drag Crusher toward the clubhouse.
“Fuck! Who else we got?” Nix asks.
I follow them inside, my heart pounding.
I remember hearing somewhere that Cutter’s the MC’s doctor, more or less.
He handles as much of the medical stuff as he can because going to the hospital means people asking questions, and usually when these guys get hurt, it’s not because they’re out doing charity work.
Inside, it’s chaos. I’ve never seen the men like this. Not panicking, exactly, but it’s clear they aren’t sure what to do.
“Clear a table!”
“Someone get more light in here!”
“…need fucking towels…”
“What the fuck happened?”
“…first aid kit…”
“Creed!” I grab his arm before I can overthink it. “I can help.”
He looks down at me, and his face is more alive than I’ve ever seen it.
I’ve heard these men call each other brother and speak of themselves as a family, but I don’t think I really understood the reality of that until this moment when I see the emotions blazing in his eyes.
Confidence floods through me and I suddenly feel calm.
“Please, let me help,” I say, my voice even.
Stray’s close enough to hear me. “Don’t you work for a vet?”
“I’m a vet tech.” I lift my chin and square my shoulders. “And I’m a field medic. Yeah, I’m not a doctor, but it looks like I’m the best you’ve got.”
“Let her try.” Marco’s words surprise everyone.
“Prez?” Nix is almost as pale as Crusher.
“Do it,” Creed says to me. “Tell us what you need.”
I hurry over to the table where Crusher’s been stretched out. Someone’s already gotten his vest and shirt off. Cipher’s holding the blood-soaked shirt to Crusher’s side, but it doesn’t look like putting pressure on is doing anything.
“Crusher.” I lean over him and repeat his name. He forces his eyes open and it takes more effort than I like for him to focus on my face. “I need to know, knife or gun?”
“Can’t you just look?” Cipher asks.
I ignore him and focus on Crusher’s mouth where his lips form the answer. Only when I get it do I turn to Cipher. “I think the wound nicked an artery. I don’t want you taking the pressure off it until absolutely necessary.”
Cipher nods. “Got it.”
“I need to see if there’s an exit wound.” I look around. “Someone roll him on his side while Cipher keeps pressure.”
Sin and Ravage step forward and do what I say. Crusher groans as they move him, but I’m too busy looking at the neat, round hole in his back.
“I need light.”
“Where?” Creed appears with a flashlight.
“There.” I point at the wound.
Something isn’t right about it. There’s a hole, but not much blood. When I lean closer, I see smudges of black, and a memory pops up in my head of getting called out to a ranch where someone’s horse had accidentally been shot by an idiot who didn’t know how to handle a gun.
“Shit,” I curse softly. “They shot him point blank.”
“What did you say?” Creed asks sharply.
I only glance at him before turning my attention back to Crusher. “Is there a hole in the back of his vest? A neat one, maybe with some charring?”
A moment later, someone answers with a yes. I don’t know who it is, but that doesn’t matter.
“They had the gun pressed against his side when they shot him. Fuck knows how it didn’t do worse damage. Crusher’s the luckiest motherfucker alive.” Creed gives the explanation, his voice dark and dangerous.
I nod. “That explains the powder marks. Roll him onto his back for me. Slowly.”
Crusher’s eyelids flutter as he’s put back down.
I try and remember what I’ve heard about gunshot wounds.
“The wound in his back’s the entrance. I need to see if the bullet came out the other side.
” I lay out the things I’ll need and hope it’ll be enough.
Before I ask Cipher to move the shirt, I take a moment and close my eyes, reaching far back in my memory to high school when I still thought I might be able to go to med school.
To the anatomy class I took during the summer before Dad was sent away.
The image from my textbook comes to mind easier than I expected.
Only once I’m sure of what I’m looking for do I open my eyes. “Okay, here’s what I need everyone to do.”
I give the orders quickly, knowing if I show the smallest hesitation, they’re going to lose faith in me, and that might make them start questioning me. Crusher doesn’t have time for any of that if there’s a risk of internal bleeding.
“Here’s Cutter’s kit,” someone says as they drop a large, black case beside me.
I open it up and my eyes widen in surprise.
There’s an assortment of sterile gloves, swabs, needles and syringes, surgical instruments packed in sterilization pouches, lots of packs of pre-threaded suture material like we use at the veterinary clinic.
There’s boxes of antibiotics, analgesics, and I even see a few vials with injectable anesthetics.
I pause over a vial of ketamine. I know the dose schedule that the vets use on dogs, but I don’t want to risk it on Crusher.
Instead, I grab sterile gauze, pressure bandages, saline, hemostatic dressing, a packet of pre-threaded sutures, a needle holder, and forceps and lay them out beside me on a drape.
Cleaning the wound has him waking up with a pained yell, but Creed uses his free hand to push Crusher back down and then tells Nix to get Crusher some of the good tequila. I let them handle that part of things as I work as quickly and neatly as I can.
The bullet has torn through the flesh and clean out the other side.
I don’t feel broken bone and he’s breathing normally.
That’s something. As far as I can tell, it’s mostly muscle and smaller blood vessels and by some miracle it’s avoided any major organs or vessels.
It looks awful because wounds like this bleed like crazy, but if I can get the bleeding under control, he has a chance.
I pack the wound with folded sterile gauze, pressing down as hard as I dare. Blood immediately soaks through the first layer. I don’t pull it away—I add another pad on top and keep the pressure steady.
“Keep talking to him,” I tell Creed. “Don’t let him drift off.”
I count slowly under my breath, refusing to look away. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A minute. When I ease the pressure just enough to check, the bleeding has slowed to a heavy ooze instead of pulsing between my fingers.
Relief makes my knees weak, but I don’t let it show.
“It’s a flesh wound,” I say. “A nasty one, but I don’t think it’s hit anything vital.”