12 RHEA
I step into what appears to be some kind of makeshift medical room.
The harsh fluorescent lights illuminate Carla sprawled across an examination table, her red hair fanned out like spilled wine.
Julian and Corey hover over her, their faces etched with concern.
A moan escapes her lips, but her eyes remain closed.
My stomach churns at the sight of her bruised face. The makeup she usually cakes on is smeared, revealing angry purple marks beneath.
"Shit," I mutter, taking in the scene. “This is uncalled for.” Corey's dark eyes lock onto mine. "You said something about going to school for medicine?"
"Nice subject change. But sports medicine," I correct him, stepping closer. "Kinesiology degree. I'm studying for my state licensure now. But that's different from?—"
Another pained groan from Carla cuts through the air.
"Look," Julian says, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"We need someone who knows something about injuries. Anything."
"She needs to go to a hospital?" I say, already knowing the answer won't be that simple.
"Not an option," Corey says, his voice tight.
I take a step back, my hands raised in protest. "You know what?
No. No way. This is way beyond my scope. I haven't even passed my licensure exam yet."
"Come on," Julian says, those blue eyes of his piercing right through me. "You've got more medical knowledge than anyone else here."
"Yeah, for sports injuries. Athletic therapy. Not whatever the hell this is." I gesture at Carla's prone form. "This is some straight-up criminal shit."
Corey crosses his arms, his dark eyes studying me. "You're right.
It is. And next week, when they come back, you'll be handling that bar solo because Carla here won't be able to see straight, much less serve drinks."
"That's blackmail," I snap.
"That's reality," Julian counters, his voice softer than Corey's but no less firm.
My gaze drifts back to Carla. Without all that makeup, she looks vulnerable, human. Blood trickles from a cut above her eyebrow. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, pained breaths.
"Fuck." I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots.
"Fine. But I need supplies. Real first aid stuff, not just bar napkins and ice."
"Already got it." Julian kicks open a metal case by his feet. Inside, I spot gauze, antiseptic, butterfly bandages - proper medical supplies.
"Of course you do," I mutter. "You guys really run a whole operation down here, don't you?"
"Less talking, more helping," Corey says, but there's a hint of approval in his voice.
I snap on a pair of latex gloves from the kit. "Just so we're clear - if she needs actual medical attention, like internal bleeding or something, I'm calling 911. I don't care what kind of underground fight club bullshit you've got going on."
"Fair enough," Julian agrees.
"Now everybody shut up and let me work."
I press gently along Carla's ribcage, noting the areas that make her flinch even in her semi-conscious state. My fingers trace the bruising patterns, mapping the damage.
"Ribs are bruised, not broken. She's lucky." I grab the penlight from the kit and check her pupils. "Mild concussion. She'll need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours."
Julian hands me the suture kit. "You know how to do stitches?"
"My clinical rotation involved a lot of sports injuries. Cuts happen." I thread the needle, glad my hands aren't shaking.
"Someone hold her head still."
Corey steps in, his large hands steadying Carla's face. The cut above her eyebrow isn't deep, but it needs closing. I clean it thoroughly with antiseptic.
"She's going to need someone to wake her every two hours," I say as I make the first stitch. "Check her pupils, ask basic questions - name, date, where she is. If she can't answer or seems confused, hospital. No exceptions."
"I'll call her brother," Tobias offers.
“How thoughtful of you,” I say with a snarl.
Three neat stitches later, I strip off my gloves. "Ice the ribs, twenty minutes on, twenty off. Keep her propped up when she sleeps - it'll help with the breathing. And no alcohol or pain meds stronger than Tylenol for at least forty-eight hours."
Carla stirs, mumbling something incoherent.
"She's going to be pissed about the stitches," I add, packing up the supplies. "Tell her to keep them clean and dry. They can come out in seven days - and don't let her pick at them, or she'll scar."
"That'll be fun," Julian mutters. "She's already impossible when she breaks a nail."
"Yeah, well, maybe next time she'll keep her legs closed around the wrong guy," I snap, then immediately regret it. "Sorry. That was..."
"Accurate," Corey finishes, his expression grim.
Two men materialize from the shadows - I swear this place has more hidden doors than a haunted mansion.
“Her brother is out back.” They lift Carla with practiced care, her red hair trailing like a banner as they carry her away.
The moment the door clicks shut behind them, I whirl on Corey.
"Now can someone tell me what in the fuck is going on?"
My voice echoes off the walls of this makeshift medical room, bouncing back the anger and confusion I've been bottling up since I walked through those basement doors.