Chapter 26 #2
“You make him sound all noble and shit. Guys a fucking weirdo. Nobody sane has this many goats. It’s not too late to get me out of here,” I muttered.
“He saved them?” Isla asked.
I scowled at her, because I could hear it in her voice.
She was already starting to respect the man who’d rescued the goats.
Sure, it was a good thing for him to do.
That didn’t mean I wanted to let him work on me.
I wasn’t a good patient at the best of times and right now wasn’t even close to the best. Those damn field surgeons were too damn hack-happy.
I never let them near me if I could. Not that they just amputated limbs anymore like they used to back in the day.
Still, it was the principle of the matter.
He might patch a bullet wound and chop off my foot just for funsies.
Priest was coming back now, an older man with a cigar in his mouth following close behind.
He was carrying what looked like a medic’s bag.
He ambled over and placed it on the back seat, peering at me through the cigar smoke.
“You again?” His voice was gruff and partially muffled by the cigar.
“What stupid shit did you get yourself into this time?” He reached out and prodded at my gunshot wound.
“Fucking Christ! Don’t play with it!” I barked.
“Yeah yeah, let me get my torch.”
“Torch?” Riptide asked.
“Torch?” I echoed. “What do you need a torch for?”
Crash narrowed his eyes at me, grasping his cigar in two fingers he pointed it at me. “I don’t need any commentary from the peanut gallery. Especially some civilians. I’m going to cauterize it.”
“No torches,” Lock said with a sigh. “Just use the shit in the packets.”
“Won’t work, needs a torch,” he said with the cigar hanging out of his mouth, arms folded across his chest.
There was a chemical agent that cauterized wounds these days, but guys like Crash were stuck in the past. They liked to use old school methods and those methods usually hurt like a bitch.
“Motherfucker, this is because I kicked your stupid goat isn’t it?
” I accused. I hadn’t actually kicked it.
More like nudged it because the creature had been trying to eat my damn clothes. Kind of like what was happening now.
“You said it asshole, rule one is don’t fuck with my goats.
” Now he was pointing the cigar at me. He looked over at Isla, feigning innocence.
“He kicked Gary,” he said, pointing to the wheeled goat at my feet.
Gary was now giving my shoelaces a taste.
Then he jabbed the lit end of the cigar into my chest. I hissed and slapped at it as he continued, “Knocked him out of his wagon. Poor boy was dragging himself around by his two front feet. Pitiful sight.”
Isla placed her hands on her hips, turning, and giving me her full attention. “Is that true?”
“No,” I argued, still rubbing the cigar burn. “I nudged him and that damn wheelchair tipped over.”
Isla’s glare was far more threatening than anything that Crash could cook up. She reached down and ran a hand over Gary’s back. “Apologize,” she demanded.
“What?” I asked, shocked. I knew my girl loved animals but this was ridiculous. “I’m bleeding-”
“Apologize,” she repeated.
Sighing, I looked around at the guys and they were all fighting back grins. Hellfire was struggling. It was his damn fault this was happening anyway because this all happened when we brought him here after he’d been shot during our raid of the cult. I glared over at Crash. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Not to him.” She smacked my arm and jutted her chin at me stubbornly.
I glanced down at Gary. He was making his way over to Lockout now. My clothes weren’t tasty enough apparently. Shooting Isla a scowl, I looked over at the goat again. “Sorry for kicking you.” Even though it hadn’t been a kick, I added, but kept that as an inside thought.
“Good,” Isla said, then turned to Crash. “Now that that is settled, can we get him fixed up please?”
“Before he falls on his face,” Ricochet added. “Then we’ll have you take a look at Smoke, too.”
Smokehouse grinned. “No need to rush this. I’m enjoying seeing Butcher this way.”
“Fuck you,” I replied.
Crash glared at me for a long minute, then smiled.
“I like her. Sure, let’s do this.” He placed the cigar back into his mouth and opened up his bag.
He removed some gauze, bottles of what I assumed were antibiotics, though knowing the way he held grudges it could be bleach, and a needle.
Handing a wad of gauze to me he gave me the plan, then said, “Alright I’m going to clean this shit up. See what we’re working with.”
“Maybe we should go inside,” Lock suggested. “Sit him down. He already took one blow to the head. Don’t need him passing out and having it happen again.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” I replied, offended that he would even think that.
“Inside,” Crash said, waving at everyone to follow him.
By the time I was settled into a chair, cut and shirt off, I was resigned to the fact that this was happening. “Hey,” I snapped. “Careful.” Crash had slapped a cloth on my side so hard my ears were ringing. “Need to work on your bedside manner.”
“Quit tellin’ me what to do.” He looked at me like I was bothering him.
When I glared at him, he eased up on cleaning the blood from my side.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Not like the big baby is in any real danger. Missed all his organs.” He cleaned the outer wound before sticking his finger in it.
“But since you’re so insistent, I’ll feel around to make sure. ”
“Could you at least put the cigar away? That can’t be good to have during an operation,” Toxic said.
Crash stopped dead and looked at the man. “Do I tell you how best to get warts on your dick fuck boy?”
“Oof,” Smoke chuckled.
Crash pointed at him. “You’re only slightly better. Shut it.”
Everyone fell quiet after that and let him work.
I gritted my teeth. “I swear to fuck if you don’t get your fingers out of me...
” Closing my eyes, I breathed through the pain as he cleaned out my wound.
He announced gleefully that it was just a flesh wound and the bullet had passed all the way through.
“Told you I was fine,” I muttered. Then Toxic put a bottle of whiskey in my hand and it got better from there.
It didn’t seem to take too long before Crash declared I’d live and I was able to put my shirt and cut back on.
“Now what do we say?” Lockout asked, shooting me a pointed look.
Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “Thanks Crash. No hard feelings?”
Crash pulled the cigar from his mouth and stuck the lit end into my leg. “None whatsoever. Now.”
“Fucker!” I snapped, yanking my leg away and patting at my jeans. The cigar hadn’t burned through, but I shot him a glare anyway. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Uh, some of us still need the help,” Smoke pointed out. “Had to wait for your whiny ass to get fixed up first.”
It took at least another hour, and my pants didn’t survive the curious goats.
By the time Smoke was ready I’d lost my pants legs from the calf down.
But finally we were able to pile into the SUVs and head toward home.
I wanted to finish this bottle of whiskey, get into bed with my woman—preferably naked—and sleep away the pain.
When I woke up I was going to talk to Lock about going after Randal.