Hope (The Virtues #1) (11 page)

Before I even made it up to the stage, I was barking orders. “Oh my God, turn some of those lights off, we’re not trying to broil him!”

A few of the bikers looked to Bear. They were not in the business of listening to anyone but their president, least of all a woman in her bra. He knew better, though.

“Hey, I’m not in charge; this one is. Do whatever she says.”

After getting his blessing, they immediately headed for the light board and shut down half of the bright and sizzling bulbs shining on Trask. I stepped up the stairs to the stage. On the other side of Trask was a smaller table with every tool they could find.

I looked at one of the Rising Sons. His cut labeled him as Vice President. “Have these been cleaned?” He nodded; not good enough. “Not with soap and water, but
really
cleaned?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Before he looked over the spread of tools, I saw his eyes dip down to my chest briefly. I almost laughed. There were wrenches and screwdrivers and a ton of other stuff I had no use for. There were only two or three I’d need.

“Someone bring me gloves and the highest proof alcohol you’ve got.” Another biker that had “Prospect” on his cut rushed off.

Looking down at Trask, I could see the sweat beading on his forehead. My blouse was soaked through with blood, and I knew I had to act fast, because there weren’t going to be any transfusions tonight.

The young biker came back and handed me a clear, round bottle without a label. His eyes were wide as he stood before me.

“And the gloves?”

He pulled some from his back pocket. They weren’t medical gloves by any stretch of the imagination. The food prep gloves were baggy and would probably tear in an instant, but they were better than nothing.

I took the bottle from him, “What is this?”

His voice shook like he was sitting on a washer with an uneven load. “Moonshine. One hundred and forty proof; same as rubbing alcohol.” He looked over at Trask.

It smelled like Frankenstein vodka. I took a tiny sip and regretted it instantly. No doubt that stuff could have powered a lawn mower. I managed to keep it down without gagging, but barely.

Grabbing the few tools I could use, I turned the bottle over onto one hand, then the other, and finally over the makeshift surgery kit. It evaporated within seconds as I rubbed my hands together. It would definitely kill anything on my hands, tongue, and down the back of my throat.

“Jesus, okay.” I tried to get my mind off the knockout taste and back onto Trask. “Strong stuff, okay.”

I heard a couple of bikers laughing behind me. The blood rushed to my cheeks, but I realized quick enough that they weren't laughing at me; it was more about the situation. I’ve heard my share of nervous laughter during rounds.

I grabbed an X-ACTO knife from the table and pushed the blade out. It wasn’t the obsidian scalpel we’d been promised in med school, but it would do. When I looked up, most of the bikers were standing around the table. An audience, just what I needed.

“I need maybe one of you to stay. I need the rest of you anywhere but here.” Some of them didn’t get the hint, or they weren’t prepared to listen to a woman in their bar. “Go!”

The one that had gotten me the booze seemed to be handling himself well enough now. “You, Prospect? You stay.”

I handed him the knife. “Cut the shirt off. It’s going to bleed. I need to see what the wound looks like. Okay?”

He nodded, taking the knife from me. I got a clean bar rag ready to wipe away the blood as soon as the shirt was clear. I waited as he sliced through the stained fabric. Trask’s breathing was shallow and slow, but it was steady. I was surprised to see the prospect’s hand was steady, too.

Once he sliced through my blouse, I leaned in. As he pulled it out of the way, I immediately wiped away the dark blood that was already leaking from the gunshot wound. Even after the wipe, blood was coming up. It was a good and bad sign, and I pressed on.

Handing the prospect the rag, I said, “Keep pressure on it.” He nodded and pressed the rag against the wound.

I picked up the long, pointed pliers that would have substitute for forceps. They were much larger, and they'd be much harder to work with, but they were the best thing available. I leaned over Trask, noting the color change in his face. Time wasn’t on his side.

I looked down from the stage to Bear, who was sitting at a table watching like there was nothing more important. “I’m going to cut away some dead tissue and then remove the bullet. We’re then going to pack the wound and wait. He’s going to need antibiotics in case of an infection, so if anyone has anything, go get it. He’s going to be touch and go.” A few of the Rising Sons got up and headed for the door.

Turning back, I nodded to the prospect, and he removed the cloth. For a few minutes, I cleaned the wound. My heart rate was up, but I found a focus I didn’t know existed. They always say not to operate or even consult on someone you know, but it did something for me. It
drove
me like I’d never felt. My movements were steady and deliberate.

Once the wound was cleaned up, I took a breath. “Move to the head of the table. If he starts to fight, you hold him down.” The young biker nodded, but I wanted to be certain. “I mean it. He’s a hulk, and this isn’t going to be a tickle.”

“I got it.” I believed him. If the young kid wasn’t enough, I could call for backup and a dozen others would be up in a heartbeat. Bear was right; it really was family.

With the kid ready to hold Trask down, I steadied my mind. I’d seen a bullet removed once, but the patient was under a general anesthetic. He had been awake, and didn’t feel a thing. Trask wasn’t on anything, but I knew he’d feel it all. I had a lump in my throat. Hurting him was going to shatter my heart, but I had to get it out.

I moved the rag and slid the pliers into the hole. I saw the muscles in his neck tense before I even found the bullet. I got the pliers around it, and I was so relieved to discover it was a small caliber slug. Pulling it out was a different matter entirely.

As soon as I began to retract the pliers, Trask started fighting. The prospect did his job, though. Trask was weak, despite his size. He’d lost most of his strength staying up on the bike.

I struggled to get the bullet out, but finally managed to pull it free without agitating Trask much more. I dropped it into a circular metal tray that had been laid out with the tools. The hard part was done. I cleaned up the wound as best as I could. Then I took a break to wipe the sweat from my brow. I did the same for the prospect.

“You did good, kid. You’ve got a strong stomach.”

He smiled. “My mom’s a nurse. She’d slap me if I hadn’t learned a thing or two from her.”

I smiled and gave him a wink. “She sounds like a good mother.”

I packed the wound. I had two types of tape to choose from. I went with electrical tape to save Trask’s skin. Someone would have to go out for supplies, and proper gauze and medical tape would be on the list.

In the meantime, the electrical tape would have to do. I taped the rags down across Trask’s chest and wiped his forehead. I checked the rest of his body, making sure there wasn't something I missed. The bullet in the shoulder was the only injury that I could find. I pulled off my gloves and tossed them into the large trash can set up for us.

I came down the steps from the stage and sat down across from Bear. I was surprised to see such worry on his face. He hung his head and let out a long sigh. Someone brought me a tall mug of beer, and despite knowing I should have been drinking water, I took a long drink of the cold brew. There was also a Rising Sons Motorcycle Club t-shirt folded over a chair. I threw it on, not so much because of any body shame, but because now that the focus of surgery had worn off, I could see the bikers’ eyes on me.

With his head still hanging down, Bear asked, “Well, what’s the verdict?”

I took another long drink. On second thought, the beer was just what I needed. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I’m going to need someone to get a list of things. If he has a fever in a few hours, we might have to take him to a hospital, no questions asked.”

He looked up, hopeful, “I knew he’d go all mercenary to help you. As soon as I saw you next to him, I knew you were Hope.”

“You know me?”

“Trask talks about you all the damn time. You two in high school, you in med school. It’s nice to meet you in person.” He gave me a smile.

I was dumbfounded. I never would have expected Trask to talk about me, especially to his biker brethren. I looked over at my wounded man on the makeshift table. It was hard to imagine the high school version of him anymore. After the twenty-four hours we’d had, I could only see the rugged, stubborn, sexy man with his Rising Sons cut on.

I spoke low, as if he could hear. “I didn’t know he felt that way.”

Bear scooted his chair towards me, the screeching sound snapping me out of my girlish haze. “Tell me what went down.”

I kept it short, like the emergency call. “Three guys, two cars. I think Trask got one of them pretty good, but I’m not sure. They sped off after a short fight.”

“And you said the dealer’s name was Beezer?” I nodded, and Bear went on. “One of the guys here knows him. He’s new in Bakersfield. He’s small time with big time confidence. We’re going to rally the whole club and come up with a plan. You give me that list of supplies, and me and a few of the Sons are going to run some errands. Sound good?”

I nodded, “Sounds good. I’m going to stay here. He needs to be watched closely.”

***

I knew what errands meant. Bear took six Rising Sons with him. It didn't take seven bikers to get some medical supplies, but I figured that they were riding in numbers for safety. The hired goons must have known Trask was with the Rising Sons, and I was sure the dealer was assembling his own men.

I sat next to Trask the entire time. A few of the bikers stayed with me. We talked a bit, but not about anything in particular. The prospect was the one I talked to the most. His name was Ryan, but most of the club was calling him Vegas.

“I ride out there twice a month. They think it’s because I love to gamble, but it’s where my family lives. The ride to the desert is incredible. You have nothing but time to think.”

He was just a kid, and I imagined Trask not being much older when he started riding with the Rising Sons Motorcycle Club.

“What’s Trask like around here?” I asked him, dabbing some sweat from my man’s forehead.

“He’s a force.” Vegas’ eyes lit up when he talked about Trask. “I mean, the guy doesn't take shit from anyone outside the club. We’ve had rival gangs come in here stirring up trouble, and we’ve had to go up against some guys out in the streets, and Trask is always at the front and always there for every brother.”

I smiled and listened as Vegas talked. It was nice to hear someone talking about Trask as a biker, not as the baseball pitcher I knew. That image was slowly being scrubbed from my memory. It was being replaced with the stubborn biker willing to take a bullet for his girl.

Some time later, I dozed in my chair on and off. When I woke up, I checked on Trask. He seemed to be stable. I changed his bandages, checking on the wound. There was nothing I could do but wait.

My phone woke me up just around midnight. The vibration startled me, and I struggled to get the phone out of my pocket. As it buzzed, I yanked, finally getting it free. It was Nick calling. I took the call, hoping for some good news.

I twisted my neck, trying to get rid of the stiffness. “Hey Nick. You still out of town?”

“No, Hope. Nick is no longer out of town. He’s with us.”

I had no idea who was speaking.

“Who is this?” I sat straight up in the chair, focused only on the sound of his voice.

There was a long pause. “Nick knows who this is. I’m not too pleased with you, Hope. Whatever thug you hired to push me around has only succeeded in pissing me off. And before you go asking if I really have Nick, here’s a scream to let you know I’m serious.”

I heard a scream that couldn't have belonged to anyone but my brother. He swore and then screamed again. I guessed he hadn’t been too safe, after all. Once again, a simple task fucked up by my brother.

“Let me guess. Beezer?”

“Oh, so you do have some fucking brains. Let’s see just how smart you are. Your brother owed me how much?” I could hear him toying with me. There was nothing I could do, though.

“Ten grand.”

He laughed. “I guess you aren’t too smart. It’s fifty grand.”

Mess with the bull, get the horns. That was the thought running through my head. The price had gone up by forty grand, and I was sure the dealer knew there was no way I could pay that much.

He went on, “I’ll see you at Nick’s shithole trailer bright and early at seven in the morning. I’ll have your burnout brother, you’ll have my cash, and then I never want to see either of you again. You got it?”

My fists were clenched. I was backed against the wall, a place I’d found myself far too often the last few days. I spoke through clenched teeth. “Yeah. I fucking got it.”

Click.