Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
God, what a mess. What are the cops doing shooting at them?
I feel bad for Quickshot. He seemed nice at the meeting, and if he's any older than me, it's not by much. What's he even doing in a biker gang? But they're distracted. Maybe I can—
Between the yoga, etiquette lessons and learning how to “do something about my bulges” as Dad likes to put it, I've also learned self-defense and first aid, including how to deal with bullet wounds. All part of having your Dad be the mayor. I shouldn't even be thinking what I'm thinking, when I should be trying to get the hell out.
As if to reinforce it, King bursts out the front door, looking around like a hawk over a chicken coop. It's not hard to imagine which chicken in particular he's looking for.
I'm a freaking idiot.
I stand up, revealing myself.
“I have first aid training and know how to handle bullet wounds,” I declare to a bunch of distinctly surprised bikers. “Take him inside and let me help.”
If nothing else, it's almost worth it to see King stare at me with his mouth open.
12
EMILY
King's already stomping down the stairs, heading right for me, but Eagle-eye waves me over. “Go with them. King, keep an eye on her.”
I'm sure there's not a soul here who doesn't understand what I was up to, but no one says anything. Two members come running from the garage with a stretcher, and moments later, I'm following them as they carry Quickshot into the clubhouse. The last thing I do before following is glance up at the massive Screaming Eagles sign. I can't believe I'm heading back in, and voluntarily.
Crap.
Through the common room, we turn down a hallway. The whole club is awake now, and all the lights are on. They're all staring at me as I pass. Hero and Wild Child join the party, but after a quick glance from King, leave me be. Bear knocks open a door, and we enter a room that's more like a studio apartment. They gently lower Quickshot onto the bed and then make way for me.
“Like, I'm not a nurse or anything, so no guarantees.” I don't want their expectations to be too high here, but if they've got a real doctor coming, I can at least do my best to help.
Viking joins me at the bedside, carrying bandages and together we strip Quickshot's shirt off the wound. Ugh. It's stuck to his skin from all the blood. It's a good thing that of all the things I'm not great at, I'm at least not squeamish.
“Is there a doctor on the way?” It'd be nice to have someone more professional here to take over.
Hawk shakes his head. “Still at the ER. He can't get away yet, but he's doing his best.”
So it really is an actual doctor. There must be some kind of story behind that.
It's obvious this isn't Viking's first time, but he seems good to work with me. “Should I let you take over?”
He shakes his head. “I got the basic military spiel when I was there, but if you've had actual training, take the lead.”
Great. I'd kind of hoped it wouldn't be up to me.
Okay, what did they teach me about gunshot wounds?
Quickshot looks way too young to have taken one. He's really pale, and that's not a good sign. “Help me get something underneath him while we bandage. We don't want his legs too high.”
Viking nods and Bear gets in there. Together, they lift Quickshot while I wind the strips around his slender torso. At the same time, I look for an exit wound, but I don't find one. The bullet's still lodged in there, then.
Hawk slips some blankets underneath, and they lower Quickshot back down. He groans, but doesn't move. “It's good for him to be quiet. Have him move as little as possible until the doctor gets here. Put pressure on the wound.” Viking nods and puts a knee against it. “Hopefully this will keep him until a professional can look at him. Did you try calling 911? I mean, I know you don't like the officials, but he could die. I know first aid, but I wouldn't know where to start to look for internal injuries or get the bullet out.”
If the situation wasn't so serious, this would be funny. Little me, caught in the middle of an escape attempt, am ordering around the motorcycle gang that kidnapped me, and they're actually listening. Maybe I should tell them to wait here while I run out for more bandages.
No, if there's anything I've learned, it's that these guys aren't stupid. I'm just a resource in a difficult situation. What am I supposed to do? Withhold my help while Quickshot bleeds out?
That sounds too much like something Dad would do, and I'm not like him. I never will be.