by Joanna Wylde
“Sure,” I said, smiling at her. “I’m Melanie—what’s your name?”
“Deanna. I’m new around here, just moved to town.”
“Oh,” I replied, wondering if she was with someone in the club.
“Mel, can you help me grab the veggie trays?” Loni asked. Giving Deanna a quick wave, I followed Loni through the back door and into the kitchen, where she made a beeline for one of the fridges. Pulling out three big veggie trays, she handed them to me and then grabbed a cardboard box off the counter, loading it with packages of hot dogs.
“We’ve got sticks so the kids can roast their own,” she said.
“That’s a lot of hot dogs just for the kids.”
She laughed.
“Yeah, well once the kids start, the guys will follow. Usually I hate hot dogs, but even I enjoy one roasted over an open fire every once in a while.”
“So who’s Deanna?” I asked. “I just met her outside—never seen her around before.”
“New club whore,” Loni said bluntly. “She seems friendly enough—Reese said she showed up a few weeks back. Duck gave her a place to stay.”
I raised my brows.
“Her and Duck?”
She nodded. “Apparently.”
“Wow, good for him.”
• • •
An hour later, Izzy had crawled into my lap and was starting to yawn.
“You ready to take her home?” Painter asked. I nodded.
“I think so. It’s been a long day. Are you staying at the party?” More people had been arriving steadily, some I knew and more I didn’t. Among them were far too many girls wearing “costumes” the size of postage stamps.
“I’ll come home with you guys,” he replied, and I smiled. Melanie: one. Halloween tramps: zero.
“Fucking hell!” someone shouted. I looked up to see a group of men gathering around something near the bonfire. “Call nine one one!”
Painter and I shared a look, then I thrust Izzy at him. She squawked in protest, but I ignored her as I ran toward the fire, pushing forcefully through the crowd of men.
Duck was on the ground, eyes closed.
“What happened?” I snapped, kneeling down next to him, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No breathing, either.
“He said his chest hurt,” Reese said. “We were getting him a chair, and then he fell.”
“Reese, call nine one one,” I ordered. They all paused, and I realized they weren’t used to a woman giving their president orders. Rolling Duck onto his back, I looked up at the circle of men and snarled, “I’m a fucking ER nurse, and that means right now I’m in charge. Call nine one one, and someone get Painter. I need my keychain. Do you have a defibrillator?”
“No,” Horse said bluntly. “Never occurred to us.”
Of course not.
Rising to my knees, I traced my fingers over Duck’s chest, finding the bottom of his breastbone. Centering the heel of my left hand just above it, I braced my right on top of my left and pushed down using all my weight.
His sternum cracked loudly. I felt the crunch of his ribs as I started chest compressions. One. Two. Three—all the way up to thirty, and fast, too.
“Where’s my keychain?” I yelled, looking around. Painter dropped down next to me, handing it over. I found the little pouch I always kept attached to it, and pulled out a lightweight pocket CPR mask, slapping it over Duck’s mouth to protect myself from any diseases he might have. Then I gave him two powerful breaths, watching for his chest to rise and fall.
Time to start compressions again. I looked at Painter.
“You’re going to help me,” I told him. “I’ll do thirty compressions, then you’ll give him two deep breaths. Watch me this next time, then do exactly what I do. After five cycles, we’ll trade off—otherwise we’ll never make it.”
He nodded.
One. Two. Three. Four . . .
I could feel myself tiring already, which wasn’t a surprise. Real CPR wasn’t nearly as smooth and easy as they show on TV, and the compressions had to be deep if they were going to work. His organs needed oxygen, and every minute that passed, more heart muscle was dying.
By the time we traded off, my arms and back ached. I checked for his pulse. Still nothing.
“Is the ambulance coming?” I shouted.
“Yes,” Reese said. “But they’re at least another ten minutes out.”
Fuck. Stupid old man, having a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Duck vomited and I jerked back, grabbing Painter’s arm. “We have to roll him, otherwise he’ll drown on his own puke.”
Pushing Duck to his side, I let the disgusting fluid mixed with chunks of hot dog drain out of his mouth, then turned him back over. We weren’t safe yet.
“Okay, you can start again.”
Time seemed to blur after that—an endless cycle of compressions and breaths punctuated with pulse checks. We traded places again, and yet again, over and over until finally I checked his pulse and—
“Stop!” I shouted. “I’ve got something.”
Painter dropped back, panting as I listened for Duck’s breath. There it was. I dropped to my butt, exhausted but triumphant.
“He’s alive,” I said, feeling dizzy with relief.
“Coming through,” a man’s voice shouted. Reese pushed people out of the way as the EMTs came toward us, carrying their equipment.
“I’m an ER nurse,” I told them. “He was down about . . .”
Hell. I had no idea how long he’d been down.
“Twenty minutes,” Reese chimed in, his voice grim.
“Does he have a history of heart disease?” the EMT asked.
“No idea,” Reese answered. “He’s been at the doctor a lot lately, but didn’t tell anyone why.”
I felt someone catch my arm, pulling me away from Duck’s body. Painter.
“Good job,” he said softly. I nodded, because he was right—we’d done a hell of a good job. Wrapping an arm around my waist, Painter helped me over to the grass, where I lay down on my back, arm flopped over my eyes. He collapsed next to me, then Izzy ran up, crawling in between us.
“Is Uncle Duck dead?” she asked, obviously afraid. I cuddled her close.
“No, baby. But his heart is sick. They’re going to take him to the hospital and see if they can fix it.”
“What are his odds?” Painter asked. I considered the question.
“Depends,” I admitted. “I have no way of knowing how much damage he has or why he had a heart attack in the first place. If they get him to the hospital in good time—and they should be able to—they’ll run a catheter up his groin and check him out. If they find a blockage, they should be able to clear it and put in a stent. It’s a common procedure—he could be back home by tomorrow. That’s a best-case scenario, though. And he’s going to hurt like hell no matter what. I probably broke half his ribs.”
“Is it always like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“That . . . violent?”
I laughed. “CPR? Yeah. It’s not something you do for fun.”
“I’m tired,” Izzy announced. Me and her both.
“Most of the club will be heading down to the hospital,” Painter said. “But I think we need to go home. I’m wiped.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll make a few calls once we get there, see if they’ll give me any information. You think you could leave your bike out here, maybe drive us back?”
“Yeah,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to look at me. “They’re all going to want to thank you—you’re a hero, Mel.”
I offered him a weak smile, then shook my head.
“Nope, I’m just a nurse. But remember tonight the next time we have a fight, okay? Because I know about a hundred different ways to kill you in your sleep, bring you back, and then do it all over again.”
His eyes widened, and Izzy laughed, clapping her hands.
Best. Kid. Ever.
THREE DAYS LATER
&n
bsp; PAINTER
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. I’d just pulled up to the Armory for an emergency church meeting, only to find Duck pulling up next to me. I’d been to visit him the day after his heart attack, so I knew he was doing all right, but it still startled me to see him here.
“We got church,” Duck said, frowning as he lumbered toward the building. “I always come in for the meetings. Although I had to drive a fuckin’ cage to get here.”
“Mel said she didn’t want you riding your bike for a couple weeks,” I reminded him. “Nothing strenuous, remember?”
“I know,” Duck growled. “And it’s fuckin’ killing me. But that new girl of mine has been takin’ good care of me. Seems damned unfair that when she gives me a sponge bath I can’t have my happy ending, though.”
“You don’t need sponge baths—you could just take a shower,” I pointed out reasonably. Duck smirked.
“She doesn’t know that. Now, let’s get inside—Pic said it was important. Better hear what he has to say for himself.”
• • •
“Got a call from Hallies Falls,” Picnic said, looking around the table. “Not good news. Gage got attacked earlier today. The details are fuzzy, but his old lady found him on her living room floor half dead—all cut up. He’s in emergency surgery right now.”
“Was it club-related?” Ruger asked.
“Cord thinks so,” Bolt said, sharing a look with Picnic. “They took his colors. Someone wants to start a war.”
The words hung heavy over the table. I didn’t know about everyone else, but I was running through a mental list of potential suspects and coming up short. Who was strong enough to challenge us right now?
“You think it’s the cartel?” Horse asked.
“Probably,” Pic said. “Things may be heating up again north of the border. I think we should head over and check things out for ourselves. Rance is on his way, too. He’s been hearing rumors on his end, so odds are good it’s connected with that shit going down in Vancouver. Thoughts?”
“I’m with you,” said Ruger. “We could ride over, pay Gage our respects, and do some poking around along the way. They’re still a small chapter—might help them sleep a little better tonight, knowing they’ve got backup.”
“Anyone disagree?” Pic asked. Nothing. “Okay, then. Duck can stay behind. We’ll want a couple more bodies here just to cover our asses, too.”
“I need to stay,” I announced. “Izzy’s having her tonsils out tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t be a big deal, but they’ve got to put her under. Promised her I’d be there when she wakes up.”
I waited for someone to protest, give me shit about bailing on the run.
“Understood,” Pic said. “We’ll leave the prospects with you. They can stay here at the Armory, make sure nobody tries to fuck with us on this front. I’ll want to roll out in an hour—if you need to run home and grab some shit, now’s the time. Assume things could get ugly, so we ride fully armed. Talk to Ruger if you need an extra weapon or more ammo.”
He gave the table a sharp rap with the gavel, then stood up. I followed him out, catching his arm.
“Sorry about the run.”
“No, it’s better to have you here,” he replied. “Don’t need a brother on the road with us who isn’t focused, anyway. And it’s not good enough to leave the prospects—I’m more worried about Duck than anything else. I told him not to come out for church, but he still showed up. He’s pushing himself already, hates to show any kind of weakness. The prospects and Deanna don’t stand a chance of keeping him in line.”
“Christ, and you think I do?” I asked, biting back a laugh. “Duck does what he wants. Always has.”
“Yeah, and in two weeks he can again,” Pic replied. “But the doc said if he doesn’t take it easy, he could blow the artery in his groin right out—the one they shoved the catheter through. Once you start bleeding in a place like that, you don’t stop until you’re dead. Mel worked too hard saving his nasty ass for us to lose him over something stupid.”
“Right, and what am I gonna do to stop him?” I said, shaking my head. “The bastard killed more guys in ’Nam than’s in this whole club. He’s not gonna listen to me.”
Pic snorted.
“He killed more guys in ’Nam every time he tells the story,” he replied. “I guess if he gives you enough shit, you can have Mel drug his ass. Or tie him down—I dunno. Just keep an eye on him, okay?”
“You’re sticking me with an impossible job,” I realized slowly. Picnic cocked a brow. “All you guys gotta do is figure out who’s attacking the club and stop them. I have to control Duck.”
“Note that I didn’t volunteer to stay in Coeur d’Alene,” he said smugly. “Good luck.”
“Painter, get your ass out here!” Duck shouted from the bar. “Let’s go talk to the prospects—make sure they understand what’s expected of them.”
“Did you plan for me to stay here?” I asked with a sudden flash of insight. “Because of Mel?”
Pic shrugged. “That’s for me to know. Now you heard the man—get your ass out there. Duck’s waiting.”
Then Pic offered me a cheery salute. I flipped him off in response, because fuck him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MELANIE
“You want to watch TV?” I asked Izzy, snuggling down with her in my bed. Our bed—mine and Painter’s. It still felt really weird, even after more than a month of us all living together.
“Yes,” Izzy said, her voice small. The surgery had gone well, and now she was slurping down a blue Popsicle like her life depended on it. She’d already had two, but children are lawyers, and she’d taken the “unlimited” clause seriously. At some point I’d have to cut her off—didn’t want to risk an upset stomach. Reaching for the remote, I flipped on the small TV sitting on top of my dresser. Izzy sighed in pleasure, and I kissed her forehead.
“Look who came to see you,” Painter said from the door. Behind him was Sherri, carrying another box of Popsicles. London had brought some by earlier, and of course Painter had bought about a thousand of them, too.
Apparently Isabella had been extracting promises from everyone.
“How are you?” Sherri asked. Izzy, mesmerized by the television, gave her a thumbs-up. Sherri raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. She laughed. “I guess I’ll just go put these in the freezer.”
Painter’s phone went off, and he stepped out to answer it. I cuddled closer to my girl, resting my eyes for a second. I hadn’t slept for shit last night—I knew very well that a tonsillectomy was no big deal, but when it’s your own kid going under, you tend to worry.
“Mel? Can you come out into the living room?” Painter asked, popping his head back in. “We need to talk.”
Kissing Izzy again, I followed him out.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Duck,” he said¸ his voice grim. “Apparently he’s decided he wants to rake leaves. That was Deanna on the phone—Pic told her to call me if he tried to pull anything.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s way too soon after his heart attack—not only are his ribs fucked, but the artery in his groin can’t take that kind of pressure. If it blows, he’ll bleed out in minutes. There won’t be time to save him.”
“No shit,” he said, sighing. “I’m gonna run out there, check on him. Will you stick by the phone in case I need any medical advice?”
“Of course. You know, if he’s being that big of a jerk, you should have him talk to me. I’ve seen people bleed out—it’s not pretty. There’s a lot of blood in the human body, and once it starts spraying from an artery, you’re up a creek unless you get damned lucky. He can’t fuck around with this.”
“What’s going on?” Sherri asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Duck.”
“Duck?”
“One of the brothers in the club,” Painter said. “The one who had the heart attack—he’s decided he wants to do some lawn work.”
<
br /> “Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked. “That was what, three days ago?”
“Yeah, I know,” Painter replied, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m heading out. Stay by the phone.”
“Call me after you see him. I want to know he’s all right.”
“Sure thing.”
He dropped a kiss on my forehead, then grabbed his keys and walked out the door. Seconds later I heard the roar of his bike.
“That’s insane,” Sherri growled. “Men are so stupid. The ribs alone should be enough to convince him to take it easy . . .”
“Tell me about it. I’m gonna go check on Izzy.”
Back in the bedroom, I found Isabella sound asleep in the middle of the bed. The blue Popsicle had fallen down next to her, melting over my sheet. It looked like a Smurf had died there. Grabbing some tissues, I scooped it up and carried it back into the kitchen.
“She’s out,” I told Sherri. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Always,” she replied. “And we should talk. I have hot new gossip—remember how we’re supposed to get a new cardiologist? Well I heard . . .”
• • •
An hour later I knew more about the new cardiologist than I ever wanted to know, up to and including his blood type. Literally. He was O negative—a universal donor—which apparently he liked to brag about.
What I didn’t know was how Duck was doing. It should’ve taken Painter fifteen minutes to get out there at most.
“I’m going to call him.”
“The cardiologist?” Sherri asked. “Okay, his number is—”
“No, Painter,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although maybe you should call Dr. Love Nuts and ask him out on a date. You’re obviously obsessed with him.”
She flipped me off as I grabbed my phone, and I returned the gesture out of habit. Hitting Painter’s number, I waited for him to pick up.
Nothing.
That was weird.
Hanging up, I texted him, asking for an update. Then I went to check on Izzy again, who was still sound asleep. By the time I came back out, Sherri was rummaging through the fridge, and I realized how late it was getting—nearly seven.
