by Nicole James
“Going home?”
She nodded. “Yes. Just forgot my bag.”
“I’ll walk out with you. I’m headed home myself.”
Her eyes slid closed. No, no, no! she silently screamed. They reached the lobby and crossed toward the parking garage entrance. “I’m parked in general parking. I’m sure you’re parked in the Physician’s lot.”
“I am. I could walk you to your car, though, if you’d like.”
“Oh, no need. I’ll be fine.”
She was saved when another doctor waved him down in the lobby. He turned, and Cat took that opportunity to dash out the door. She took off running through the parking garage to the bikes.
Both bikers straightened when they saw her running toward them at full speed.
“Hurry! Start the bikes!”
The men must have been accustomed to this type of quick exit because they fired their bikes up quickly with no questions asked, and she jumped on the back.
“Go! Go! Go!” She turned to look over her shoulder as they tore around the corner, and she spotted Dr. Reinhardt just coming through the door. She caught the stunned look on his face as he saw her roaring off on the back of the motorcycle, the sound echoing off the concrete.
She couldn’t worry about that now. The only thing important to her was doing whatever she had to do to make sure Dax didn’t hurt her sister.
Cat clung to the biker as the motorcycles rode through town. She watched the city zoom by in a blur and soon realized they were headed down toward the Quarter. In the year and a half she’d lived in New Orleans, she’d never once been down there. She’d been so busy getting settled at work and making sure Holly was settled in school that she had just never gotten around to it. Really, if she was being honest, she hadn’t done any exploring at all in her new city. She pretty much went from home to work to the gym and back again.
The bikes turned down North Rampart and skirted along the edge of the Quarter until it curved to the right, and then they turned off on some side street. It was sundown, and she didn’t catch the name of the street. The area looked pretty sketchy, though.
They pulled past a two-story rundown clapboard on the left that sat on the corner. It was a dirty gray, the color of driftwood. A second floor gallery surrounded the upper story. It was trimmed with peeling white paint. Half of the turned spindles were missing from the railing. A busted up metal folding chair lay on its side. Graffiti was sprayed all over the building across the street.
They rode to the edge of the building and pulled behind a six-foot wooden privacy fence. Several bikes were already back there. The two men parked next to them, and she scrambled off.
The tall one with the ponytail—who seemed to be in charge—led the way up a set of back stairs that clung to the exterior. The other man shoved her after him. The wooden stairs creaked under the men’s weight, and she grabbed the handrail, half afraid the whole thing would pull from the building and crash to the ground, taking them along with it.
She tried to glance around her surroundings, wanting to remember landmarks in case she needed to run. She noticed a man she hadn’t seen when they’d ridden in. He wore a leather vest with the same patches as the other two. She watched as he moved to the gate and secured it with a heavy chain. If she had to escape, she’d have to jump the fence or find another way out of the building.
They reached the top of the stairs, and the biker in front rapped twice on the door. A man opened it, and they all trouped inside. Cat found herself shoved into a second story hallway.
She whirled on the man behind her. “You don’t have to shove me. I’m cooperating, aren’t I?”
The man in front stopped and turned back, his eyes skating from her to the other man. He raised one brow at him. “She too much for you to handle, Bagger?”
Bagger grabbed her upper arm and yanked her to him. “Keep your mouth shut, bitch, or I’ll shut it for you.”
She did as he said, cursing herself for inciting him. Now that they were off the bikes and inside a building, she realized her situation was just as precarious as her sister’s. She’d now seen four bikers, counting the one down at the gate, and she could hear voices coming from more downstairs. And she was in this house with all of them. She prayed they only wanted her for her nursing skills.
Her hands tightened on the gym bag she had clutched in her arms.
“Snake!” someone shouted up from downstairs.
The one with the ponytail answered, “Yeah.”
“You get some help?”
“Yeah.” Then he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the man who’d opened the door. “Take her in, Ratchet. We got business to discuss.”
The one called Ratchet, a tall man with a shaved head and soulless eyes, led her down the hall as the other two clomped downstairs. Ratchet fiddled with a key in a lock and then pushed her in ahead of him.
Chapter Four
It was stifling hot in the room. The windows were shut, and there was no air. Louvered shutters let in the last of the sun. Cat noticed all that in a nanosecond.
Her eyes were drawn to the iron cot where a man lay chained, his wrists cuffed over his head. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all.
She bit her lip, her eyes moving over him as he lay on the stain-covered, thin bare mattress. He had a dark beard and dark hair soaked with sweat. He wore no shirt over his tattooed body, but he had on a pair of jeans and biker boots. He must be a tall man, because he took up every inch of the length of the bed.
He looked like the incarnation of the word trouble: a biker. She had to be half mad to even consider helping him, but then she thought of Holly. She had to do whatever was necessary in order to get her back.
There was what appeared to be a torn sheet as a makeshift bandage wrapped and tied around his chest. It was stained with blood, but it did not look bright red, which was a good sign. Blood loss had been her biggest fear, but maybe he wasn’t too bad off. The whole way over here she’d worried what they’d do to her if he was too far gone or his wounds were too severe for her to help.
She moved a step closer.
He may not be heavily bleeding, but he didn’t look good. His skin tone was gray, and he was sweating profusely.
With the second sweep of her eyes she noted the man, not the patient. She had an impression there would be raw power emanating from him if he hadn’t been laid up with this injury. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps bulged. His bare chest, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, was hard muscled beneath taut, tanned skin. That muscle continued over a ripped stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the low-riding waistband of his jeans. Her eyes again darted to his face, and she felt a strange shiver.
His eyes moved to her as she dropped her bag and approached him. They looked glassy and feverish, but they met hers from under heavy lids—dark fathomless eyes that seemed to look into her soul. She shook herself from the strange feeling and leaned over to press her cool hand to his forehead. He was indeed burning up.
No matter the fact that—in her snap judgment—he was just another dirty lowlife biker, she still couldn’t bear to see someone suffering like this. She turned to the man standing just inside the door, the one called Ratchet. “Do you have any ice? And some towels?”
He just stood there.
“Please. I have to cool him down.”
He rolled his eyes, but left, locking her in. She frantically dug through her duffel, pulling out her supplies and laying them out on a sterile pad she spread out on the mattress. She snapped on a pair of gloves and a mask, and then gently cut the dirty bandage off so she could examine the wound.
“What’s your name?” she asked him softly as his eyes studied her, almost like he couldn’t believe she was really there. He even let out what she thought was a huff of laughter. When he didn’t answer, she assured him, “I’m a nurse. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me?” He did laugh at that, and then winced in pain.
“That’s funny?”
“Yeah. That’s funny.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t even been given water.
“What’s your name?”
“Blood.”
She frowned. Was he telling her he was bleeding? She again studied the wound. “The bleeding doesn’t look too bad. You were shot?”
He nodded, gritting his teeth as she touched near the wound and examined the edges. Infection was definitely setting in. She needed to get an IV started so she could get some fluids and antibiotics in him. But first she needed to know if the bullet was still lodged inside She moved to the other side of the bed to get a better look at his far side. She leaned closer, bending over him and gently looking underneath him. On the edge of his back was another wound. It actually was smaller and may have been the entrance wound, with the slightly larger hole in his front side being the exit wound. On closer examination, she determined that a rib, in all probability, deflected the bullet. It may have been what saved him. As gunshots went, this one wasn’t too bad, having barely gone through the outer flesh of his side and affecting none of his organs.
The door opened, and Ratchet came in with a bowl of ice and a couple of towels. He set the ice down on the small side table and tossed the towels on the bed.
“I need you to un-cuff him,” she said.
“Un-cuff him? No way.” Then without another word, he slammed back out of the room.
She moved to the door and kicked it several times, yelling through the wood. “Come back here!”
Nothing.
“Damn it.”
She moved back to the bed and ripped one of the thin towels in half. She dipped it in the ice water and wiped his face down.
He sighed at the cool touch.
“You have a fever, I know. I’ll get an IV going in a minute, but I need to get them to un-cuff you.” She wrapped a handful of ice in the torn piece of towel and pressed it to his forehead.
“My ring,” he murmured in his hoarse voice.
She frowned. “What?”
“My ring. Take it off me. Please. If I die…see it gets to my club.”
“Shh. Don’t talk. I’m going to take care of you.”
“Please.” He pinned her with a frantic look. “Take it.”
She saw the desperation in his feverish eyes, and she looked to his hands. A big silver ring with three skulls in a design sat on the third finger of his right hand.
“Take it,” he snapped.
She reached up and pulled it off, studying it. It said Evil on one side and Dead on the other. Was that the name of his club? She met his eyes.
“Don’t let them find it. They missed it. If I die, get it to my club. Promise me.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Blood.”
She frowned, glancing down at his wound again. “What?”
He shook his head impatiently and growled, “No, damn it! My name is Blood.”
She looked at him questioningly. “Blood?”
He nodded.
“Well, Blood, you don’t have to snap at me. I’m here to help you.”
He grimaced. “Sorry, darlin’. It’s just the pain talkin’.” His eyes drilled into hers. “Promise me.”
She couldn’t find it in her to refuse him, so she nodded. “I promise.”
He closed his eyes, apparently content with her answer.
She slipped the ring down into her bra, hoping it wouldn’t be found there. She didn’t have a clue how she would find this man’s club, but she wasn’t planning on letting him die, so hopefully it would never come to that. Looking up, she caught his eyes on her chest. He’d been watching her.
She pressed the ice pack to his forehead again and attempted to soothe him. “I’ll see they get your ring, but I’m going to get you well. You’re not circling the drain yet.” When she saw the confused expression on his face, she clarified. “Sorry. Nursing humor. You’re not going to die on me. You hear me, big guy?”
He attempted to laugh again. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
She could be if she had to be. She looked to the door. Dammit, she needed to get him un-cuffed so she could get his IV started. He needed fluids. Picking up a piece of ice, she brought it to his lips. “Here, suck on this. It’ll soothe your throat till I can get you some water.”
He opened his lips, and she slipped it in, noting his perfectly straight white teeth. She took in his face. He was handsome with warm brown eyes and slashing brows. Her eyes moved over his muscular tattooed arms stretched over his head, and then down his broad chest to his slim hips. He was well-built man.
She repositioned the ice pack on his forehead and rose from the bed. “I’ve got to get those cuffs off you.”
She moved to the door, glancing back to see his eyes following her. They were still glassy with fever, but they tracked her movements. She banged on the door and kicked at it for a good five minutes before somebody finally stomped up the stairs.
It was Bagger this time. “What the hell do you want?”
“I need to give him an IV.”
“So give him a fucking IV.”
“I need you to un-cuff one of his hands.”
“Not a chance.”
She folded her arms in an obstinate stance. “Then what the hell did you drag me here for if it’s just to let him die? Huh?”
The biker looked at her dumbfounded.
She gritted her teeth and snapped, “Un-cuff him! Now!”
Suddenly more boot steps pounded up the stairs, and Snake came in the room. “What the hell is she screaming about?”
“Says she needs him un-cuffed.”
Snake turned on her and barked, “Not a chance. He stays cuffed.”
“Like I told your friend here, I can’t administer the IV with him like this!” She flung her arm out toward the bed and gave them a look that hopefully told them both what idiots she thought they were. “If you didn’t want my help, why the hell did you bring me here?”
“He needs an IV?”
“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
Snake stared her down then jerked his head at Bagger. “Go ahead. One hand. But stay here and watch him.”
Bagger nodded at the orders, and Snake stomped out of the room.
Bagger looked over at her as he moved to the bed and dug the keys out of his hip pocket. “Nobody talks to Snake like that. You better watch your mouth from now on. You do it again, he’s likely to put you through the wall.”
“Then I guess you’ll be out a nurse.”
“Of all the nurses, we picked Nurse Nasty.”
“Screw you, too.”
Bagger actually chuckled as he stepped back. “There. Satisfied?”
“No. I need some water.” Her hands landed on her hips as she glared at him.
Bagger rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother arguing with her this time. “Christ, you’re a lot of fucking trouble.” He moved toward the door and hollered down the stairs. “Stoner, bring me some bottled water!”
Cat got busy preparing the IV. She ran her hands over his arm, rubbing vigorously to try to get the circulation back to get the needed vein. He groaned and flexed his hand, shaking it out.
His eyes met hers, and he whispered, “You’re cute when you’re being all fierce and shit.”
She ignored him, moved to her supplies, and set them on the bed. She tore open the packaging for the IV fluid bag. She had no stand, so she improvised and rigged it up to the iron bedpost above his head, using a strip of the plastic packaging. Then she unrolled her IV pack on the bed next to him and tore open the tubing set. She readied some strips of tape. Now she just needed to insert the needle and cannula in his arm.
She put on a fresh pair of gloves, took his arm and tied a tourniquet around it, and searched the back of his hand for a suitable vein. Then she cleaned the site with an alcohol swab. As her hand rubbed over his skin in a circular motion, she glanced up at him. His eyes were watching what she was doing, but they looked glassy. “I’
m going to get fluids in you. The needle may pinch, okay?”
He glanced up and nodded. Whether he understood or not, at least he wasn’t going to fight her when she tried to stick him. She inserted the needle, setting the cannula in place, attached the line, and taped it off. She stood and slowly opened the line, filling it with fluid. It flowed in just like it was supposed to, and she released a breath, glad she didn’t have to remove it and start over.
Once the IV fluids and antibiotics were flowing, she injected a pain medication into the catheter in his hand. Glancing up, she saw him watching. “It’s pain medication. You’ll feel better soon, which is good because I have to clean your wound. And I’m not going to lie to you, Blood, it’s going to hurt.”
He nodded, and the hand with the IV lifted, his fingers reaching out and clasping onto her pinky to give it a little shake. “Thanks, Doc. But you don’t have to lie to me. I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
She frowned as she disposed of the used syringe and pulled her gloves off. “I’m not lying to you. You’re not going to die. And I’m not a doctor.”
He looked at her, his eyes trying to focus, and she could see the fever was still affecting his mind. She brushed the hair back from his forehead, and his eyes slid closed like he relished the small gesture of kindness.
She turned to the biker who stood by the door with his arms folded. “Can we get these windows open and a fan in here? It’s hot as hell.”
He wiped his brow, the heat affecting him as well, and she could tell he didn’t want to stay in here a minute longer than he had to, either. “Windows are nailed shut.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope.”
“It’s stifling in here.”
He opened the door, but that was it. At least it let a little air flow in.
She turned back to her patient, cracked open a bottle of the water, and lifted his head up to pour some in his mouth. “Here, drink this.”
He guzzled it down until he had to quit to gasp in air. She set it down and dipped a cloth in the ice water wiping down his face again.
