by K. L. Savage
Even if it means sacrificing myself.
They are worth it.
What am I worth?
I’ve done nothing to add to the goodness of the world. I’m not special. There is nothing amazing about me. I cut. I’m depressed. I need more help than help can offer. The porch groans, and I hiss when I take my first step on to the stairs. The wood is hot, boiling actually. The step gives way under my foot. I can smell my flesh burning, and I step away, wondering how I’m going to do this.
I’ve been through worse.
I can handle this.
Limping, I walk backward and then sprint, climbing up the staircase and bolt inside. I run in place so my feet aren’t on the floor longer than a second. I can’t see anything. It’s so hot I can’t barely stand it. “Skirt!” I call out for him. I taste the burnt leather of the couch in the back of my throat and gasp for fresh air.
I don’t hear anything, only crackling of furniture, breaking of wood, and the static of the oranges and yellows licking the walls, roof, and parts of the floor. “Skirt!” I try again, lifting my arm to block the smoke.
The roof creaks above me, and I look up, watching shingles dissolve and fall, floating around me.
Oh. Shit.
I run to the left where there’s a hallway and see a door open right as a piece of the roof falls in, crushing the couch.
That could have been me.
A small groan from the room in front of me sounds in the wreckage. I tiptoe, doing my best to keep my arms to my chest. Everything hurts. I’m insane. My head is spinning, my eyes are like sandpaper, blood is dripping down my elbows, and the bottoms of my feet are burnt. I’m nowhere close to getting out of here.
I might die trying to save Skirt.
Running into the room, the smoke is thick, but the flames haven’t reached this room. Another groan penetrates the air, and I fall to my knees and decide to crawl around the room. The floors aren’t too hot. They are warm, tolerable, which is good. My feet need a break.
“Skirt?” I cough again and then fall flat on my face. I’m tired. The smoke is too much. I can’t breathe. My head is pounding, and I can’t feel the pain in my arms any longer. I can’t feel anything. “Sk-irt,” I stutter, and when I hear another moan of pain, it wakes me up. I dig my nails into the wood and drag myself along the floor. My gown has to be in pieces by now, but I don’t care. I’ve come to the realization that I’m going to die trying to get out.
“Mmm,” a mournful sound comes from the side of the bed.
They deserve this.
Skirt deserves to live.
I need to pay it forward.
When I stretch my hand out, I hit something solid, firm. It’s a beam. I follow it, and underneath it is a body. I stay on my knees, and the wood rubs against my skin making it raw. The rough feel of denim glides against my palms as I try to find Skirt’s face.
He moans again.
“Skirt, it’s Joanna.” Another coughing fit takes over. “Let’s get out of here.” I push my feet against the wall and my back against the beam, hoping it’s enough to push it off his back. The wall bellows in weakness from the damage sustained to the house. I grunt, letting a strained warrior cry escape my mouth and mingle with the blaze as I use every ounce of strength I have left.
I fall backward as the beam moves off Skirt’s back.
Holy Shit. I did it.
But the momentum and the exhaustion sends me to the floor instead of to Skirt’s side. It’s too hard. My arms hurt. My feet hurt. I can’t do it. I thought I could. I thought I could save him and repay the favor for what the Ruthless Kings have done for me.
But I failed.
I always fail.
My eyes hood, and the flames come into the doorway as my vision starts to blacken around the edges. Damn it, I’m so close. I’m too close. Shutting my lids as my head lulls to the side, I wheeze in a breath and stare at the reflection of the red and orange streams in the window.
The window.
I try to push up on my hands, but my arms give out from the pain.
Add this to the list of things I couldn’t do for them.
I’ll never find a way to be good enough. Not for them, not for Eric, not for this baby inside me, and not for me.
Even the word greatness has always been too good for someone like me.
I should have cut deeper.
“This baby is coming, Dawn,” I raise my voice so she can hear me over her screams. She hasn’t pushed. If she doesn’t, her baby will die.
“No, no, I can’t,” she sobs, rocking her head back and forth against the floor. “I can’t. I need Skirt. Please, go get him. Please.”
“I don’t know where he is, Dawn,” I reply honestly. “Everyone is patched up. They’re looking for him. He will get here.”
“I’ll wait—” she nods sporadically through quick, tiresome breaths. “I’ll wait. We can wait.” Dawn grips her stomach as another contraction rips through her, and she bellows at the top of her lungs. “I’m not doing this without him.” She chokes on her tears.
“Listen to me—you have to. You have to push, Dawn. You are hurting your daughter by refusing to push.”
“Doc, I can’t. I need Skirt. I need him. I can’t do this without him.”
Aidan, her first son, runs around us from the bedroom I told him to stay in, and sits beside her and takes her hand. “You can do it, Mommy. Dad will be here soon.”
Sarah steps behind Dawn and situates herself on the floor, then pulls Dawn into her lap. Sarah takes Dawn’s hand and squeezes. “You can do it. You aren’t alone. We can do this. And when Skirt is here, he will get to hold his beautiful daughter.”
Dawn lets out another heartbreaking sob and whispers, “Okay.”
“Okay? Okay, good. Good job, Dawn.” I spread her legs and see the baby’s head already. “Next contraction, push okay? Little girl has a ton of red hair.”
“Just like her dad,” Dawn adds right before her stomach tightens.
“Push! There you go. You’re doing great, Dawn. You’re so close.”
“Oh God!” she cries and buries the side of her face in Sarah’s shoulder. “I can’t. Sarah, please, I need him. I’m scared.”
“I know you are. I know, but he will be here.” Sarah doesn’t know that for sure.
“How do you know?” Dawn asks, the disbelief clear in her voice.
“Because Rohan is a fighter, Dawn. He’ll not stop fighting for you.” Sarah pushes Dawn’s damp hair out of her face just as another murderous sound leaves Dawn’s throat. “Push, Dawn. Push for Skirt.”
Dawn grips Sarah’s hand so hard, Sarah’s face pinches, and a tear escapes her eye. I know it isn’t for the pain of the grip, but because she’s watching another woman give birth. Something she desperately wants.
“Head is out! Oh my goodness, that hair,” I say with a big smile. “I’ve never seen so much hair on a baby before. Don’t stop pushing, Dawn. You’re so close.” She spreads her legs wider and hunkers down until the shoulders are free. I pull her daughter the rest of the way out, and Dawn sags against Sarah, sobbing uncontrollably.
To not have the person you love at your side for this is hard but wondering if the reason they aren’t here is because they might be dead, that’s even harder.
“You did good,” Sarah praises Dawn, patting a damp cloth on the new mom’s forehead. “So good. I’m so proud of you, and Skirt will be too.”
I hold the newborn baby in my arms and clear the fluid out of her nose and mouth. She isn’t breathing. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I cut the cord and carry her away from Dawn so she can’t see what is going on.
“What’s wrong? Why isn’t she crying? Doc?” Dawn tries to get up, but I hold up my hand to stop her. She still has to deliver the placenta, and the last thing I need right now is to save this baby’s life and deal with a hysterical mother.
“Stop. Sit down, breathe, and try not to panic. Trust me first. Okay?” I give her my back and lay the little o
ne down on the table, then rub her chest. “Come on, you can do it. Cry for me,” I whisper to her. “Come on.” The words are a sharp bite as I plead with this tiny baby who has no idea what I’m saying. Her hair is bright red, just like Skirt, and she’s little. She fits in the palm of my hand and can’t weigh more than six pounds. She has a button nose, and the middle of her top lip is indented. She’s beautiful.
I flip her over on her stomach and lay her against my palm, then pat her back while suctioning the fluid out of her mouth again. She was in the birth canal too long. Damn it! Doom clouds over me. With every passing second, I grow more doubtful that Dawn pushed too late. I smack the little girl a bit harder, selling my soul to the damn Devil to get Skirt’s daughter to breathe. A high-pitched cry has my shoulders slumping in relief. I’m so damn happy. Holy hell, what a fucking ride today has been. Jesus. I turn her over in my arms, and Juliette runs to me and hands me a pink blanket. I wrap her up quickly and hand the pink potato over to her mom.
Babies are adorable, but every single one of them look the same to me. A cute, pudgy, squishy potato.
I will never say that to the parents because I’ve learned parents decipher in two seconds who the child looks like more.
“She looks so much like Skirt,” Dawn says.
And I rest my case.
I kneel between Dawn’s legs and birth the placenta, then fall back on my ass. I lean my head against the wall and try to take a moment to myself.
“Doc!” The front door is kicked in and slams against the wall when I hear Tool’s desperate shout for me.
This day is far from over.
I stand and wipe my hands on a towel and see him carrying Skirt in his hands. Bullseye is behind him, carrying Jo.
Goddamn it, that girl!
“Downstairs, everyone! Reaper, carry Dawn, Sarah, please carry her pot—daughter.” I catch myself from saying potato. I’m not thinking straight, and I do not want to insult a woman who was just in painful labor for the last hour. I run ahead of them and think about how to treat Skirt and Jo.
“We have another one!” Braveheart yells behind me. I stop at the basement door and peer down the hall, seeing Braveheart carrying Mary.
She has a piece of wood embedded in her thigh, and from the looks of it, she’s lost a lot of blood.
Swinging the door open, I flip on the light and trample down the stairs. I see Patrick laying on the bed, and Sunnie is next to him. Her blonde hair is splayed across his chest and when she sees me, she hurries off as if she isn’t allowed to be close to him. She wipes her face with the back of her hand. Her blue eyes are the size of sapphires in the bottom of a raging sea.
Everyone feels like that today, and the storm is far from over; especially if the day keeps going like this.
Sunnie is about to say something when Tool comes down the steps holding Skirt. She gasps when she sees Jo, and then she sits in the chair when Mary comes down next. It’s a lot to take in, the significance of the attack. No one saw it coming. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the Ruthless Kings were not ready for it.
“Lay them all on a bed.” The first person I decide to treat is Skirt. I want to treat Jo, but that is selfish. She’s making noise, groaning, while Skirt is not. Mary is conscious and speaking. Medically, Skirt is priority. I listen to his heart, wanting to shout when I hear his heartbeat. It’s steady and strong. I check his nostrils and throat, cleaning as much soot as I can out before I place an oxygen mask over his mouth.
“He was crushed by a beam,” Tool says, smudges of black on his arms and face as he tries to catch his breath. “For this.” He sets a box on the chair. The sides are burnt, and the top is bubbling since it is plastic. “I hope whatever it was, it was important.”
“I’m sure it was, or Skirt wouldn’t have risked his life like that.” I tug his boots off and make sure he isn’t paralyzed by rubbing the bottoms of his feet with the percussor. His toes spread out. Good sign.
He isn’t paralyzed.
I make my way to the next bed, wishing Jo were conscious so I could give her a piece of my mind. What the hell is she doing here? How did she get here? I shove an oxygen mask over her face and unwrap the dirty bandages on her arms. They are stained with black soot and blood from her stitches popping. When her arms are bare, Tool and Bullseye curse when they see the extent of what she did to herself.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I clean out Jo’s cuts and redress them for the time being before I make my way to Mary.
“How are you doing, Mary?” I ask, knowing she’s had better days.
“Oh, you know, another day in paradise,” she says as she blinks toward the ceiling.
“I know what you mean.” I chuckle, but there isn’t any humor behind it. I inspect her leg and realize it isn’t as simple as yanking it out. It’s too close to her artery. “I’m going to have to take you in the surgical room, Mary.”
“Good. Knock me the fuck out. I’ve been dealing with this for too long.” The way she says it makes me wonder what else she means, but I’m not her therapist. I pull the lever that unlocks the brakes to the bed and roll her to the surgical room.
“Tool, you’re coming with me. I’m going to need help.”
“You got it, Doc.”
“Has anyone seen Tongue?” I ask. He’s the only one I can think of who’s unaccounted for.
“No.” Bullseye kicks an empty garbage can that’s next to Sunnie and roars, letting everything that’s happened today out before it makes him explode. “No, I have no idea where he is, but I saw him before everything went down. I lost him after that.”
“When I’m done, I want the full story on what happened here.”
“You know as much as we do, Doc. That much I can tell you,” Bullseye growls and slams his fist into the wall, denting it. I catch a glimpse of a patch of hair missing on his skull and remind myself to check for an update on his bloodwork. Damn it, I can’t forget that. It’s just as important as everything else going on right now.
Someone has to know something. Someone had to see something. I know whenever we find out who did this, they’re as good as dead. Nobody fucks with the Ruthless Kings and what’s ours without punishment.
When I find them, when they are here under our roof and in our playroom, I’m going to ask Reaper to let me have swing. It’s been far too long since my scalpel has cut flesh for punishment.
I grew up to have a taste for punishment just like my father, and it’s time I give in to it. There is a tiny problem.
I swore I’d save lives, not take them. Fuck it. I’ll make my own oath. The next cut I make, I’ll make sure my hand is laying over someone’s dead body, preventing them from hurting anyone else.
An oath needs to change along with the doctor because some lives aren’t worth saving.
I wake up surrounded by a flurry of voices. My head is groggy, and my arms are sore, but I don’t try to push myself to sit up. Frankly, I don’t have the energy. I open my eyes and remove the oxygen mask from my face. Everyone is arguing with one another. Eric is in the far corner, ankles crossed, eyes closed, and arms folded over his chest. He has purplish circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his hair is a wreck from stressfully running his fingers through it like he does when he tries to think clearly.
“You were supposed to be on guard duty.” Bullseye points an accusing finger at Braveheart. “Why didn’t you warn us? You a traitor? Boy, you know what we do to traitors!” Bullseye plucks a dart from his pocket, emotions high, and Braveheart stumbles back.
“Stop, you know he isn’t a traitor.” Tool lays his hand on Bullseye’s chest to stop him from making a big mistake.
My eyes fall shut from exhaustion, but I make myself stay awake to hear what happened and to make sure no one else is hurt.
“Fuck you, you don’t know that. He was at the gate—” Bullseye points his dart at Braveheart and sneers. “And it’s his job is to—”
“To what, Bullseye? Fucking be everywhere at on
ce? Did you fail to notice bullets came from every direction? Skirt’s house blew up! Someone threw a goddamn grenade. You’re looking to point fingers for your easy piece of ass that got killed,” Braveheart musters up the courage to defend himself.
“What did you just say?”
My spine tingles as dark tones of his voice surround me with bad intentions. I swallow, staring at the muscles along Bullseye’s neck as they bulge. Everyone is silent now. I dart my eyes to Braveheart, the smallest of the biker bunch, and while he isn’t shaking in his boots, he is terrified. Bullseye has a good five inches on him and seventy pounds.
“You heard me,” Braveheart lifts his chin in defiance. “It isn’t my fault. You’re looking for someone to blame for Candy.”
Bullseye lets out a melodramatic laugh, one that lets everyone know he isn’t to be taken seriously. Or if he is, he’s lost his mind. “You think I gave a damn about her? She was a whore. A cut-slut. A hole for my cock, Braveheart. She can easily be replaced with another.”
“Bullseye,” Tool hisses from the lack of care Bullseye is portraying.
“What? You think I’m mad about her? Then you all must not know where my goddamn loyalty lies. I want to know who almost killed Patrick, Skirt, Mary, and the rest of us. What about Poodle and Melissa? Melissa smacked her head on the side of the house when it blew up. Is she going to wake up? Get your head out of your asses! She was a fucking whore who didn’t give a damn about your ol’ ladies and just wanted to take a ride on your cock. You want to know what I care about?” Bullseye flicks the dart from his hand and it lands right next to Braveheart’s head. “I care about the fucking club, my brothers, my damn sisters!” he roars, banging his fist on his chest like a gorilla would before a fight. Bullseye closes the space between him and Braveheart, the rage gassing the air and making it hard to breathe.
One ignition of Bullseye’s fist and this entire place will go up in flames.
“Maybe someone needs to reconsider where their loyalties lie if you think I’d put a cut-slut above my own damn family.” Bullseye grips Braveheart’s throat, and I wiggle in bed to sit up straighter, waiting for someone to stop him.
