by K. L. Savage
“Breathe,” he says, tilting his head to the side. His shaggy hair falls and covers one side of his face.
No fucking shit. Who’s the doctor again?
I close my eyes and inhale through my nose, calming myself and letting my emotions take a back seat, so logic can take over. Instead of explaining, I only say one word, “Joanna.”
Tongue’s menacing eyes, usually narrow and hard, carrying a dark void, lighten. He’s surprised, but he doesn’t ask questions. He nods and jogs toward his hog that is four rows down. He doesn’t bother with a helmet, he never does; no matter what I tell him about injuries, he always grunts and shrugs.
He cranks his bike and backs it out, keeping his feet balanced on either side. For a minute, I’m confused about what he’s doing. When he turns his head over his shoulder, the skull on his cut matches the threat etched in his jawline, and I realize he’s coming with me.
I don’t have an issue cranking my bike now that I have my shit together. A few more guys come out the front door, and Reaper hurries down the steps but stops when he sees that I’m not going to explain myself. My engine grumbles as I peel out of the dirt parking lot, kicking dust into Tongue’s face.
Braveheart opens the gate when he sees me, and the heavy iron creaks as it swings wide. Tongue stops next to me. His handlebars are much longer than mine, along with his front wheel. His bike is custom, fresh out of the shop. The body of it is a skeleton, and the head has a tongue sticking out of it as if it is manic. It’s fucking badass.
“You don’t have to come,” I say.
“I know,” he clips, revving his engine. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, which isn’t new. He isn’t talkative. His actions speak louder than his words, and the fact that he’s coming with me tells me he’s always going to have my back. His knife glitters against his hip as we ride forward.
I gun the gas, swerving in and out to miss the damn potholes Reaper refuses to fill. He says they will ‘slow down the enemy’ but honestly, they’re slowing me down from getting to Joanna.
When we get to the end of the dirt road and the pavement is a tire roll away, I think about the last time I saw Jo. Patrick was in the hospital, and I was so fucking worried about her. I hadn’t asked her what was going on because I thought she needed space. I let her go to school while I went back to work for the club, and I regret it.
If I had given in to what I really wanted to do, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
I turn right and head down Loneliest Road. I peek in my rearview to see Tongue behind me, but I hear a few more bikes. Tongue moves to the side, and that’s when I see four more men following me, all Ruthless Kings, my brothers.
They have my back, and they will have Jo’s. They don’t even know why they are following me. The guys know something is wrong. I heard the wheezing in her voice, the pain, the defeat, and the way she sounded was the way I felt for so many years. When my dad died, my nightmare ended, but the memories couldn’t be forgotten since I had dozens of scars on my back to show for them.
She and I have way too much in common when it comes to pain. I’m not afraid to admit that the thought of loving someone, letting them inside and taking root scares me. Someone will own my soul and then tear it to shreds; isn’t that what love does? It fucks you up, makes you second guess everything, makes you want more of this fucked-up merry-go-round of abuse. It’s a form of enslavement to want the love of the person who loves you the least. No matter how hard you try, no matter the good you do, at the end of the day, their love comes with terms and conditions.
It’s the fine print you forget to read before jumping in with two feet, but by the time you want out, it’s too late.
I’ve been stuck in the abusive loop before, and I refuse to make myself weak like that again. I’ve bowed down, I’ve kissed ass, and I’ve begged. I’ve thrown my dignity out the window to gain a minute of peace only to be cut in the next minute.
And you think, maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll be better. Tomorrow, they will love me more. There’s always a tomorrow.
And adding a wound to the wounded is unnecessary roughness.
That feeling when your gut is screaming at you to get out, to leave, that tightness gripping your insides and twisting—listen to it. It’s never wrong. The longer someone waits to save themselves, the deeper the scars will become.
Her school isn’t far, and while she doesn’t come home often, we haven’t bothered her because we thought she was living her best life, away from the club, away from the reasons she’s in pain. We wanted her to get back on her own feet.
A fucking mistake on our end. We gave her too much space when we should’ve been holding her close.
When I should’ve been holding her close.
The thought brings cramps in my chest, but at least in my arms she’d be safe, and she wouldn’t be alone.
Jo, what are you thinking? What did you do?
I tighten my grip on the throttle and speed up, the exhaust popping from the power coursing through the engine. The lone red light comes to view, and we all roll to a slow stop. The desert is a sea of nothing on either side of us, cacti, rocks, snakes, and a few other creatures that I wouldn’t want to come across.
Peering to my right, I see the Vegas skyline and the bustling strip that parties twenty-four hours a day. It’s a fun place to be, a good place to blow off steam, to get laid, and to get drunk. I think back to when we were supposed to go out for Sarah’s birthday, but we never did because shit went down.
Shit is always going down.
“Doc!” Tongue yells at me when the light turns green.
I shake my head and accelerate, letting the wind slash against my cheeks, bringing me to the present. I check my rearview again, and the bikes are closer for me to decipher who it is. Badge, Tank, Slingshot, and Tool.
Five minutes later, I’m pulling up to her apartment and park in the nearest spot. It’s the nicest, safest complex we could find. I put my bike in park and jab the kickstand down on the fresh pavement.
I don’t wait for the guys to park. I throw my helmet down, smashing it against the ground, and I run. I jump over the hedges, landing right before the staircase. I grip the rail and take the steps at lightning speed. There are scratches against the steps, scuffs against the walls from people moving furniture in and out. When I get to the top, I use the rail as leverage to swing myself around and sling myself down the hall. My breath is coming out in short pants, and I can hear Badge on the phone with 911 requesting assistance and an ambulance. I don’t know how he knows that. Maybe it’s the cop in him; all I know is that I’m thankful because every second matters.
Her door is the last one on the right, and when I get to it, I don’t bother grabbing the frosted silver handle or knocking. I lift my leg and shoot it forward. My boot connects with the wood right next to the lock. The door shatters. Pieces of it fly and hit me in the face. The hinges groan, trying to support what’s left of the door. I step inside, the silence worrisome.
“Jo? Jo, are you here? Talk to me,” I call out, my boots crunching against the debris on the floor as I step inside, waiting for her sweet, quiet voice. I glance around, looking for some sort of intrusion, struggle, anything that might tell my instincts that this isn’t what I think it is. But as I head toward the bedroom, an invisible wall of what smells like blood smacks me right in the face. “Jo,” her name leaves my lips as a realization hits me. I launch forward and push the door open, and what I see almost has me crumbling to my knees.
Time slows when I see her pale, nearly translucent body sitting up in the bed. Her hair hangs in her face, and blood drips off the mattress and onto the floor. “Jo! Fucking hell, Jo. Tongue! Someone! Get the fuck in here,” I roar so loud my throat becomes raw.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life but seeing someone give up because the struggle is so bad is new to me. There’s always a first for everything but seeing Jo like this guts me. I hurry to her side, and I slip on the blood under my boots. I
fall backward, slamming onto my back, and my head hits the floorboards with a hard thwack. I turn over and find myself in more blood. It’s wet and still a bit warm, telling me it hasn’t been too long since the blood has left her body. I push myself up slowly and fall backward, landing directly on the bed so I can no longer slip.
I flip onto my hands and knees and crawl to her, immediately turning her arms over. “What did you do, Jo? What did you do?” I gasp when I see the long, jagged wounds on her arms. “Jesus Christ. Jo? Hey, Jo, can you hear me?” I grip her chin with my fingers, but her eyes are closed.
“Holy shit. Oh my God,” Badge exclaims from behind me. “An ambulance is on the way.”
I lay my head on her chest and place my fingers against her neck to try to get a pulse.
Thump.
A second of silence.
Thump.
“Her heart rate is too slow. She won’t make it to the hospital. Someone get me a towel and rip it in long pieces. I need something to stop the bleeding.” I’d use my shirt, but it’s covered in her blood and sticking to my skin. I lay my palm over half of her wounds on either arm, but it doesn’t do a thing since the cut is so long and deep. Something shines out of the corner of my eye, and in her palm is a straight razor, splattered in blood. “You could have called me,” I choke, trying as hard as I possibly can to stop the emotions from pouring out of me. “I’m your friend. We are your friends. Jesus, Jo. You can’t fucking die like this; not after everything…” She’s lost so much blood, I’m not confident she’s going to make it another thirty minutes without a transfusion.
“Here. I got it. What do you need me to do?” Tongue questions, kneeling on the other side of the bed. He doesn’t hesitate to lay his hand over the wounds, but I need him to cut the towels with his knife.
“Use your knife, Tongue. I need strips so I can make a tourniquet.”
“Okay,” he grunts, and as he lifts his hands off her arm another wave of blood rushes out. He grabs the towels, takes his knife out of the sheath attached to his hips, and stabs the cotton. Once there is a big enough tear, he rips it down the middle.
“I need them to be smaller,” I inform him. “Take the halves and rip them in half too.”
He nods and does what I ask. He hands them over, and I throw two of the pieces toward him. “Tie them around her arm, tight. Can you do that?”
Tongue doesn’t say anything again; he does what he’s told, and together we bandage her arms to stop the blood flow.
“Thank you,” I say through broken breaths.
“Will she be okay?” he asks, pushing a piece of hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. “She was always nice to me.”
“I don’t know, Tongue. I wish I did.” The song of the ambulance sings in the distance, and I pick her up, cradling her limp body in my arms. I’m not waiting for the paramedics to get up here. Every second matters.
“We will stay up here and talk to the cops,” Badge says, pinching his lips together when he sees how much blood there is on the bed and floor. He brings his eyes to mine, and I look away in the next instance because I know what he wants to say. Badge has experienced crime scenes like this before. It’s really the only time doctors and cops can relate on some level because of the shit we see.
That much blood… The chances of anyone surviving are slim to none. Jo isn’t like a lot of people, though. She’s different. She’s a survivor. Yes, she has her issues, but don’t we all? She deserves more of a chance to heal, but sometimes people can’t do it on their own; sometimes people need help.
Tongue opens the door for me, swiping blood on the doorknob since his hands are wet from tying the towels around her arms. I walk out into the corridor and head down the staircase. A few people who are coming up the steps plaster their backs against the wall and gasp when they see the state of us. I’m sure we look like a horror show with how much blood there is. I feel it drying along my skin, and it’s becoming a bit itchy.
Right as my foot touches the bottom step, the lights from the ambulance flicker off the walls in the hallway. I let out a breath of relief and quicken my steps to bring her to the medics. When I step out of the shadows, the paramedics are in action, opening the back doors and bringing the gurney down from the inside.
“Female. Twenty-one-years-old. Self-inflicted wounds on her arms, vertical cuts. She’s lost a lot of blood. Heartrate is low, thready. She needs transfusions.” I lay Jo down gently on the gurney, and the paramedics work fast, strapping her down and placing all of the sensors on her chest so they can get an accurate reading of her heart.
Blood is starting to seep through the towels, and I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. They’re taking too long. They should already be on their way to the hospital.
“Are you coming?” the man on the right asks, his hair slicked back with gel, and he pushes Jo into the ambulance.
“Yeah, I’m coming. Guys,” I shout behind me as I sit down. “Meet me at the hospital.” In this moment, I don’t feel like a doctor. All of my medical knowledge has flown out the window. Jo surviving or dying is the only thing on my mind, the only thing I care about.
“You bet your damn ass we will be there,” Slingshot says as he stares at Jo’s prone body.
I have the urge to cover her from his eyes. I know she wouldn’t want anyone seeing her like this. Badge gives me a quick nod, and Tongue swipes his knife on his pants as the medics shut the back doors.
“I’m here, Jo.” My hand grabs hers, and my heated palms warm her frozen ones. She’s so damn cold. I rub my thumb over her knuckles, and tears brim my eyes when I think I might lose a friend. A person who is kind, and the only person that I’ve ever felt kindred to. I have from the first time I saw her. “I’m right here.” I bend down and kiss her cheek and then hang my head, leaning my forehead against her shoulder. “You can’t leave. Okay? You can’t leave.”
I want to tell her she can’t leave me, specifically, but even when she’s on the verge of death, I can’t. Part of me feels that death is more peaceful than life, and I’d understand if she didn’t hold on, but selfishly, I want her here.
That isn’t enough to keep the blood pumping in her heart, that’s medicine.
And there are times when medicine can’t save the souls that are too close to the other side.
All I can do is hope.
And hope has let me down more times than not.
I’ve never been the one to wait.
I hate waiting.
I’m usually in the surgical room where the action is. I’m not good at this. Is this what people feel like constantly? Watching the clock drag on and on and fucking on only to see three minutes have gone by?
“Doc, we brought you a change of clothes,” Reaper says.
I look up and pull my fingers from my hair. Right. Clothes. I glance down at my ruined, blood-stained shirt and jeans and sigh. “Thanks, Reaper,” I say, reaching for the folded shirt and pants in his hands. I head to the restroom and clean up as best as I can, trashing the blood-stained clothes.
I make my way to the waiting room and wait for any news on Joanna. Reaper sits next to me and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Joanna is strong. She’s been through a lot. She’ll be fine.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You didn’t see it, Reaper. I’ve seen a lot of shit. I’ve fixed hundreds of people. I’ve performed multiple surgeries.” I meet his intense stare with my tired one and swallow the lump in my throat. “That was the most blood I’ve ever seen. It was everywhere, obviously,” I snort sarcastically and wave my hand down my body. “We need to prepare ourselves. If she dies, that’s on us, Reaper.” I pat my chest with my palm harder than necessary, but I want Reaper to see that I’m serious.
He looks away from me, contemplating his next words. Reaper laces his fingers together, and the exhale that leaves him deflates his entire body. When he realizes I’m right, his shoulders fall. “I know. We should’ve done more. I thought she was fine. Sh
e seemed … she seemed happy, like she was having the time of her life at college.”
“Depression is a trickster. Seems like it fooled us pretty well. I’m a damn doctor, and I didn’t realize she needed help. I’m a fucking doctor, Reaper! How could I have not seen that she needed help?” I lean back and turn my head toward the door the doctor is supposed to walk through, but it’s still closed.
“No one is perfect, Doc. People hide their pain well for a reason.”
I frown and disagree. “No, she didn’t hide it that well, now that I think back on it. When Patrick had his transplant, and she was there, I saw the oddities. Something wasn’t right, and I chose to ignore it. If I had pushed aside my…” I almost say attraction. “Anyway…” I run my fingers through my hair again and stand. “I’m going to find some coffee.”
“I’ll make sure to get you if the doctor comes out and says anything.”
I give him a tight smile and stare at Tongue, who is standing in a corner, as he always does so he can see everything. He still has blood on him, but unlike me, Tongue enjoys a good blood bath. He probably won’t shower until later.
Exhaustion sets in my bones. I rub my eyes and wake myself up a bit. The thud of my boots echo along the white floor. Fluorescent lights reflect in the tiles, and the brightness burns my eyes for a second, giving me the jolt I need.
I hang a right to go down the hallway, but the double doors on the left swing open, and a doctor walks out. I spin on the sole of my boots and hurry in the direction I just came from. My hand travels along the edge of the counter where a redheaded lady is sitting, pursing her lips as she talks on the phone. “Doctor,” I call to him to get his attention.
He jerks his head up from the medical chart, the glasses he’s wearing has his eyes magnifying larger than what they really are. The dome of his head is bald, but the sides have hair and are turning silver from old age. “Do you have information on Joanna Davis?” I ask, a little more desperate than I mean to.