by K. L. Savage
“Eric? What’s wrong?” she says on a yawn.
“I know I said I wouldn’t leave, but Reaper called. There were gunshots—”
“Gunshots?” she echoes. “Is everyone okay? Melissa?” Jo whimpers when she tries to get up. “I need to go. Mary must be so scared.” She moves her legs and swings them over the bed.
“What the hell are you doing? Get into bed.” I run around the other side of the bed and block her from getting up. “Get into bed.”
“No! Something happened. They need help. My friends are there. What if—”
“And I’m going to go. You have to stay here. If you leave, your stay will only be extended when they demand your return. You need to heal. There’s nothing you can do right now.”
“I’m not fucking worthless. I can be there for my friends. Please, Eric. I haven’t been a good friend. I need to be there.”
“You will be when the time is right. That time isn’t now. I need you to focus on healing, please? I need to do my job. They really need me there, but I won’t be able to focus…” I cup her exquisitely delicate face, rubbing my thumbs over her flushed cheeks as we lock eyes. “I won’t be able to focus if I don’t know you’re safe. Please, Jo.” I finally have her here. I can’t risk losing her.
“Okay,” she whispers, but I can hear the slight tremble of anger in the back of her throat. She’s not happy about having to stay. Jo turns her chin to the left in defiance, taking her attention away from me.
“Thank you.” I grab her legs and place them on the bed, then pull the blue blanket up to tuck her in.
She still won’t look at me.
“I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I lean down and press a kiss to her cheek. I try to pull away, but the feel of her skin against my lips is too much. I need to leave; my family needs me.
Ah, I can’t.
My palm lays on the other side of her cheek and presses her harder against my lips. “Please, stay.” I rub my nose against her jawline and pull away, putting as much space as I can between us.
If I don’t hurry, I’ll sit down in the chair beside her bed, instead of going to my brothers, which is fucked up because they need me right now.
But she needs me too.
I’m tearing myself in half, and Jo has no idea.
Fuck. That.
Eric shuts the door behind him, and I wait a few minutes to give Eric plenty of time to exit the hospital.
Yeah, no way am I staying here, not when my friends need me. I’m doing nothing here, and I don’t know what’s going on at the clubhouse. After everything they have done for me, I can be there for them.
I kick the blankets off and swing my legs over the bed. The stickers on my chest pull my skin as I rip them off and toss them on the bed. I flicker my attention to the door to make sure no one is coming and then stand. My head swims, and I sway on my feet. I try to lift my arms, but the gravity pulls on my stitches. I need to get out of here. I don’t know how I’m going to make it again, but I’m determined to do so. Staying here is just asking for me to start cutting myself.
This place is depressing. How do they expect people to heal? I can’t leave without being noticed. There is no way I’ll make it out the doors. My arms throb, and I hold them against my stomach, then lean against the bed.
You did this to yourself. Push through the pain.
“You’re a real winner, Joanna,” I say, despising myself. This wouldn’t be a problem if I dealt with my issues. All the pain and loneliness I feel, it’s my fault. It’s time to redeem myself. The only thing stopping me from being there are these stitches. No more. I’m not going to let pain stop me.
I can’t.
My left foot drags across the cold linoleum floor and sweat spreads over my neck as the stitches pulse with my heartbeat. I cross my arms over my chest and try to breathe through the agony. That’s all I can do.
You did this to yourself.
I say it again, moving my right foot, then my left, and finally, I’m walking. I’m gasping for air and biting back a moan by the time I get to the door. I glance toward the bed, and it seems so inviting right now.
I don’t deserve rest.
My shoulder thumps against the wall, and I whimper when the small vibrations make their way down to my wounds. My nostrils flare as I breathe in.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
I keep the pace, breathing in and out to try to manage the pain. I tilt my head down and stare at the door handle. How am I going to turn that? This is going to hurt.
You deserve it.
Right. I do deserve it. If I want to get home, I can suffer a little pain. They are feeling more agony right now than I am. I reach for the silver knob, and the cold metal settles on my warm fingers. Doing my best to keep the slightest grip I can, I turn it to the right.
“Oh, God,” I cry, and when I realize how loud my voice is, I bite the inside of my cheeks until I draw blood, and tears well my in eyes. I can’t do it. I can’t. It hurts too much. My arm shakes, and my stiches are tugging. My body is telling me to stop.
Click.
I release my hand as soon as I hear the door unlock and it cracks open. Sweat drips down my face, and my teeth chatter. I feel sick. With a slight thud, my head hits the wall as I take a quick rest.
As I stand here and stare at the messy, unkempt bed, I think about life before I was sold, before the true fear of those men and what they promised to do to me. If Brody touched me and I didn’t want it, what I ended up fleeing from happened to me anyway. Can fate not skip someone? Does it have to loop back around for someone who skims by something horrible that was supposed to happen?
My life wasn’t peaches and cream before all this, but it was something I could handle. Now, I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. All I feel is this need to drive the pain away and every time I cut, there is this moment of clarity, this moment of absolute peace, and my head is in the clouds. It’s euphoria.
But it only lasts a minute before reality comes crashing down.
It’s exhausting, and if I’m going to be a mother, I can’t be that person anymore. I need to be better. I need to heal.
Makes me wonder if I need to listen to Eric and lay in bed.
No, I’ve come this far, and I can’t stop now. Swallowing, I flip my left shoulder and use the wall as leverage as I wiggle my foot between the crack of the door and push it open. I squeeze my body through. Channeling my inner mission impossible, I look left and right to make sure the coast is clear.
Jackpot.
It is.
I hurry down the hall as quick as I can, holding my arms to my chest. As I’m about to take another left, three doctors come around the corner.
Shit.
I dive behind a medical cart and squat. My teeth chatter from nerves, pain, and the chills. My stomach rolls, and the urge to throw up hits me, but if I do, this entire plan goes up in flames, and then they’ll admit me to the psych ward.
A seventy-two hour watch and being admitted into the mental health department are two different things. I’m not crazy.
“No, I think cracking the chest is too invasive for this procedure. Why give the patient a huge scar down the front of their sternum when the new method for this procedure—” a younger doctor gets cut off when the older one chimes in.
“Last time I checked, you weren’t the lead doctor. We do it my way,” he says with a finality that leaves no room for argument as the doctors pass by.
I stay huddled against the wall and a medical cart and watch as they stroll away, having no idea that I’m right here.
Idiots.
Okay, I know they are brilliant, they are doctors, but way to be aware of your surroundings! I watch the older one with white hair slap the chart against the younger doctor’s chest.
Oh, shit. He’s about to turn around and say something to the guy face to face. Then he’ll see me. I dive around the other side of the medical cart, grunting when I hit my arm
on the side of the metal corner.
Breathe through it. Breathe.
I peek around the side of the cart to see the doctors arguing. The older man pokes the younger one in the chest before leaving to go give a patient a massive, unnecessary scar. I’m with the younger doctor, not that my opinion matters, but eavesdropping and all. I can’t help it.
When the coast is clear, I stand and round the corner, only to see the front desk in vision. There are a few nurses hovering around the desk, two are on the phone, and they seem a bit preoccupied. I slow my footsteps to seem less obvious and hold my arms to my chest. A lot of patients do laps when they are recovering from an operation. I don’t know what kind, but I can figure it out.
I can lie.
I’ve perfected the art of lying, and while it isn’t the best talent to have, it’s vital for survival.
Hanging my head, my hair falls around my face, and I slide each foot, so it looks like I’m struggling. I am, so it isn’t a hardship.
“Oh my goodness! Do you need help?” a nurse asks with a sincere tone.
She’s wearing scrubs that have kittens all over them.
I can’t stand cats. They make me sneeze.
“I’m fine. I’m just doing my laps like the doctor ordered. I’m doing good. I have one more to go,” I boast about myself.
“Well, I won’t slow you down! You go get ’em girl. I’ll be here when you come back around,” the nurse cheers me, giving me extra motivation. Her applause starts a chain reaction, and now all of the nurses are rooting for me.
I feel bad. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble when I make a run for it.
“Thank you. I’ll see you soon,” I say, focusing on my next step. When I come around the bend and I’m away from watchful eyes, I take another break. My lips pinch together, and my arms once again are on fire, warning me not to push myself.
I have to.
I can’t leave out of the main doors.
“Oh no.” My stomach lurches, and I haul ass to another medical cart and grab a bed pan. I hurl nothing but stomach bile. It burns the back of my throat and makes my eyes water.
“Oops,” I mumble, wiping my mouth on the hospital gown. I have no idea what to do with the pan, so I set it on the cart again, hoping someone will see it and take care of it. “Nasty,” I grumble as the pan clanks against the cart.
Which way am I going to go?
A red glowing sign captures my attention, and in big block letters it spells EXIT.
Right! The stairwell. Perfect.
“Excuse me?” someone says from behind me.
I stop walking and gulp.
“Excuse me? Why aren’t you in your room?”
I dart toward the door, press my back against it, and see the person who is questioning me is my doctor.
“You need to lay down at once, Ms. Davis!” he shouts, moving as quick as he can to stop me. The door locks shut, but I still hear him calling out for me.
“Code Orange. Code Orange,” is blared over the speakers.
I’m going to assume that’s for me. A runaway patient.
I’ve never felt so thrilled before. I also feel like puking, crying, and screaming in pain, but I have to pick and choose my battles. I press my back against another door, happy that I don’t have to use my arms.
The sun blinds me as I stumble out the door. The pavement is hot, and the heat doesn’t do much for my nausea. I search for a taxi, something that can take me out of here before I get caught. I lift my hand to block the bright light from my eyes and try to figure out my next move. There are a few cars parked in the entryway, empty.
No…
I couldn’t.
The bottom of my feet start to burn, and the sirens blaring ‘Code Orange’ aren’t going away anytime soon. Hissing, I run across the sizzling black pavement. I crouch low to the ground and hurry around the side of a silver Toyota Camry. A quick glance left and right, this is my chance since no one is coming.
I cross my fingers, reach for the door handle, and pull it open. My eyes cross from the wave of pain in my arm, and I slump against the seat. The air is thick, barely breathable, and sweat drips down my back, pooling at the waistband of my panties.
You deserve this.
The reminder has me flipping to my side and pressing my feet against the ground to push myself into an upright position.
“Damn it, it’s been too long since I’ve done this,” I mutter to myself, feeling the pressure of needing to get this done fast. I haven’t hotwired a car since I lived with my father. He lost his truck keys all the time. I had to learn how to drive somehow, and the only person I could depend on teaching me was me.
My bottom lip trembles as my hand rips the panel away underneath the steering wheel to the left. I can’t handle much more pain, or I’ll pass out. I blink the sweat away from my eyes to clear my vision and bend over, grabbing the two wires. I take the red wire and the green one, rip the ends off with my teeth, and press the copper together.
“Woah!” It sparks, and I flinch away, not wanting to get it in my eyes. I hate I have to use this old trick, but it’s my only option. The engine struggles to start the first few times I press the wires together. “Come on!” I yell at the damn thing. I rub the wires together, holding them against one another for a few seconds longer, and then the engine starts.
“Holy shit, I did it.” The gauges work, the car is on, the a/c is blowing. I glance to my right to see three security guards, and I bet they are all for me. “Not today, guys. I’m not in the mood for a foursome,” I say, slamming the car in drive and press my foot to the gas. I wish I could drive out of there like a bat out of hell, but I need to be nonchalant.
I flick the hospital off as I get onto the main road and grimace when I see blood seeping through my bandages.
Shit. Eric is going to kill me.
I wipe my forehead with my arm and keep two hands on the wheel, holding on tight since I feel like I’m about to pass out. I can’t. One, I’ll wreck. Two, I’ll get caught. Three, I’ll get charged with grand theft auto. Four, I’ll probably get thrown into a mental institution. Five, I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what happens to babies when their mother gives birth to them behind bars.
The sane part of me knows that what I’m doing is crazy, to risk my freedom to get out of the hospital to go help my friends.
If it means I’m insane for wanting to be there for the only people who have ever given one damn about me, then I guess I’m crazy.
“Hey! Hey, Patrick, look at me, look at me.” I turn Patrick’s head as he spurts blood from his mouth. He has a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Those are the worst to treat. He’s losing too much blood.
The place looks like a fucking graveyard. I feel like I’m surrounded by death. I press my hand against his wound, and thick streams of blood slip through my fingers. “You better listen to me—you better fucking live. Sunnie needs you. We all need you. Okay?”
“Will do my best, Doc.” Patrick coughs, sputtering a spray of blood between his lips.
I turn him over, checking for an exit wound, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see one. “Okay, that’s good. Through and through. I need to operate, now. Reaper!” I call out for someone who can help me. “Patrick, buddy, you’re going to be just fine. Okay?” This can’t be happening.
It’s karma. It’s because I thought about how I wished I was busier or had more extreme things happen, and then the entire clubhouse gets shot at, and now I’m not sure if Patrick is going to live. He’s losing too much blood.
“Where’s Sunnie?” he asks, trying to move away from me to find her. “I need Sunnie. Sunnie!” he calls for her, but I have no idea where she is. I don’t know if she has a bullet in her brain or not.
“Damn it, Patrick. Stop moving! You won’t ever see her again, if you don’t listen to me.”
“I’m dying, Doc. Don’t bullshit me.”
“You aren’t dying. When have I ever let one of you die? I’m not starting today.”
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He lays a dirty hand on top of mine that’s plugging the hole in his stomach. “The last face I want to see isn’t your ugly mug; sorry, Doc.”
“What do you need?” Reaper finally comes to my side. He has blood smeared on his cheek, a bullet wound in his bicep, but he is one of the only ones who can help me.
“I need him downstairs in the operating room now.” I lean toward Reaper’s ear and whisper, “He doesn’t have long, Reaper. If I can’t find the bleeding, Patrick is as good as gone.”
Reaper lifts Patrick into his arms and carries him inside the front door that’s dented with dozens of bullets. The windows are broken, shattered shards scattered across the ground. There is glass everywhere. On the pool table, the couches, and there is one piece sticking out of a cut-slut’s neck. Jasmine. She’s sagged against the wall, eyes vacant. She’s dead.
There’s another cut-slut, Candy, Bullseye’s favorite, she’s dead too. A bullet caught her between the eyes, and she is laying face down, head turned to the side. Her face still has color which means her body is still warm. The blood is still flowing from the hole in her head, creating a puddle.
I don’t have time to check on anyone else right now. My focus is on Patrick.
“Patrick? Where is he!”
Fuck, Sunnie. She sounds hysterical.
She runs into the hallway, blood in her hair, and she cries when she sees Patrick in Reaper’s arms. She almost falls, thinking he’s dead, when the bastard decides to speak. “There’s my sunshine.”
She gasps and grabs ahold of his hand as we make our way toward the basement. “You’re alive. You have to live, okay? Please don’t die. I love you. We have forever, remember? We’ve been through too much; please, Patrick.”
“My soul is going to have to be taken from my body before I ever decide to leave you, Sunnie.”
She’s wailing, loud, ear-piercing cries that make it hard to think. I open the door, and jump down the stairs, and fly into the operating room. I get everything prepared. I don’t scrub in because there isn’t time. If I don’t get inside his abdomen within the next three minutes, I won’t be able to save him.