"No hospitals." The words are firm, final. "Not unless I'm unconscious and can't argue about it."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Good thing I don't give a fuck what you think." There's no bite in his words. He's too focused on not passing out, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Jinx is already moving, disappearing down the hallway only to return moments later with what looks like a full medical kit. The kind with actual supplies, not just bandages and Neosporin. He sets it on the coffee table and immediately starts gathering supplies, and I realize this isn't new for them.
Except now, they're not patching up scraped knees after run-ins with the trailer park bullies. It's bullet holes and stab wounds.
"Shirt off," Jinx orders, pulling on latex gloves.
Kade shrugs out of his jacket, the movement making him hiss through his teeth. The shirt underneath is ruined, blood-soaked and torn. He peels it off carefully, revealing lean muscle covered in tattoos and—fuck—more scars than I remember. Not just the one on his arm. Some old, some newer, all telling stories I probably don't want to know.
The bullet wound is on his left bicep, angry and still bleeding sluggishly. It's not as bad as I feared. The bullet definitely went through, leaving entry and exit wounds that Jinx examines with surprising detachment for the boy who once passed out because he saw blood.
"You're lucky," Jinx says, reaching for gauze and antiseptic. "Missed the bone, didn't hit anything major. You'll live."
"Told you." Kade's eyes find mine, dark and defiant. "Takes more than this to kill me, Princess."
"She's right," Jinx says pointedly, taking out a bottle of antiseptic. "It doesn't count as a graze if it goes in one end and comes out the other, idiot."
Kade barks every profane word in the book as Jinx douses both wounds without warning, ending on, "Motherfucker!"
I watch Jinx work with less satisfaction than I should probably feel right now, his hands steady as he cleans the wound. Kade doesn't flinch after the antiseptic, just stares at me with those pissed off gray eyes while his best friend literally threads a needle through his skin.
"This is normal for you?" The question comes out hoarser than I intend. "Getting shot? Stitching each other up like it's nothing?"
Kade, Jinx, and Cyrus exchange looks. Then, in perfect unison, they shrug.
The casual response to nearly dying makes me nauseous. This is their life. Bullets and blood and brothers stitching each other up in living rooms because hospitals ask too many questions.
This is what they chose.
What I chose, at least for the year.
Tank hovers at the edge of the room, and I finally let myself look at him properly. The bandana is still in place, but it's slightly askew, and he keeps adjusting it. There's even more blood on the black t-shirt that stretches across his massive chest. He doesn't seem to notice or care.
His eyes meet mine, but they're blank and glazed over above his mask. He won't sign, won't communicate, just stands there like a gargoyle.
I have no fucking idea what he's thinking.
I want to go to him. Want to ask if he's okay, ifwe'reokay, if there's any chance in hell he doesn't completely hate me. But the distance between us feels insurmountable, an ocean of hurt and four years of silence that I don't know how to cross.
We used to be the closest, him and I.
Jinx was my confidant, someone I could talk to about boys and cry with on the sofa.
But Tank…
What we had was different.
Special.
And now it's all gone. Just like the creek they dug out a couple of years ago and filled in to make room for a new parking lot.
"All done." Jinx ties off the last stitch and starts bandaging the wound like a pro. "Try not to get shot again for at least a week. I'm running low on supplies."
"No promises." Kade flexes his arm experimentally, testing the stitches. "Southside's gonna retaliate for Carson. Got a whole resistance brewing, apparently, so we can't trust anyone on his old crew. They'll probably try something stupid."
