Nacho pulls out his phone and turns on the light, focusing it on the wound. Fuck. It looks like my brother’s been split in two.
Talking over my shoulder, I say, “Charlie, I’m sorry, man. We need to take him to a hospital.”
Anders shakes his head. “Nah. I got him, I promise. They got a big table somewhere?”
“There’s a table in the breakfast nook,” Charlie volunteers.
“Works for me.”
Nacho, still giving me a wide berth, follows Charlie into the kitchen, where they each grab an edge of the table.
“Excuse me, guys, what the fuck is going on?”
I feel like I’m going out of my mind as I watch them pull the table into the middle of the kitchen.
“You know what? Fuck this, I’m taking him myself,” I say, stomping back toward the living room.
“Bram?” Charlie’s voice is calm, but that makes it worse.
I round back on him.“What?”
“We’re taking care of Levy. He’ll be okay,” he says, his eyes sincere. “I promise.”
Anders comes in, carrying my brother like he’s nothing, and Hopper’s holding his silver case while the damn dog trails behind him. I curse under my breath.
“Give me those scissors,” he says as he carefully sets Levy down.
Nacho grabs the heavy shears from the knife block and puts them in his hand. Anders works quickly, zipping through the fabric, removing all of Levy’s clothes within seconds, revealing his extensive tattoo work. Anders holds out his hand, and Charlie passes a paper towel to him, which he uses to cover my brother’s personal business.
“Case?”
Hopper places it in his hand, and Anders flicks it open, revealing several syringes filled with colorful liquids.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Sedatives and heartstoppers, among other things,” he says, pulling out a syringe.
“How do you know that’s not the heartstopper?” I ask, unable to hide the edge of hysteria that’s crept into my voice. There are too many fucking people in this kitchen.
“They’re color-coded.”
I bring my hands to my head, then gesture to the gaping wound in Levy’s side. “That bullet practically split him in two. He’s bleeding out, and I’m supposed to…what? Trust you?”
Anders turns to me, his lips sucked in as though he’s trying to hold in a laugh, and it’s agitating my very soul.
“What about any of this is funny, motherfucker?”
He schools his face, trying to approximate…I dunno, professionalism?
“Bram, he’s fine. It’s a serious wound that needs to be addressed, but your brother isn’t unconscious from blood loss.”
I point to my pale, naked brother on the kitchen table as evidence of Anders’ complete break from reality.
“Seriously, are you a Fisher-Price doctor? Because you know that doesn’t count, right?”
Anders stops his prep work and turns to me as he knots his hair at the base of his neck.
I’m about to go in on Mr. Man Bun when he raises his brows at me. I stop in my tracks, caught in his crosshairs. I just saw him kill multiple men, sure, but he’s never leveled that look at me before.
