They’re just all so ridiculous, I can’t help but laugh at them, even if I’m still half-convinced they’re going to murder me.
“Knock it off, Lucky.” Patrick’s voice cuts through the tension, and the man instantly takes a step back. “We’re here to clean this mess up and save Savage, not make it worse. Micah is Cheryl’s boy. He’s not to be harmed without my permission.”
How generous. Thanks,Dad.
Patrick is looking at the picture that sparked this little conversation with as much disgust as the others. I refuse to let it get to me, though.
I didn’t work this hard to be out and proud to let some ghost from my past send me into a flurry of self-doubt. Standing my ground is the only way to keep this powder keg from turning into a Chernobyl-scale disaster.
Inside, my organs are all curdling with fear. The remnants of all those nights spent cowering in a closet with Tadhg, hiding from Patrick, are too ingrained in me to let it go. But I can’t let it show.
We’re saved from any more awkward conversation by a knock at the door. I’m assuming it’s the illegal medical supplies, and I desperately hope my neighbors haven’t noticed the redneck mafia traipsing in and out of my place. My apartment has an outdoor entrance, and it’s on a corner, so maybe I’m getting away with it, but still. I already deal with enough snide shit for bringing “too many” dates home.
I don’t need to add criminals into the mix.
One of the random henchmen I can’t keep track of opens the door—as if it’s his place to let people into my home—and a tall, broad figure walks in carrying a jump bag. As soon as I get a look at who it is, my jaw hits the floor.
“Tristan?”
Green eyes narrow at me as he takes in the scene.
“Micah.” He nods.
He’s a county paramedic and a damn good one, while I’m an ER nurse at the only hospital with a trauma certification in the area. That means we interact a lot. I’ve known him for over a year, and while he’s always come across as anarchic and kind of an adrenaline junkie, I chalked that up to being a first responder.
In a million years, I never would have pegged him for working with people like this. My afternoon just went from chaotic to absurd, and I really want to go back to bed.
Chapter Four
Micah
Tristan moves into the room slowly. I can tell from the way he holds himself that he’s keeping track of where everyone else is and treating this whole situation like a threat.
I would do the same, but I’m pretty sure if these guys wanted to murder me, fighting my way out wouldn’t be an option. Charm and subterfuge are the only things I have on my side right now.
“What the fuck are you doing hanging out with these people?” he asks me, as if I wasn’t about to ask him the same thing.
I nod toward Tadhg.
“That’s my brother. Well, stepbrother. Former stepbrother. It’s complicated. He’s… I don’t know, but Patrick dragged him here and asked me to save him because they can’t go to the hospital, and I owe Tadhg too much not to try.”
Tristan nods. His expression is still severe, but he’s softening bit by bit as the Banna members in the room continue to keep their distance. I look him in the eye.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Besides risking your entire career?”
He sighs deeply, and I can hear the frustration in it. “It’s a long story that involves me making terrible choices for noble reasons. I swear. Now I have a debt to work off.”
I’m dying of curiosity. Normally, like any good hospital worker, gossip is my bread and butter. Plus, I’m convinced Tristan is low-key dating someone for the first time since I’ve met him, and there has to be a juicy story there.
Now’s not the time, though, because Tadhg is literally dying. I can pester him for details later.
I look around, feeling off-balance and grasping for what to do next. In the end, my brain tells me to focus on the medicine. I can’t control the weird situation with Pat and his thugs. And I have no idea how to unpack the complicated emotions that Tadhg being here brings up.
Medicine I can do.
Leading Tristan over to the couch, I talk him through the situation. He snaps straight into business mode as well, kneeling on the floor and reaching out to feel for a heart rate and checking his capillary refill like I did before he starts decanting from his bag of tricks.
“It’s been about two days since he was shot. Three wounds, as far as I can tell, and the infection is everywhere. He was alert for a few minutes, but I think he’s starting to decompensate. Please tell me you have real medicine.”
