“Well, think the guys are just a little busted up. But I have me a nice knife wound down my leg. Should be real pretty when it’s stitched up. Yeah, yeah, here you go,” he said.
It was Sway who spoke next as Raff held the phone up to his ear. He couldn’t reach for it himself, with both his hands pressing hard into Raff’s leg to keep the wound from bleeding.
“Slash, yeah, it was a shitshow. We’re on our way back. How far are we?” he asked.
It took a second to register that he was talking to me.
“Fuck if I know,” I admitted, staring out at the endless road ahead of us.
“Boss man, we’re about an hour and a half out. Maybe faster if we pick up speed closer to home,” Raff said before pushing the phone to Sway’s ear again.
“I think we can make it. The bleeding is under control. He’s obviously conscious and in his right mind. Well, as right as his mind can be, that is,” Sway teased. “He’s a little pale, yeah, but he lost a fuck-ton of blood before I got the pressure on. He’s not weak. A little sweaty, but that could be pain. Okay. Yeah. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“See you, boss-man,” Raff said before ending the call.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“That if you don’t see any cops, to step on it.”
So that was what I did.
And that hour and half shaved down to forty minutes.
By the time we pulled into Shady Valley, I was drenched in sweat from focusing so hard on the road and my control of the car at such high speeds.
I had to lay off the gas; the local police force didn’t have shit to do around town, so they would be all too happy to pull us over for speeding as I wove around the town and headed off in the direction of Dr. Price’s office.
He lived in a renovated house, his office on the lower level and his home upstairs.
The lights were all on across the first floor.
Several bikes were lined up at the curb—our brothers waiting for us.
The second the car pulled up, Slash was ripping the back door open and reaching inside to pull Raff out.
Sway went with him, still applying pressure as Detroit grabbed Raff’s feet and Saint rushed forward to help stabilize his bad leg.
It was the first time I got a good look at Raff since I’d seen him take that knife.
Good mood aside, he wasn’t looking great.
Sway was right; he was pale. But I think Sway was either playing it down when he talked to Slash, or it had gotten significantly worse since. There was a fine sheen of sweat on Raff’s face, and soaking through his clothes.
More than that, though, he looked tired and weak before he disappeared inside.
“You alright?” Coach asked, his hand landing on my shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m fine. Worried about Raff.”
“We can trust Dr. Price,” Coach reminded me. “And his nurse. And Saint actually called in some other nurse… from the prison? Dunno what the story is there…”
“She was partying at the clubhouse the other night. I guess he figured she’d done a good job stitching him up at the prison. And that she’s probably seen a lot of nasty shank and shiv injuries over the years.”
“He’s in good hands. He’ll be up and demanding some pretty thing come and give him a sponge bath in no time.”
“Hope you’re right,” I agreed when Slash, Saint, and Detroit moved back outside with Sway in tow.
Blood stained his hands and his pants and I couldn’t help but wonder how bad the backseat was saturated.
