In truth, so am I, well, at least according to Saint’s explanation. I wonder how I could have contorted myself and stabbed my chest. Knowing I’m going to have to give the performance of my life, I take a deep breath – which fucking hurts and makes me wish I hadn’t - then I start the fiction.
“I ain’t a good cook, man. But I try.” Shrugging, I appeal to her, trying to convey I’m just a male who hasn’t got the right hormonal makeup to do shit in the kitchen. “I ain’t got boobs or a pert ass, but it was my turn to make…”What time was it? Afternoon? So, yeah, that will do it. “A late lunch.” Her face hardens but shows no other reaction. “I was cutting up steak, or some shit,” I add fast, cursing Saint for not telling me the extended version of the story they’d woven. “Then it all happened at once. Didn’t know there was oil spilled on the floor, or that I was holding that knife awkwardly. Went down hard…” I try to pantomime how I’d fallen, unable to visualise it myself, but my limited mobility, as wires tether me to the monitor, would have prevented me from being convincing, even if I had been telling the truth. “Landed on my own fuckin’ blade,” I finish, giving her what I hope is a lopsided grin full of boyish charm, and accompanying it with a dismissive shrug.
She looks unconvinced. “And the bullet wound in your leg?”
Fuck. She must have examined what was under the bandage when I was in surgery.
“Rookie error,” I say fast. “I didn’t realise I had a bullet in the chamber when I was cleaning my gun.”
She draws in a deep breath and raises an eyebrow. “And that’s your story?”
“That’s my fuckin’ truth,” I growl.
For a moment, her stance and expression are impossible to read. I tense, thinking she’ll either believe my story, which is unlikely, or call in the pigs, probably a sure bet. Working in a hospital like this, she’s undoubtedly got them on speed dial.
Her next words, though, surprise me. “Mr. Ranger,” she states, saying my name in a sympathetic tone as if to evoke some camaraderie. “Gangs like the Kings of Anarchy have a reputation, and if you’re being bullied, or mistreated and abused, then I can distract them and give you a chance to get away.”
Heaven only knows how I don’t keel over and fall off the bed laughing. “Ma’am,” I start, but as her eyes narrow, I correct and start again. “Doc, look, my brothers would never hurt me.” I give a chuckle to show her how ludicrous that thought is. “I got here by my own misfortune and clumsiness. Doubt they’ll ever leave me alone in the kitchen again.” I add a smile to reassure her. “All I want to know now is when I can get out of here.”
I’m still unsure whether she believes me. The odds are against it. But she’s probably realising that’s all she’s going to get. After taking a moment to digest my words, she shakes her head.
“Just remember, you don’t need to stay in a position where you put yourself at risk. There are options, people who can help.” She pauses to let that sink in, then continues, “You had a pneumothorax. The knife punctured your lung, and it deflated. It was a fairly straightforward surgery to correct, and you seem to be recovering well. I’ll be happy to discharge you in a day or two, as long as you take it easy. You’re not to do any heavy lifting, smoke, or fly in a plane or go scuba diving?—”
“We’re in fuckin’ Arizona.” I bark out a laugh, then frown. No smoking? Maybe Saint’s woman will bake some of the good stuff into cookies for me.
Face tightening, she checks the notes and the readout from the monitor, then takes a stethoscope from around her neck. She indicates I should pull down the fucking fasten-at-the back hospital gown I’m wearing. Once I’ve bared the top half of my body, she places the cold metal against each side of my chest.
“You’re making a good recovery, though your breath sounds are still unequal. Believe me, a collapsed lung is no joke. You’ll need physical therapy to regain full function, and even then, you may not achieve the full capacity you had before your… accident.” She jots something down on the tablet, then gives me another assessing gaze. After a moment, she takes something out of her pocket. “Keep this.” She passes a card to me and actually pats my hand as I take it. Then she leaves the room.
Looking down, my eyes widen incredulously. She’s given me a number for a local domestic abuse support group. I’m still chuckling when Saint rejoins me.
Pulling out the chair, he sits his ass down. “What’s the joke?”
Jerking my head toward the door, I laugh more, only immediately regretting the movement, which pulls at the stitches in the wound over my lung. Trying to answer him while keeping my mirth inside, I wave the card toward him. “She thinks I’m a victim of abuse. Offered to help me escape from the Kings.”
Saint’s eyes go wild. “For real?”
At my nod, he outright belly laughs. “That’s fuckin’ precious.” He holds his arms over his stomach and adds, “The others are going to love this.”
“Where are they anyway?”
His mirth fades like a switch being thrown. “Prez has got Tempest, Woody, Freak and Rattler out searching for any sign of the Mojave Devils in case they’re still around. Winchester and Paint are back at the club nursing their wounds.” More likely using alcohol to numb the pain, or perhaps that’s justme projecting my own thoughts onto them, as that’s what I’d give anything to do myself. Somehow, I don’t think the hospital prescribes whisky. Saint purses his lips. “He’s keeping the rest of the brothers back at the club, just in case the MDMC comes to the source. If they do, we’ll be ready for them.”
My brow furrows and my mouth tightens. For some reason, I’d expected the entire club to be hanging around the waiting room, anxious for news on my health. “It’s just you here?”
Saint snorts. “You’ve got your VP keeping you company. You only going to be satisfied if Bullseye comes here himself?”
Realising I’m being unreasonable, I sigh and shake my head. “Nah, you’re right. It’s imperative to protect the club.”
He dips and raises his chin. “Win and Paint walked us through what happened.” Splaying his legs, he rests his elbows on his knees and places his chin on his clasped hands. “If they really thought we’d offed their Skunk, they’d have double-tapped all three of you, seeing as they got the upper hand.”
I fidget awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry about that. Should have been more alert, but that ambush was perfectly planned.”
Saint waves a dismissive hand. “They must have had intelligence you’d be travelling that road.”
“They’ve got someone watching the club,” I surmise.
Lifting his chin, Saint shows his agreement. “Another reason to make Prez cautious if they’ve got eyes out front. Don’t want to risk anyone seeing the clubhouse left empty.”
