Page 75 of Diesel's Perseverance
“That’s good, but—”
“Get your ass over to Doc. The woman can wait,” Banger cut in. He waved his hand toward the front door. “Go on, and that’s a fucking order.”
Grumbling, Diesel walked away with Rags and Demon on each side of him.
Demon led him to a large back room off the kitchen. The room looked like an examination room in a doctor’s office. An exam table was angled away from the white walls, lined with pristine counters. A stool with wheels was tucked into a corner, and various items sat on the counter against the north wall: a blood pressure cuff, boxes of gauze and gloves, paper towels, hand sanitizer, and several clear plastic containers of tongue depressors, cotton pads, and cotton swabs. A medical IV fluid bag and some sort of imaging machine stood beside each other on the opposite end of the room.
“Damn, we need a room like this at our clubhouse,” Diesel said.
“I’m Doc,” a man in his early fifties said.
Even with the white lab coat covering most of him, Diesel could see Doc had some muscles on him.
“Hey,” Diesel said.
“Take off your cut and T-shirt.”
Most outlaw clubs had a doctor who’d help out when one of the members got injured by fists, knives, or guns. The same was true when they needed help with legal problems: they had a lawyer on speed dial. Doc went through medical school on the Navy’s bill and paid that back by giving ten years of military service. Once back in San Diego, he joined up with two other former military doctors, and their medical practice thrived. Doc met Iceman and Willie when he was scoping a Harley-Davidson at a local motorcycle dealership. He and the older Insurgent, Willie, had clicked, and a friendship had formed based on the love of riding. Before long, he was attending parties at the clubhouse and helping out when one of the outlaw members needed patching up or some other medical assistance.
“You got stabbed all right,” Doc said.
“I know that. Is it superficial or deep?” Diesel asked. Diesel was not a newcomer when it came to stab wounds or gunshots. The scars on his body documented his life as an outlaw biker. He’d been lucky since none of his numerous injuries had been life-threatening.
“It doesn’t appear to have gone in too deep, which is good news, but it’s still bleeding. The risk of an infection is high, so I’m going to clean up the wound, dress it, and give you some antibiotics. You’ll have to disinfect and change the dressing every day for about ten days. Can you manage that?”
“Yeah. No stitches?”
“Right. Like I said… you’re lucky. How long are you going to be in town?”
“At least a few more days.”
“I’ll come by again tomorrow and check the laceration. I want to make sure it looks good and isn’t oozing. Do you need pain medication?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
“I can leave you some, just in case.”
“I said I’m good.”
Twenty minutes later, Diesel downed a shot of Jack and then headed upstairs. He slipped the key into the lock, turned the knob, and entered the room. Myla sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes glued to the television. He glanced over at the screen and saw images of the badges swarming the area where the fight had taken place. Several bikers were escorted away with their hands behind their backs in cuffs. Diesel mentally counted the Colorado Insurgents who’d come back to the clubhouse.Everyone accounted for.Then he started on the San Diego members.Demon, Crutch, Iceman, Panther, Jagged, Easy, Lucky—
“Diesel!”
Myla’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“What the hell happened?”
She leaped off the bed and hurried to Diesel, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her soft curves against him.
Damn, she feels good.The scent of her shampoo filled his senses, and he wanted to bury his hands in her hair, yank it back, and crush his mouth down on hers.
“Are you okay?” Myla looked up at him, and he moaned inwardly.
“Yeah,” he said, stepping back.
Her arms dropped, and her eyes scanned his face. “Are you sure?”
“Just tired as fuck,” he said. He walked over to the dresser and pulled out a black tank top.
