Page 7 of WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)
Only my years of training in the ER keep me from peeing my pants. Is this how I’m going to die?
I brace myself for that possibility, but instead of shooting, he blinks at me. Once. Twice. Like I’m an apparition he can’t unsee. “Who are you?”
Meanwhile, in the background of our one-sided conversation, the sound of several guns being cocked goes off behind me.
“Don’t worry about her name, puta. Her face is going to be the last thing you see if you don’t put that gun down.”
The MC flicks his blue eyes to my brother, who’s standing at my eight.
Then they come right back to me like Ant really is as minuscule as his nickname. His gaze is so cold it burns like the dry ice us nurses are always being warned not to touch.
This man is a killer. Of that, I have no doubt. My death might be imminent, but all I can do is stare at him.
I can’t close my eyes. Can’t look away from those icy lakes. Can’t utter a word as I drown.
“I said drop the gun,” Ant yells behind me.
My brother’s angry bellow kicks my own voice back into line. I go into nursing mode with the glittery-eyed MC.
“Listen. Listen, I understand you’re upset—and probably in shock. That’s the only reason you’re able to hold a gun and sit up right now. You’ve been shot, and we’re just trying to help you. If you put down the gun, we’ll help you.”
“Who are you?” he demands again. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” I begin to explain again that I’m trying to help him. But then I realize…he’s not asking because he plans to kill me. He’s honestly confused.
“I’m a nurse…a nurse practitioner,” I explain. I point to Ant. “And that’s Antonio. He’s my brother who I think you’ve already met. He’s probably freaking out right now because his mom was killed by gun violence. It would traumatize him for life if anything happened to me. So please just put down the gun. Let me help you.”
He shakes his head. “You want to help me?”
His voice comes out rougher this time, his words slurring. The shock is starting to wear off.
“Yes, I want to help you.” I hold out my free hand. “May I please have the gun. You’re about to lose consciousness again, and I don’t want it to discharge when you fall out.”
He starts to shake his head. “No, don’t want to…”
I take a risk—step closer to him instead of backing away like my survival instinct wants.
“I know you don’t want to pass out. But it’s going to happen. Please trust me. I won’t let anyone hurt you while you’re asleep. I just have to treat your wound.”
He stares at me. Then stares at me some more.
Then he uncocks the gun and places it sideways in my hand. Like a knight offering a lady his sword.
“Angel…” he mumbles—right before collapsing backward into that unconscious state I promised was coming for him.
“What the fuck?” Ant rushes forward to stand on the other side of the unconscious biker.
I hand him the gun like it's poison. “Take this. I need to get to work.”
Ant takes the piece from me but says, “Naw, I’m not even sure I want you working on this motherfucker. He pulled a gun on you.”
“I promised him!” I try not ever to yell at Ant in front of his crew, but I’ve already lost too much precious time. “Now stand back and let me do my job!”
I don’t wait for his response before getting to work treating the wound. I finish cleaning it and decide to leave the bullet in there for now. I can see a glint of metal inside, but a kitchen table surgery to remove it would introduce more risk than benefits.
So I bandage the wound and type his blood—thank goodness he doesn’t wake up again for that. And it turns out he’s O, too.
I take O-Blood's self-donated pint and thank him while asking for a couple more just in case the wound reopens or the one turns out not to be enough.
Before he goes, I also get his help, stripping the biker out of his clothes. And then all that’s left to do is wait.
I don’t trust Ant or the rest of his gang to properly monitor the situation. So, I guess I’m staying in my now completely ruined dress—Jonathan definitely doesn’t have to worry about me wearing it to meet his parents anymore. There’s no dry cleaner or bleach pen in the world that could get all the bloodstains out of my formerly butter yellow dress.
Resigned to my fate, I take a seat at the kitchen table beside the sleeping biker. I don’t pull a Jazz and post up next to his unconscious body in a state of full-on cling. But I don’t exactly relax either.
