Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
I nod my head in assurance, “I can help him. I’ve done this before. Well…on animals.” I state, a slight wobble in my voice.
“Animals with bullet wounds?” Callan asks, looking back at me.
“Um…no, but I’ve performed surgery. I can do this.” You can do this.
“Are you sure?” A tear leaks from one of Kitty’s eyes.
“Let her do it,” Cutter groans, his eyes drooping.
“Goddammit,” Callan yells, smashing his fist against the dashboard.
“It will be okay,” I say, hoping it’s true. An ominous silence falls over us, the hum of the engine and soft drone of passing vehicles is deafening.
Yanking his phone from his pocket, Callan hands it to Kitty. “Call the club. Tell them to get ready.”
Pulling up to the gates, both guards aim their weapons toward the car. Callan rolls the window down and hangs out of it, shouting for them to open the gates. He drives around the side of the buildings to a side entrance. Brothers already waiting with a gurney race up to the truck. The truck door swings open, and I climb out. They quickly move Cutter out and onto the gurney with ease.
“Everything is waiting in the doc’s room,” Dodger assures Callan, slapping him on the back. “Do we need to go take care of anyone?” he asks.
“No, but there might be some cleanup that Ray needs help with. Call him, but don’t show up in case someone heard the shots and called the police.”
“On it, Pres.” Callan flinches, but doesn’t correct him. Pulling his phone out, Callan approaches another brother and shows him the picture he took.
“Find out everything there is to know about him.” Callan gets a firm nod in response, and the brothers all move into action.
“Do you really think you can do this?” Kitty asks, following me into the room they have set up. It’s like a doctor’s office. Medical equipment is set out on clean white countertops. There’s cabinet with medications inside. Nausea threatens my stomach when too many people follow us into the room, all eyes watching me.
Running to the medicine cabinet, I rummage through the materials and collect a bowl, swabs, and a scalpel, just in case. A bottle of morphine catches my eye, and I snatch it up along with a syringe.
They lift Cutter onto a surgical table and push the gurney out of the room. “Take the bandage away,” I order them, washing my hands in a little basin in the corner of the room. Please let me be able to help him.
“Do you know your blood type?” I ask him, but he’s not responding.
“He’s losing consciousness, Doc,” Daddy points out.
“I’m not a doctor.” I hold my hands up, my heart beating frantically, my mind clouding. “Put the gloves on me, Kitty.”
“What the fuck are you then?” I hear, though I don’t see who asks.
“A vet. I need room,” I state, inspecting the wound. It’s angry, but hasn’t started to swell. The blood is slowing to a weep.
“Out,” Callan barks, gesturing to the door, his voice bouncing around the room.
“Do you have blood here?” I ask.
“O positive. I think.” Callan nods to someone out of view.
“Great,” I tell him with a smile meant to reassure him, but inside I’m screaming. “We might need some of that.”
“If not, that’s our blood type,” Kitty announces.
“Great. Don’t go anywhere.”
I tap Cutter’s arm to find a vein, and then inject him with the morphine. “I need him still. I’ve dosed him, but just in case, Callan, I’ll need you to hold his shoulders. Kitty, hold his legs.” I rip the scalpel from its packaging, placing the scalpel into a bowl, and swab around the wound to clean it. “I need forceps or something to grab the bullet if I need to get it out.”
“There’s, like, these tweezer things I saw.” Kitty rushes over to the counter and grabs them. “These?” She holds up small forceps.
“Perfect.”
“Wait—what do you mean, ‘if’?”
“If it’s not doing further damage, it can stay in there,” I inform her. “I’m going to put my finger inside to see what we’re looking at,” I say out loud so it doesn’t feel so daunting. Their attention is so intently trained on me, I feel the weight of the world pushing down.
Please don’t die.
Strengthening my backbone, I push my finger inside the wound. Cutter flinches and grunts, making my stomach stir, but my hands are steady. “Hold him down,” I warn as I go deeper. Cutter’s body tenses, his legs jerking, trying to coil upward. Kitty lays across them, keeping them down. He wails an agonized growl then passes out. Soft, warm, wet tissue is all I feel. No pulsing.
“I can’t find the bullet. If it traveled, it could be lodged anywhere.” Sweat beads across my brow.
“He looks really pale,” Kitty cries out, lifting off his legs and pacing the floor.