talking—fast.”
Carrie refuses to answer.
“We’re a block from The Pipeline! Jimmy Dante’s goons already shot Mickey. Are you trying to give them a shot at me, too?”
“Jesus Christ, Beth. Calm the fuck down.” She turns down an alley and slams on the brakes to stop short of a large metal garbage container. My head is knocked forward but the seatbelt holds me tight and I flinch at a sharp pain. I didn’t even know I’d injured my chest and stomach but I can sure feel it now. Mickey has rolled off the seat and onto the floor. Shit !
Carrie and I get out of the car and try to get him comfortable.
“Stay here,” she says, running off to leave me in the middle of the alleyway in the dark.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I cry out. My hands are wrapped around Mickey, under his arms. There’s no way I can move him myself.
I hear the bang of metal and a slow creak. When I look up and to the right, I see Carrie facing an open door and the silhouette of a man inside, though I can’t see his face. Please be someone safe, I pray.
Carrie’s heels click on the pavement as she jogs back to us. A hand pushes me aside and though I don’t protest, I want to. Who is this guy? I glare at him, immediately distrusting him, but then I see his longish, brown hair, trimmed neatly along the bottom, his barely-there beard and his tattoos peeking out from the collar of his T-shirt and the hems of his sleeves.
Damien.
“Why are we here, Carrie?”
She holds up her hands. “He’s trained.”
“Trained? What do you mean he’s trained? What does that mean?” Mona said he was in the military, but she never said what he did for them.
Damien approaches Mickey with a bag in his hand. He takes a look at Mickey, shoves a shit load of bandages over his wound, and then tapes it in place. He seems to know what he’s doing and he’s confident about it. The tension in my shoulders relaxes momentarily until he wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and tosses him over his shoulder like he’s made of feathers.
That can’t be good for his wound.
“We can help you carry him,” I say, with more sass to my voice than I intend.
“Nope. I got him.” He passes me and then tosses out a, “You’re welcome,” over his shoulder.
Carrie starts to follow him, but I grab her shoulder to stop her. “Carrie?”
“Now’s not the time. I promise he knows what he’s doing.”
I refuse to let go of her.
“Your aunt trusted him. That should be enough for you, too.”
I narrow my eyes. How the hell does she know that? I’m missing something and I don’t like the way it feels. “Is he a doctor?” I ask.
She frowns.
“A nurse?”
She shakes her head. “A corpsman…and a paramedic.”
She reaches out her hand and waits for me to take it. Though I hesitate, I reach out and grip hers. A paramedic. Okay, that’s not so bad. This could work. But can he be trusted? She certainly seems to think so or we wouldn’t be here, but she must see my continued apprehension because she says, “He’s saved a lot of lives. You can trust him, I promise.”
My body relaxes, if only a little, and the tension in my neck and shoulders dissolves into slight discomfort.
We follow the narrow staircase inside the building up to the second floor apartment. Through another unlocked and open door, I find Damien in the kitchen and Mickey lying unconscious on the table. Damien takes a pair of scissors and quickly cuts down the center of Mickey’s shirt, exposing his chest and the hole in his abdomen. I gasp as the blood pools in the broken skin by his belly button.
Damien takes a long swig of whiskey and then pours some of the liquor on the open wound, making Mickey flinch.
“You think that will help?” I say.
“For who?” he asks. “Me or him?”
“Either,” I say sourly. Him drinking right now does not help engender my confidence in him. Though he clearly doesn’t seem to care, spitting back his response to me as sourly as I
Carrie refuses to answer.
“We’re a block from The Pipeline! Jimmy Dante’s goons already shot Mickey. Are you trying to give them a shot at me, too?”
“Jesus Christ, Beth. Calm the fuck down.” She turns down an alley and slams on the brakes to stop short of a large metal garbage container. My head is knocked forward but the seatbelt holds me tight and I flinch at a sharp pain. I didn’t even know I’d injured my chest and stomach but I can sure feel it now. Mickey has rolled off the seat and onto the floor. Shit !
Carrie and I get out of the car and try to get him comfortable.
“Stay here,” she says, running off to leave me in the middle of the alleyway in the dark.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I cry out. My hands are wrapped around Mickey, under his arms. There’s no way I can move him myself.
I hear the bang of metal and a slow creak. When I look up and to the right, I see Carrie facing an open door and the silhouette of a man inside, though I can’t see his face. Please be someone safe, I pray.
Carrie’s heels click on the pavement as she jogs back to us. A hand pushes me aside and though I don’t protest, I want to. Who is this guy? I glare at him, immediately distrusting him, but then I see his longish, brown hair, trimmed neatly along the bottom, his barely-there beard and his tattoos peeking out from the collar of his T-shirt and the hems of his sleeves.
Damien.
“Why are we here, Carrie?”
She holds up her hands. “He’s trained.”
“Trained? What do you mean he’s trained? What does that mean?” Mona said he was in the military, but she never said what he did for them.
Damien approaches Mickey with a bag in his hand. He takes a look at Mickey, shoves a shit load of bandages over his wound, and then tapes it in place. He seems to know what he’s doing and he’s confident about it. The tension in my shoulders relaxes momentarily until he wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and tosses him over his shoulder like he’s made of feathers.
That can’t be good for his wound.
“We can help you carry him,” I say, with more sass to my voice than I intend.
“Nope. I got him.” He passes me and then tosses out a, “You’re welcome,” over his shoulder.
Carrie starts to follow him, but I grab her shoulder to stop her. “Carrie?”
“Now’s not the time. I promise he knows what he’s doing.”
I refuse to let go of her.
“Your aunt trusted him. That should be enough for you, too.”
I narrow my eyes. How the hell does she know that? I’m missing something and I don’t like the way it feels. “Is he a doctor?” I ask.
She frowns.
“A nurse?”
She shakes her head. “A corpsman…and a paramedic.”
She reaches out her hand and waits for me to take it. Though I hesitate, I reach out and grip hers. A paramedic. Okay, that’s not so bad. This could work. But can he be trusted? She certainly seems to think so or we wouldn’t be here, but she must see my continued apprehension because she says, “He’s saved a lot of lives. You can trust him, I promise.”
My body relaxes, if only a little, and the tension in my neck and shoulders dissolves into slight discomfort.
We follow the narrow staircase inside the building up to the second floor apartment. Through another unlocked and open door, I find Damien in the kitchen and Mickey lying unconscious on the table. Damien takes a pair of scissors and quickly cuts down the center of Mickey’s shirt, exposing his chest and the hole in his abdomen. I gasp as the blood pools in the broken skin by his belly button.
Damien takes a long swig of whiskey and then pours some of the liquor on the open wound, making Mickey flinch.
“You think that will help?” I say.
“For who?” he asks. “Me or him?”
“Either,” I say sourly. Him drinking right now does not help engender my confidence in him. Though he clearly doesn’t seem to care, spitting back his response to me as sourly as I
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