Chapter Four

 

It was stifling hot in the room. The windows were shut, and there was no air. Louvered shutters let in the last of the sun. Cat noticed all that in a nanosecond.

Her eyes were drawn to the iron cot where a man lay chained, his wrists cuffed over his head. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all.

She bit her lip, her eyes moving over him as he lay on the stain-covered, thin bare mattress. He had a dark beard and dark hair soaked with sweat. He wore no shirt over his tattooed body, but he had on a pair of jeans and biker boots. He must be a tall man, because he took up every inch of the length of the bed.

He looked like the incarnation of the word trouble: a biker. She had to be half mad to even consider helping him, but then she thought of Holly. She had to do whatever was necessary in order to get her back.

There was what appeared to be a torn sheet as a makeshift bandage wrapped and tied around his chest. It was stained with blood, but it did not look bright red, which was a good sign. Blood loss had been her biggest fear, but maybe he wasn’t too bad off. The whole way over here she’d worried what they’d do to her if he was too far gone or his wounds were too severe for her to help.

She moved a step closer.

He may not be heavily bleeding, but he didn’t look good. His skin tone was gray, and he was sweating profusely.

With the second sweep of her eyes she noted the man, not the patient. She had an impression there would be raw power emanating from him if he hadn’t been laid up with this injury. His shoulders were broad, and his biceps bulged. His bare chest, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, was hard muscled beneath taut, tanned skin. That muscle continued over a ripped stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the low-riding waistband of his jeans. Her eyes again darted to his face, and she felt a strange shiver.

His eyes moved to her as she dropped her bag and approached him. They looked glassy and feverish, but they met hers from under heavy lids—dark fathomless eyes that seemed to look into her soul. She shook herself from the strange feeling and leaned over to press her cool hand to his forehead. He was indeed burning up.

No matter the fact that—in her snap judgment—he was just another dirty lowlife biker, she still couldn’t bear to see someone suffering like this. She turned to the man standing just inside the door, the one called Ratchet. “Do you have any ice? And some towels?”

He just stood there.

“Please. I have to cool him down.”

He rolled his eyes, but left, locking her in. She frantically dug through her duffel, pulling out her supplies and laying them out on a sterile pad she spread out on the mattress. She snapped on a pair of gloves and a mask, and then gently cut the dirty bandage off so she could examine the wound.

“What’s your name?” she asked him softly as his eyes studied her, almost like he couldn’t believe she was really there. He even let out what she thought was a huff of laughter. When he didn’t answer, she assured him, “I’m a nurse. I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” He did laugh at that, and then winced in pain.

“That’s funny?”

“Yeah. That’s funny.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t even been given water.

“What’s your name?”

“Blood.”

She frowned. Was he telling her he was bleeding? She again studied the wound. “The bleeding doesn’t look too bad. You were shot?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth as she touched near the wound and examined the edges. Infection was definitely setting in. She needed to get an IV started so she could get some fluids and antibiotics in him. But first she needed to know if the bullet was still lodged inside She moved to the other side of the bed to get a better look at his far side. She leaned closer, bending over him and gently looking underneath him. On the edge of his back was another wound. It actually was smaller and may have been the entrance wound, with the slightly larger hole in his front side being the exit wound. On closer examination, she determined that a rib, in all probability, deflected the bullet. It may have been what saved him. As gunshots went, this one wasn’t too bad, having barely gone through the outer flesh of his side and affecting none of his organs.

The door opened, and Ratchet came in with a bowl of ice and a couple of towels. He set the ice down on the small side table and tossed the towels on the bed.

“I need you to un-cuff him,” she said.

“Un-cuff him? No way.” Then without another word, he slammed back out of the room.

She moved to the door and kicked it several times, yelling through the wood. “Come back here!”

Nothing.

“Damn it.”

She moved back to the bed and ripped one of the thin towels in half. She dipped it in the ice water and wiped his face down.

He sighed at the cool touch.

“You have a fever, I know. I’ll get an IV going in a minute, but I need to get them to un-cuff you.” She wrapped a handful of ice in the torn piece of towel and pressed it to his forehead.

“My ring,” he murmured in his hoarse voice.

She frowned. “What?”

“My ring. Take it off me. Please. If I die…see it gets to my club.”

“Shh. Don’t talk. I’m going to take care of you.”

“Please.” He pinned her with a frantic look. “Take it.”

She saw the desperation in his feverish eyes, and she looked to his hands. A big silver ring with three skulls in a design sat on the third finger of his right hand.

“Take it,” he snapped.

She reached up and pulled it off, studying it. It said Evil on one side and Dead on the other. Was that the name of his club? She met his eyes.

“Don’t let them find it. They missed it. If I die, get it to my club. Promise me.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Blood.”

She frowned, glancing down at his wound again. “What?”

He shook his head impatiently and growled, “No, damn it! My name is Blood.”

She looked at him questioningly. “Blood?”

He nodded.

“Well, Blood, you don’t have to snap at me. I’m here to help you.”

He grimaced. “Sorry, darlin’. It’s just the pain talkin’.” His eyes drilled into hers. “Promise me.”

She couldn’t find it in her to refuse him, so she nodded. “I promise.”

He closed his eyes, apparently content with her answer.

She slipped the ring down into her bra, hoping it wouldn’t be found there. She didn’t have a clue how she would find this man’s club, but she wasn’t planning on letting him die, so hopefully it would never come to that. Looking up, she caught his eyes on her chest. He’d been watching her.

She pressed the ice pack to his forehead again and attempted to soothe him. “I’ll see they get your ring, but I’m going to get you well. You’re not circling the drain yet.” When she saw the confused expression on his face, she clarified. “Sorry. Nursing humor. You’re not going to die on me. You hear me, big guy?”

He attempted to laugh again. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

She could be if she had to be. She looked to the door. Dammit, she needed to get him un-cuffed so she could get his IV started. He needed fluids. Picking up a piece of ice, she brought it to his lips. “Here, suck on this. It’ll soothe your throat till I can get you some water.”

He opened his lips, and she slipped it in, noting his perfectly straight white teeth. She took in his face. He was handsome with warm brown eyes and slashing brows. Her eyes moved over his muscular tattooed arms stretched over his head, and then down his broad chest to his slim hips. He was well-built man.

She repositioned the ice pack on his forehead and rose from the bed. “I’ve got to get those cuffs off you.”

She moved to the door, glancing back to see his eyes following her. They were still glassy with fever, but they tracked her movements. She banged on the door and kicked at it for a good five minutes before somebody finally stomped up the stairs.

It was Bagger this time. “What the hell do you want?”

“I need to give him an IV.”

“So give him a fucking IV.”

“I need you to un-cuff one of his hands.”

“Not a chance.”

She folded her arms in an obstinate stance. “Then what the hell did you drag me here for if it’s just to let him die? Huh?”

The biker looked at her dumbfounded.

She gritted her teeth and snapped, “Un-cuff him! Now!”

Suddenly more boot steps pounded up the stairs, and Snake came in the room. “What the hell is she screaming about?”

“Says she needs him un-cuffed.”

Snake turned on her and barked, “Not a chance. He stays cuffed.”

“Like I told your friend here, I can’t administer the IV with him like this!” She flung her arm out toward the bed and gave them a look that hopefully told them both what idiots she thought they were. “If you didn’t want my help, why the hell did you bring me here?”

“He needs an IV?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

Snake stared her down then jerked his head at Bagger. “Go ahead. One hand. But stay here and watch him.”

Bagger nodded at the orders, and Snake stomped out of the room.

Bagger looked over at her as he moved to the bed and dug the keys out of his hip pocket. “Nobody talks to Snake like that. You better watch your mouth from now on. You do it again, he’s likely to put you through the wall.”

“Then I guess you’ll be out a nurse.”

“Of all the nurses, we picked Nurse Nasty.”

“Screw you, too.”

Bagger actually chuckled as he stepped back. “There. Satisfied?”

“No. I need some water.” Her hands landed on her hips as she glared at him.

Bagger rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother arguing with her this time. “Christ, you’re a lot of fucking trouble.” He moved toward the door and hollered down the stairs. “Stoner, bring me some bottled water!”

Cat got busy preparing the IV. She ran her hands over his arm, rubbing vigorously to try to get the circulation back to get the needed vein. He groaned and flexed his hand, shaking it out.

His eyes met hers, and he whispered, “You’re cute when you’re being all fierce and shit.”

She ignored him, moved to her supplies, and set them on the bed. She tore open the packaging for the IV fluid bag. She had no stand, so she improvised and rigged it up to the iron bedpost above his head, using a strip of the plastic packaging. Then she unrolled her IV pack on the bed next to him and tore open the tubing set. She readied some strips of tape. Now she just needed to insert the needle and cannula in his arm.

She put on a fresh pair of gloves, took his arm and tied a tourniquet around it, and searched the back of his hand for a suitable vein. Then she cleaned the site with an alcohol swab. As her hand rubbed over his skin in a circular motion, she glanced up at him. His eyes were watching what she was doing, but they looked glassy. “I’m going to get fluids in you. The needle may pinch, okay?”

He glanced up and nodded. Whether he understood or not, at least he wasn’t going to fight her when she tried to stick him. She inserted the needle, setting the cannula in place, attached the line, and taped it off. She stood and slowly opened the line, filling it with fluid. It flowed in just like it was supposed to, and she released a breath, glad she didn’t have to remove it and start over.

Once the IV fluids and antibiotics were flowing, she injected a pain medication into the catheter in his hand. Glancing up, she saw him watching. “It’s pain medication. You’ll feel better soon, which is good because I have to clean your wound. And I’m not going to lie to you, Blood, it’s going to hurt.”

He nodded, and the hand with the IV lifted, his fingers reaching out and clasping onto her pinky to give it a little shake. “Thanks, Doc. But you don’t have to lie to me. I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

She frowned as she disposed of the used syringe and pulled her gloves off. “I’m not lying to you. You’re not going to die. And I’m not a doctor.”

He looked at her, his eyes trying to focus, and she could see the fever was still affecting his mind. She brushed the hair back from his forehead, and his eyes slid closed like he relished the small gesture of kindness.

She turned to the biker who stood by the door with his arms folded. “Can we get these windows open and a fan in here? It’s hot as hell.”

He wiped his brow, the heat affecting him as well, and she could tell he didn’t want to stay in here a minute longer than he had to, either. “Windows are nailed shut.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope.”

“It’s stifling in here.”

He opened the door, but that was it. At least it let a little air flow in.

She turned back to her patient, cracked open a bottle of the water, and lifted his head up to pour some in his mouth. “Here, drink this.”

He guzzled it down until he had to quit to gasp in air. She set it down and dipped a cloth in the ice water wiping down his face again.

A little while later, she glanced up at the IV and then at her watch. She thought she’d given him enough time for the meds to kick in, and she needed to clean that wound.

She readied her supplies and grabbed one of the towels, tucking it under him as she prepared to irrigate the wound to clean it. Snapping on a new pair of sterile gloves, she quickly moved through the steps. Once the wound was clean, she had to pack it with some gauze soaked in saline solution.

He grimaced a couple of times, but he was mostly stoic.

Bagger moved out into the hall where it was cooler and sat against the wall.

She re-bandaged her patient, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

She checked his blood pressure and temperature, swiping the instrument across his forehead. He was still hot, but his temperature had dropped a degree from one hundred and six to one-hundred and-five.

There was a wooden chair in the room, and she moved it next to the bed. Keeping an eye on the IV flow, she picked up an old magazine from the bedside table and fanned him. When her arm got tired, she tossed the magazine and dipped the towel in the water from the rapidly melting bowl of ice and wiped down his bare skin, trying to do everything she could to bring his fever down.

As her hand stroked his chest, she couldn’t help but be affected by his muscles. She’d had a lot of patients, but never one built like this one. She stroked over his neck and face, brushing his sweaty hair back as she struggled with the conflicting emotions warring within her. On one hand she’d sworn to help people, but on the other hand, she hated bikers. It was men like him she held responsible for her older sister’s death. And men like him who were responsible for her younger sister being held at knifepoint. She closed her eyes and said a prayer, hoping Holly was all right and that Dax hadn’t hurt her.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the man she was expected to save.

As much as she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t help but admit he was an attractive man. How could such a beautiful man be one of these filthy bikers? What a waste of one of God’s greatest, most magnificent creations.

She sat with him for hours while the first bag of IV fluids slowly emptied, alternately fanning him and wiping down his sweating body with cool water. She glanced into the hall; the biker had fallen asleep against the door that led to the outside staircase and freedom. Unfortunately, she’d never be able to get past his sleeping body to those stairs. And she could hear the others downstairs arguing about a poker game. There would be no getting out that way.

She got up from the chair she’d pulled next to the bed, stretched her aching back, and moved to the window. She peered through the louvered slats and the grimy window beyond. It was night now, probably close to midnight. She could see the headlights of cars moving down Rampart Street at the end of the block.

She surveyed the gallery that surrounded the front of the building. Perhaps, if she could get the window open, she could sneak out onto it. But upon closer examination, she realized—like the biker had informed her—the window was indeed nailed shut.

Who does that for God’s sake? Especially in a town that was incessantly hot and humid. She glanced toward the bed and her patient resting upon it, and she had her answer. Bikers who planned to keep someone locked up, that’s who. Bikers who didn’t want their captives crawling out the window.

Of course, she might be able to break the glass, but they’d probably hear. Who was she kidding? As long as Dax held Holly, she wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize her sister, and escaping would only get her sister killed.

Cat picked up the magazine and fanned herself. The heat was getting to her. She touched Blood’s forehead again. He felt clammy and she could see him start to tremble with the onset of chills, tremors moving over his body.

She stepped to the end of the bed and pulled the light sheet over his body, tucking it around him. His body began to shake even harder, and his teeth clacked together. She smoothed the hair off his brow, murmuring to him, “You’re going to be okay.”

His glassy eyes opened and looked up at her. “Cold,” he whispered.

“I know. The fever is breaking. Your body is fighting off the infection. I’m giving you medicine for that. You’re going to get better soon.”

His eyes drifted closed again, and the tremors subsided.

She looked up at the almost empty IV bag. Moving to her duffel, she took out another bag and began to switch them out, humming to herself as she did the work, trying to block out the yelling and cursing and increasingly drunken laughter coming from downstairs.

She said a quick prayer that none of them wandered up here looking for some fun with their new nurse.

When she was through with her task, she sat back in the uncomfortable chair. The only light source came from the dim light of the small table lamp. It was just as well—sitting in the subdued light seemed cooler, even if it was probably only wishful thinking.

Eventually, her head began to droop, and soon she nodded off in sleep.