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“We’ve got all that covered. Let’s go. I’m driving.”
“What? No, I need—”
“Linden, this isn’t our first rodeo. We have everything you’ll need to patch him up. Now, let’s go.”
“Okay, but drive fast.”
“Woman,” Zip stated, “fast is my middle name.”
* * *
The prospects saw us coming and opened the gates to the clubhouse. Zip parked the SUV in the gravel lot, but before he’d even cut the engine, I was out of the car, my purse in my hand.
Reap and a familiar-looking man were standing on the front porch. The stranger with rakish curls falling across his forehead leaned against the railing and took a swig from the liquor bottle he was holding. He was dressed in all black, but he didn’t wear a leather cut and I saw no ink on his skin. He didn’t look to be a Blue Angel.
A flash of recognition kindled in my brain.
Ramsey Buchanan.
Reap placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a classic flip-top Zippo lighter.
“Smoking can kill you,” I said in way of greeting.
“If something else doesn’t kill me first,” he said. He threw an arm around my shoulder and gave me a brief hug. “Thanks for coming.”
“Where is he?”
“Inside with Colt and Gray,” Reap replied.
I walked into the clubhouse, steeling myself for what I was about to see.
Boxer sat on a stool, looking woozy. Gray had his hand on Boxer’s shoulder to steady him. Colt stood on the other side pressing gauze to Boxer’s arm.
Torque and a few others sat quietly in the living room, watching me with somber gazes.
I set my purse on the counter and then went to Boxer. Not caring that we had an audience, I stroked a hand down his stubbly cheek to his jaw. “What did you do to yourself?” I asked.
“He tried to be a hero,” Colt replied gruffly. “He’s lucky this was in his arm… I got most of the bleeding under control, but you’re gonna need to take a look.”
“You’re here,” Boxer said, his eyes glazed with pain as they met mine. He exhaled, and I smelled the liquor fumes on his breath.
I smiled gently. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Took you long enough. I’ve been drinking for the better part of two hours.”
“Yeah, well, maybe next time you should date a doctor a little bit closer to you so she can patch you up in no time,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
“Don’t want another doctor,” he muttered.
The bikers had pulled a table next to the stool, and it was littered with all the supplies I could possibly need to repair a gunshot or knife wound. “Where the hell did you guys get all this?”
“It’s better that you don’t know,” Colt said.
“All right then,” I said. “Okay. I need better light in here. Get me some lamps.”
“Got it, Doc,” a biker said, jumping up off the couch.
I turned my attention back to Boxer.
