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“Sorry to wake you, but we’ve got a problem,” Lizzie said from the doorway.
I shielded my eyes from the glaring lights of the hallway. “How big of a problem? Like, someone’s limb is ripped off type of problem or a kid swallowed a Monopoly house problem?”
“Neither. It seems there’s a party going on in room 317. I’ve tried breaking it up, but they won’t listen to me. They just smirk and keep drinking.”
“They’re drinking?”
“Yes. They’re a raucous bunch. And I’m…”
“Intimidated?”
“Um, yeah. They’rebikers. Should I call security?”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, careful not to hit my head on the top bunk. “No, no. I’ll take care of it. Where’s Babs? She’s a hard ass. Why didn’t she handle this?”
“I can’t find her. And I doubt she’d school Boxer. She’s all but worshipping at his leather altar.”
I found a piece of gum in my scrub pocket, popped it into my mouth, and went to break up the party. I heard the bikers’ laughter before I’d even gotten through the door of Boxer’s room.
Two bikers leaned against the far wall while another sat in the chair by Boxer’s bedside, chowing down on the cookies Mia had brought me. I’d forgotten to take them when I’d been paged earlier.
Boxer looked at Lizzie who stood in the doorway behind me. “Thanks, Lizzie.”
“Sure thing,” Lizzie said, her tone breathy.
I glanced at her over my shoulder. She looked flushed and giddy, like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
“Lizzie,” I warned.
“I’m gone, I’m gone.” She hastily closed the door, leaving me in a room with three bikers I recognized from the night I removed Boxer’s appendix. Aside from the flask I saw being passed around, I was surprised to find the get-together was the antithesis of rowdy. There was no loud music, no strippers, no bags of white powder on the nightstand.
As far as what I knew about bikers, this wasn’t the kind of get-together I’d expected to walk into.
A plastic bag rested next to Boxer, and I wondered if they’d brought him junk food and other contraband that wouldn’t aid in his healing.
“Hey, Doc,” Colt greeted.“Zip.” He held out his hand to the man whose patch read Vice President. “Whisky.”
Zip handed over a flask, and Colt took a long sip from it.
“You can’t have alcohol in here,” I stated.
“Says who,” Zip asked with a grin.
“It’s hospital policy. There are sick people here trying to recover. We can’t have visitors getting unruly,” I stated lamely.
“Who said anything about getting unruly?” the biker with the cut jaw and dark hair asked. “This shit is tame. If you want unruly, we can show you unruly.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” I whirled and glared at Boxer. “You better not be drinking.”
“I’m not.”
“Boxer,” I warned.
“Seriously, Doc. You can smell my breath if you don’t believe me.” His dove gray eyes were guileless and sincere.
I peered at him for a moment. “I believe you.” To the rest of the men in the room, I asked, “How much whisky have you guys had?”
Zip’s blue eyes twinkled with humor. “Not enough to be a menace on the road. We’ll make it back to Waco in one piece. Promise.”
