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So, what do I do next?What the fuck am I thinking?That’s not the question. I’m a doctor, and my first order of business is to finish treating my patient. Once that’s done, I’ll figure out what to do next. I close her file, shove my phone into the deep pocket of my lab coat, and return to the exam room. “Ready?”
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but I see the lines pulling tight around her swollen lips. “No choice but to be ready, Doc.”
She’s a tiny little scrap of a thing, topping out at five-feet-two-inches and weighing about a buck fifteen soaking wet. Her arms and chest, and even her neck, are inked up, telling the tale of her hard life.
Her eyes, swollen from injuries, barely allow her to see. I don’t even bother to ask if she needs help; she clearly does. With gentle but firm hands, I guide her into a wheelchair.
We make our way toward the X-ray room, me pushing the chair and watching her pretend she’s not in a world of fucking pain when she is. I know the act. I’d done it myself many times, particularly during the early days of my time in the Army.
Fake it till you make it. That’s what my buddy Ricky used to say during Basic Training. It’s what I’d done, pretended I belonged until Ididbelong.
When we arrive at the X-ray room, Maggie, Margaret—what do I call her?—squints at the equipment, confusion apparent even through her swollen eyes. “Where’s the bed thingy?”
I laugh. “Sorry, this is the ghetto version,” I tell her, then scoop her up in my arms and lay her gently on the X-ray table. Her body tenses at my touch, a fleeting reminder of her vulnerability. I try like hell not to let it affect me.
The image of Reynolds flashes in my mind; his pale face, lifeless eyes, and that gaping hole in his chest. My hands were on him, trying to stop the bleeding, watching the life drain out of him. My breath catches as the memory lingers.
“Yo, Doc,” she says, her tough girl tone holding a hint of concern. “I’m over here. You okay?”
I shake the memory off and focus on the task at hand. The machine sounds a low but intrusive beep to signal the images are ready to view. I must get this shit under control. I can’t be an effective doctor if I keep getting yanked back to the past while I need to be firmly in the present.
Something has to give. I can’t let this fucking PTSD get in the way, not now. These symptoms are coming more frequently, and they’ll only get worse if I ignore them.
If I’m going to be useful to Banger, to Maggie, to the Reckless Souls, then I need to be at my best.
Otherwise, they’ll all die, and it’ll be all my fucking fault.
CHAPTERNINE
Maggie
Something is up with the doctor.
Is he on drugs? “Is anything broken, Doc?”
“It’s just a small crack in a rib, a fracture instead of a full break, so you’ll be fine in a few weeks. You’ll need a pain reliever, ice, and plenty of rest.”
“Does that mean you’ll give me the good drugs?” I ask, and my mind tries to come up with someplace I can heal in peace without worrying about my crew—myformercrew—finding me and ending my life.
“Yes, Margaret. I will prescribe you some pain medication.”
“Good. Then yeah, it’s okay. Resting’s doable.”
Dr. Bishop looks at me, and he lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because, Maggie, you’ll have to rest someplace that the Bloodthirsty Devils won’t find you.”
Maggie?He says it calmly, as if we’re old friends. But I don’t remember telling him my name is Maggie.
It scares the living shit out of me, and I try to get up, but it hurts too bad. “How the fuck do you know about Maggie and BTD?”
Now I’m afraid. What is this fakeDocgoing to do to me?
“Not too difficult to put together with those tattoos, not around these parts.”
My tattoos aren’t associated with BTD. They’re from my days as aLas Sangrientas,long before BTD took us over and put us to work for them. “Who are you? Tell me the truth, or I’ll scream.”
