AllFreeNovel
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Tex is our Treasurer. Munroe is our Secretary. Stretch is our Road Captain. And Slasher is our Tail-Gunner and Enforcer, a role he shared with his now dead brother. I’d make him acting VP in an instant if his head were in the right place, but it’s not.
Shit.
I don’t know how to fucking do this.
“Tell us what you need.” Munroe offers, seeming to pick up on my indecision with the whole fucking situation.
“I need to know what’s happening with Rocco,” I state, and they all nod, feeling the same.
“I can take you to a lounge in the surgical waiting area. I’ll make sure the doctors come to find you there when they finish.”
Glancing at the small framed nurse, I nod, thankful for the support she’s offered us here today.
Even though they couldn’t refuse to treat us, I was half expecting sneers and rough hands as they patched us up, not the welcoming treatment they actually gave us. Rocco was the only one that I was thinking of when we brought him here.
We make our way through the hospital and up two floors to the surgical suite. Apart from our bloody clothes and surgical patches, most of us aren’t wearing shirts, since we used what we could to try to stop Rocco’s injuries from draining him dry. Our chaotic state draws the eyes of everyone in our vicinity, but most already know who we are and what we represent, so they don’t stare too long.
We take over the small lounge area, some of the guys taking up the two sofas while others sit on hard plastic seats. I can’t sit. I can only pace, mimicking Slasher, who can’t seem to sit still as well.
This is fucking torture. I should just call Zoe, but I hold off, not wanting to call her until I have news on Rocco.
“Please tell me he’s going to be alright?”
The pained familiar voice makes me spin to the door as Cara comes into view, her cheeks wet and stained with trails of black tears.
Munroe, who’s the closest to her, darts his head in my direction, his dark eyes pleading at me to answer her, so he doesn’t have to.
Shit. This is part of the role. Being President means answering the tough questions. Making the hard decisions. And for the first time, I struggle with self-doubt that I’m not the right man for the job.
“Gray?” Cara pleads as a sob escapes her, and I know what I have to do.
I have to be the man they need.
“Come here,” I say even as I take a step toward her, and she rushes forward, wrapping her arms around my middle in a death grip.
“Please tell me he’s going to be okay, Grayson. I need him to be okay.” She sobs, and I hold her head to my chest remembering the words Rocco asked me to tell her only moments after getting shot.
“Tell Cara I’m sorry.”
“Tell Cara I never stopped loving her.”
Fuck.
How can I tell her that he’s going to be okay, when everything in me is screaming the opposite?
So I don’t. I just hold her and whisper that we’ll know more soon, and fucking hope that will be enough for now.
It feels like days have gone by, but the clock says a couple of hours when the doorway fills with a male surgeon, and the same man that took over CPR from me out in the truck.
Still standing with Cara in my arms, where she’s refused to move from, she must feel the way I stiffen, because she pulls back to look up at me, and my gaze flicks down to hers before returning to the door.
“Mrs. King?” the surgeon asks, and Cara releases me, spinning quickly to face him.
“Yes. How’s my husband?”
He has a fucking good poker face, because I can’t tell if the news is good or fucking bad, but then he steps into the room and gestures to an empty chair.
“You should take a seat, Mrs. King.”
