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She closed her eyes again and whispered, “I hate Saturday nights.”
He chuckled and held the glass to her lips. “Drink some water.”
She did as he requested, and he was surprised. He’d expected more of a fight out of her. He’d been watching her for a few hours. Besides ignoring him, she’d put many of his brothers back into their places with a look that promised blood, violence, and a whole lot of sass. But now, with her wounded hand, she appeared more subdued.
Once she finished the glass, he wiped her lips with a towel and she opened her eyes. “I’m not weak. I just hate the sight of blood. Especially if it’s mine.”
“I’m not a fan either.” Not thrilled with the fact they were on a sticky floor with limited light, he made a decision. He swung the first aid kit’s straps over his shoulder and picked her up in his arms. “Hold onto your hand. Keep the towel against the wound.”
She squeaked, but she didn’t squirm. “What are you doing?
He stood, adjusted her weight, and surveyed the room again. Two prospects were fighting in the center of a ring of men, Tish was now waving her arms at J.R., probably trying to stop him from quitting, and Eagle was making out with Lara in the corner of the room. Since Eagle wasn’t taking charge of the brothers, but no one had called the cops, he decided to let it all go. It was just another Saturday night at the Rebels’ Refuge Biker Bar in Ravensburg, Virginia.
Izzy’s breathing sounded erratic, and he headed down a dark hallway. After passing the restrooms and kitchen, he discovered Tish’s office wasn’t only unlocked, the door was open. Once inside, he used his shoulder to nudge the light switch. The small room was exceptionally neat and tidy. The desk took up most of the space, but there was a small couch against the back wall. Once he lowered Izzy onto the brown velvet cushions, he slipped off the first aid kit and dropped it onto the floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with your people?” J.R, aka Jae Rivera, the bar’s half Puerto Rican and half Korean cook extraordinaire, appeared in the doorway. He wore a frown the size of Virginia. And despite the fact he’d been cooking for hours, his starched and ironed apron was spotless. “Wait. What’s wrong with Izzy?”
“She’s hurt.” Hawk adjusted Izzy’s hand on her lap, concerned about her closed eyes and the fact she hadn’t said a word since he’d picked her up.
“Fuck.” J.R. ran a hand over his shaved head. “What do you need?”
“Clean towels and lots of clean, cool water.”
“Got it.” J.R. disappeared and shut the door behind him.
Hawk released a deep sigh, grateful for the almost silence. The only sounds he heard were the A.C. compressor and the analog clock ticking on the desk. He brushed away strands of hair from Izzy’s forehead. “Hey, darlin’.”
Her eyes fluttered a few times until opening. Her green gaze roamed the room until landing on his face. “Why am I in Tish’s office?”
He gently held up her hand still wrapped in a towel. Blood had seeped through, staining the white towel pink. “You hurt yourself.”
Her eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. Her face seemed even paler, and he took her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.
“Okay.” He placed her hand on her lap and kept his gaze locked with hers. “I need to remove the glass, and you may require stitches. After I clean the wound, we’ll decide if a hospital visit is necessary.”
She shook her head again. “No hospital.”
He nodded. “Got it.” Although if the wound was bad, he’d override that decision.
J.R. opened the door and carried in the towels and a large bowl of water. “It’s a fucking shitshow out there, brother.”
From the music and shouts making their way down the hallway and into the room, that was probably an understatement.
“Next problem on my list.” He kept his voice level and pointed to the end table near the couch.
J.R. left everything on the table and touched Izzy’s head. “You okay, Izzy?”
She nodded even though her lips were pinched, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Hand me the trash can?” Hawk pointed to the can near the desk. He wanted it nearby in case she puked.
J.R. dropped it next to the couch and headed for the door. “You need anything else?”
“Another bowl of water and a cup of hot tea. Two sugars. No milk.” He glanced at the clock, noticing it was almost eleven. “Make those two teas.”
“Gotcha. And just a FY-fucking-I, I’m shutting down the kitchen.” J.R. grabbed the door’s edge, closing it as he left. “I’m not feeding animals.”
