Page 80 of Inked Daddies

“Save him. I’m fine,” she says right before speaking to the dispatcher.

Time to get to work.

33

HUGO

This shit never gets easier.I do not like seeing the inside of my friends, particularly when they’re conscious.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still,” lies Trick.

I do not blame him for the lie. He thinks he is holding still. But no one holds still when they’ve lost the exact right amount of blood to hit the edge of hypovolemic shock. He’s not there yet, and I mean to keep him from crossing that threshold.

Trick is now perched on the edge of Preacher’s kitchen table, blood trickling down the table leg. Usually, the table is topped by a fruit bowl or a flower vase since Marie returned from Boston. Instead, it is now my operating theater.

Trick’s eyes glint with pain he’s trying to mask with a grin. He’s always been good at that—smiling through agony. He did the same thing the last time I cut a bullet from his arm.

A fine sheen of sweat coats his forehead, and his leg quivers where the bullet tore into the muscle. He’s gripping the edge ofthe table so hard his knuckle bones long to pierce through his skin.

I fish the needle from the kit I hid under the back seat of Sam’s truck. I modified my grandmother’s sewing kit to make it, and every time I have ever heard her ghost in my head telling me to grab it, I have needed it.

I always listen to that voice.

Trick’s grin flickers, more a grimace than actual amusement. “Still not moving,” he croaks. “But if you could hurry up, that would be stellar.”

I give him a flat look, letting my tension funnel into a mock scolding. “If you didn’t insist on getting shot every fucking year, I wouldn’t have to dig bullets out of your flesh all the time.”

“You love it,” he says, winking despite the droplets of sweat rolling down the side of his face. “Some part of you must get off on saving my sorry hide.”

“Oui, I’m thrilled,” I grumble, leaning closer. The bullet’s lodged deeper than I’d like. “But you’re definitely going to owe me a nice bottle of whiskey after this.”

“Speaking of…” Sam passes Trick a bottle.

I’d object on account of alcohol thinning the blood, but given the circumstances and our lack of painkillers, I say nothing.

“You’re a god among men, Sam,” Trick says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He only manages a sip, though. Which means he’s hurt far worse than he’s letting on. Probably putting on a braver face than usual for Marie’s benefit.

She stands nearby, at the edge of the kitchen. She looks more afraid than I’ve ever seen her. It tugs at something in my chest I usually keep buried—concern for both of them, a sense of protectiveness I’m used to channeling only in the heat of battle.

“Alright,” I mutter, letting the steel of the tweezers catch the overhead light, “let’s see how deep this bastard decided to bury itself.”

“Wait—you haven’t gotten to it yet?” Trick asks, grimacing.

“That was exploratory. The tissue is ragged at the edges, blocking my tools. But”—I dig in—“now we are getting somewhere.” I bet he did not wager he’d be laying on this table when he built it for Preacher.

Preacher remains silent in the corner, leaning against a broken cabinet. I catch glimpses of him occasionally, arms crossed, shoulders taut. The scowl on his face suggests he wants to say something, but he’s restraining himself.

Maybe because of the bullet in Trick’s leg. Or maybe he’s still reeling from the invasion of his home, from the fact that bullets whizzed through his living room and he was beaten half to death. He may hate us from this night forward. But at least he is alive to hate us.

Trick exhales, letting out a hiss of pain as I probe the wound with the tweezers. The bullet’s lodged a lot deeper than I’d like. His voice goes tight. “Christ.”

“Hold still.” Inside, my stomach churns with the memory of countless times I’ve done exactly this—on a dusty floor in a desert outpost, or in a cramped boat’s hull, or sometimes in a hideout. Once in a jungle. Trick has a knack for catching bullets.

“Is he going to be okay?” Marie’s voice breaks through the tense quiet, sounding small. She steps closer, peering at Trick’s face. “Hugo?”

I don’t look up, but I force a calm note into my voice. “He is too stubborn to die,” I assure her, leaning in. “This bullet’s not anywhere near an artery, from what I can see. He has always bled like mad.” I flick a quick glance at Trick. “Assuming he doesn’t squirm too much, he will live.”

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