Page 79 of Inked Daddies

Preacher aims the now dangling porch light toward his voice while I squint that direction. I see a flash of metal—his belt buckle—and run toward him. Preacher keeps the light on him now that we know where to look.

He sits in the dirt and torn grass, one hand clamped over his thigh, face contorted. I spot the dark stain of blood saturating his jeans. My stomach twists—he was definitely shot or stabbed badly, likely losing more blood than he can afford.

Trick’s lips quirk in a half-smile, as though proud to still be conscious. Typical Trick.

I help him to his feet, operating as his personal crutch to get him inside the house. “Looking a little pale, soldier.”

“Aw, listen to that, Preacher. He’s worried about me. Next thing I know, he’ll be making me chicken soup, or some shit.”

Preacher grumbles, “You’d be lucky to get it. His chicken soup cures everything.”

I ignore their faux-bickering and concentrate on what matters while I kick debris around to create an open space, then lay Trick on the bloodstained floor.

Marie’s safe.

She’s on her feet, brandishing a weapon. I have no clue what she endured in the last few minutes, but she’s not lying in a pool of blood. That’s enough to spur me forward.

Once I know Trick will be okay for a minute without me, my entire focus narrows to Marie. My pulse leaps as I break into a run, crossing the yard in long strides. Her eyes snap toward me, telling me not enough and all too much. Her emotions are right on the surface, and as much as I want to sweep her into my arms, her hand still grips the knife so tightly her knuckles are white.

“Marie!” My voice cracks with urgency. She’s still standing, but I need to check for wounds, need to see if she’s injured or in shock. By the strange look in her eyes, the last is likely. My feet slip onthe torn-up grass, and I nearly collide with her. She meets me halfway, her chest hitching in a shaky exhale.

“Sam,” she whispers, voice trembling.

As soon as my hands settle on her shoulders, my gaze roams frantically, searching for blood, bruises, anything to indicate serious harm. “You okay?”

She nods, arms slack at her sides, the knife falling into the dirt. “I—I’m not hurt. Physically. Not much. Crow—he’s gone. I made him leave.”

I exhale a shaky breath of my own, tugging her forward into a fierce, impulsive hug. It might not be what she needs, but right now, it’s exactly what I need. Her body trembles, heart pounding against my chest. My mind reels with the knowledge that she was alone with Crow, alone enough to force him to retreat. She had a knife, but that’s still a monumental gamble.

“God,” I whisper into her hair, which smells of girl sweat and dust. “I was so worried.”

We stay like that for a moment, until a voice rips through the haze. Hugo, leaning out the front door. “Cuddle later, Trick’s bleeding out, move it!” He dips back inside.

My head snaps up, guilt piercing me.“Right, we should?—”

“He’s bleeding out?” she whispers.

We take each other’s hands and run inside together. I pull away from Marie to look at Trick. The moment we’re inside, Preacher grabs his daughter for a rough bear hug.

Trick is still on the floor, caked with dirt and blood. Hugo or Preacher must have cut his jeans open around the wound. Heflashes me that ridiculous grin, despite his ashen complexion. “Not dead yet,” he rasps, as if that’s supposed to comfort me. “The bullet only messed up my tattoo.”

I roll my eyes at his feeble joke, but a grin tugs at my lips, relief and exasperation blending. “Barely alive, more like.” I crouch near him, scanning the wound. The bullet hole looks deep, blood everywhere. It’s hard to know what’s a part of the wound and what’s not.

Hugo approaches, limping slightly, a gash on his forearm I hadn’t noticed. He glances between me and Trick. “I can pull that bullet out and stitch him up. I have what I need in my bag.” Hugo kneels by Trick’s side, pressing a cloth to slow the bleeding.

Trick hisses, eyes watering from the pain. “Careful, man.”

Hugo huffs, “You want to keep that leg, you hush.” Then he shoots me a pointed look. “You know what to do.” He flicks his eyes at Marie.

She’s stepped away from Trick, fear in her eyes. Nervous energy flows out of her, as if she can’t hold still. Post-fight adrenaline crash threatens to force her to the floor too.

I guide her to a chair, flip it over for her, and gently press on her shoulders until she sits. She meets my eyes, giving me a strange nod. I sense a thousand questions swirling between us—What happened? Why do I feel like this? Is Trick going to live?

She needs someplace to put that energy.So I tell her, “Call the cops. Tell them your father was attacked, that we handled it, but there are men to be picked up. Got that?” There’s no hospital in Auclair, or I’d have told her to call an ambulance for Trick.

Marie nods and pulls out her cell phone. It’s probably the only one here that didn’t get smashed, which means Crow didn’t beat her. The thought lets me breathe a little easier.

“Hurry,” Hugo snaps, adjusting Trick’s bandage. “He’s losing too much blood. We need to get that bullet out and sew him up. Marie, if you cannot deal with?—”

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