Page 137 of Bad Cowboy, Tennessee

And then, as I was pushing the dusty phone up to my ear, they came.

Three black SUVs arrived at the gate, and multiple members of Draven’s security team rushed out.

“Get him in the back.Now,” one of the guys barked.

Another approached me. “Max, come along with us. We need to get Mr. Lyons to the hospital immediately.”

I was confused. Confused as to how his security knew my name, firstly, before I realized Draven must have had everyonewellinformed about me before we arrived.

Two men pulled Draven from the ground and as they carried his blood-soaked body into the back seat of one of the SUVs, I kept my shirt pressed firmly against his wound, following with each step.

I struggled to catch my breath. “He—he got away,” I finally told the security guy nearest to me. “Draven said his name was Sandlefield. Reggie Sandlefield.”

“We have a vehicle in pursuit of the attacker,” one of the men told me. “We will find the guy.”

I sat beside Draven, his head in my lap, in the long back seat of the SUV.

A security guard in the driver’s seat turned to look at us, frowning at the wadded-up shirt.

“Shirt’s soaked through,” he said in a moment. “Put your fingers in the wound.”

“What?”

“Your fingers. The shirt isn’t doing anything to stop the bleeding. It’s a wound in his side. Put your fingers into it,now.”

I looked down at my hand as I took my shirt away. I pulled the fabric of Draven’s shirt up, exposing his abdomen and nearly passing out as I saw the open wound, with so much blood that none of Draven’s tattoos were even visible anymore.

“Hand, into the wound,” the security guard repeated, and I took a deep breath.

I placed three of my fingers directly into his wound. It was warm, but I wasn’t afraid. I would have done anything to stop the bleeding.

“Here,” the crew member said, reaching to pull gauze from a first aid kit with one hand while he drove. “If you’ve found the wound, put this into it now and apply pressure.”

I took the wad of gauze, my hand finally not shaking as I put it into the spot where blood was coming out.

Draven was trying to stay conscious, but hadn’t said anything for a minute. He groaned as the gauze plugged the wound.

“Good fuckin’ idea,” Draven said. “Very good idea. That hurts like a goddamn bitch, by the way. But keep the pressure on.”

Finally, the blood loss seemed to slow.

As the SUV took off quickly toward the hospital, the security guard in the front kept watch, turning his head back anytime the car came to a stop, talking me through my panic.

“I was trained as a combat medic,” he said. “Sometimes when the wound is on the trunk of the body, only a hand can locate the center of the blood loss so that you can get gauze inside. You’re doing the right thing, Max.”

I could barely breathe. I nodded at him, unable to tear my eyes away from Draven’s face.

“He’s still conscious,” the security guard said.

“Damn right I am,” Draven mumbled, trying to laugh again. “Nice bein’ here… here in Max’s arms. Ain’t he cute?”

The security guard didn’t react.

Within minutes, we had raced to the hospital. Medical staff took over, and I watched as Draven was pulled away on a stretcher.

Only then did the tears start to fall down my cheeks.

Watching him whisked away, lying back, sonothimself.

---