Page 30 of Ride Hard
“Do you need a Band-Aid?” I asked, not knowing if he needed stitches or something sticky to keep the cuttogether.
“There’s a first aid kit in the trunk of thecar.”
“I don’t thinkthat’s—”
“Sloane.” He glared at me and pointed toward thedoor.
I held up my hands. “Fine.”
Reaching for the keys, I stumbled as his hand caught my wrist. He gave me a pointed look that had everything to do with this being a test, and I shook himoff.
Stalking outside, I popped the trunk and fished around in the half-light. My duffel was there, and so washis.
A familiar feeling of temptation reared its uglyhead.
I could jump in the car and piss off. It would be easy as with Chaser inside and me out here with the keys and all his shit. I’d been planning on dumping his ass that morning. I could still doit.
Ihesitated.
But...
Maybe...
I glanced at the door to the motelroom.
The only thing that stopped me was the dull ringing in my ears from the gunshots and my aching knees. Sighing, I grabbed the first aid kit and slammed the trunkclosed.
Going back into the motel room, I made a face. I guessed I passed that test with flyingcolors.
Making sure the door was locked behind me, I dumped the kit on the table and glanced at the kettle, which was on the boil. Then I eyed Chaser, who was shirtless and bloody.He wasn’t… Ugh, I wasn’t sure I wanted to seethis.
Still, I couldn’t look away as he took the kit and opened it. He placed four items on the table next to the kettle, which was now steaming. A needle, some thread, gauze, and a pair of stainless steelscissors.
Next, he tipped boiling water into a glass, then dumped the scissors and needle inside. Turning back to the first aid kit, he retrieved a little bottle of rubbing alcohol, unscrewed the cap, and then promptly tipped it over the wound on hisarm.
He grunted, his forehead creasing, and I felt like throwing up on hisbehalf.
“Do you want any help with that?” I asked, edging around the table and sitting besidehim.
“No.”
Rubbing the last of the alcohol over his fingers, he retrieved the scissors and the needle from the glass and began threading. Then, without even blinking, he shoved the tip of the needle through his skin and sewed up the path the bullet had carved across his upperarm.
“Who are you?” I whispered, watching as he threaded the needle through his flesh. Back and forth, doing fancy little knots before starting on thenext.
“Right now? I’m pissed off.” He grunted as the thread dragged and pulled the woundtogether.
“That’s not what Imeant.”
Ignoring me, he tied off the last stitch, cut the thread, and wiped the blood off his skin with a piece of cloth from the kit. Finally, he slapped a sticky wad of gauze over thetop.
Staring at his chest and torso, I could now see several other scars. Pink, puckered lines that’d been sewn together by someone who had either zero finesse or was Chaser’s handiwork. My mind went back to the gunfight at the gas station, and I realized something very important about the biker. He knew how to shoot. It wasn’t just simply point and fire kind of bullshit. No, he knewhow to shoot tokill.
Without a word, I reached over and cleaned up the mess on thetable.
“Sloane.”
“What?” I picked up the glass and dumped the contents into the kettle before zipping the first aid kitclosed.
