Page 7 of Wings
Mental checklist: overdose risk — low; street resale value — awful; pain relief for an ex-Marine with a shattered femur — priceless.
I slipped the vials into the hidden pocket and whispered, “Do some good, boys,” as though the morphine could hear me.
I wasn't stealing. That's what I told myself. I was redirecting waste, saving useful medical supplies from destruction. The Heavy Kings MC paid for their medical care in protection—keeping the worst of the drug trade away from the hospital, making sure our staff got to their cars safely after late shifts. It was a trade, a balance.
And it had started with Danny.
Seventeen years old, prospect for the Heavy Kings, rolled in with three bullet holes and terror in his eyes. "Please," he'd begged, hand clutching mine with desperate strength. "Don't call the cops. Don't let them tell my mom. Please."
I'd held his hand while he died. Held it while Dr. Park called time, while security called the police, while his blood cooled on the trauma bay floor. He'd been somebody's son, somebody'sfriend, and he'd died afraid of disappointing his mother more than he'd feared death itself.
That night, I'd started taking supplies. Small things at first. Then more, as I learned which Kings needed help, which injuries they were treating in back rooms and garages because hospitals meant questions and questions meant prison.
The trauma bay smelled like blood and benzoin, that specific mixture that meant someone's life had taken a violent turn. I counted supplies to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from wandering to dangerous places.
Ten gauze packs on the shelf. Five in my bag.
Twelve suture kits in the drawer. Six in my bag.
Eight vials of antibiotics. Four in my bag.
Always leaving enough for the hospital, never taking more than we could explain as normal wastage. The careful mathematics of survival, of keeping people alive on both sides of the law.
Tyler was sleeping now, vitals stable, road rash cleaned and dressed. He'd heal. He'd probably ride again, probably without a helmet, probably end up back here or worse. But tonight, I'd done my job. Both jobs. The one that paid my rent and the one that let me sleep at night.
Sometimes I wondered which one was really keeping me alive.
By 5 AM, my scrubs looked like a Jackson Pollock—blood spatter from the bar fight in trauma one, iodine stains from Tyler's road rash, and a mysterious green streak across my stomach from the kid who'd eaten glow sticks on a dare. I peeled them off in the staff locker room, each movement waking a new complaint from my body.
Lower back first—twelve hours on my feet had turned my spine into a question mark of pain. Then the right hip, where scar tissue pulled with every step. The ghost pain was worse some nights than others. Tonight it throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, a bass line of old trauma under the melody of fresh exhaustion.
My stomach added its own percussion, hollow and angry. When had I eaten last? Yesterday's lunch—half a turkey sandwich grabbed between patients, wolfed down standing over a trash can in case I got called away. The vending machine coffee at 2 AM didn't count as food, though my body had been running on it and adrenaline for the last eight hours.
I faced my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sinks. The fluorescent lights didn't do anyone favors, but they were particularly cruel at dawn. My jade eyes had dulled to moss, the gold flecks disappeared under shadows that looked like bruises. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut, not from good genetics but from forgetting to eat when the anxiety got bad. Auburn hair escaping my bun in copper wisps that looked more like rust in this light.
The scale in the corner tempted me, but I already knew what it would say. Eleven pounds in two months. Not trying to lose weight—just forgetting my body needed fuel when my mind was too busy calculating escape routes and checking locks and jumping at shadows that might be more than shadows.
I changed into street clothes—jeans, hoodie, sneakers that made no sound on linoleum. Everything dark, everything forgettable. The kind of outfit that wouldn't stand out in a police lineup. Jesus, when had I started thinking like that? When had every choice become about being invisible, unmemorable, safe?
The secure parking garage required a badge and a code. I appreciated the security even as I took the long way to my car, never the same path twice. Down two levels, across to the westside, back up one level, through the connector. Anyone following would be obvious. Anyone waiting would have to guess which route I'd take.
Paranoid.That's what the hospital therapist had said during my mandatory session after the "incident" with the violent patient. "Hypervigilance is a natural trauma response, but you can't live your whole life looking over your shoulder."
Except I could. I did. Three years of practice had made it second nature.
My ancient Honda sat under a light that actually worked—I'd learned that lesson the hard way. Keys already in my hand, threaded between my fingers like the world's most pathetic brass knuckles. The car chirped as I unlocked it, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a dinner bell for predators.
"Jesus, kid, when's the last time you ate actual food?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Doc materialized from behind a concrete pillar like he'd been waiting—which, knowing him, he had. 6 AM sharp, same as every week. Silver stubble caught the harsh garage light, making him look older than his sixty-eight years. The smell of Old Spice cologne mixed with pipe smoke he swore he'd quit hit me like a nostalgia bomb.
"Doc." I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart trying to escape through my ribs. "You can't sneak up on people like that."
"Wasn't sneaking. You just weren't paying attention." He looked me up and down with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. "So? When's the last time you ate?"
"I had—"
"Coffee doesn't count. Vending machine garbage doesn't count." He held out one hand. "Give me the supplies. You look like you're about to fall over."
