Page 29 of Faron
“You okay?”
Her laugh cracked in my ear.
“No. But I will be.”
“Damn right you will,” I whispered. “Meanest doctor in LA.”
She turned in my arms. Pressed her forehead to mine.
“Don’t you forget it, Cherokee.”
29
Faron
“What the fuck are you going to do, guard the door all day?” River asked, watching me pace outside the clinic.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“That’s not your life,” he groaned. “You’re Delta. You’re not some boyfriend bodyguard.”
“I told him that,” Blue said through the window, sipping coffee like it was whiskey.
Cyclone stepped up beside her. “You doing okay, Doc?”
“Still breathing. How’s your ego?”
He grinned. “Still inflated.”
“Ever think about working somewhere safer?” Cyclone asked gently. “People need doctors all over the city, Blue. Places without daily drive-bys.”
She stared at him. “If you were me — if the only thing standing between a bullet and a kid’s heart was your hands — would you walk away?”
Cyclone didn’t answer right away.
“What if,” he said slowly, “you work seven to seven. Stay with Faron the rest. That way, you’re not here alone at night.”
“You didn’t hear a word I said,” she snapped. “The shootings don’t stop at seven. You want to know what it’s like? Stay today. Watch.”
And that’s when the boy ran in. Crying.
“Mama!”
Blue was up in a flash, grabbing her bag, following him through an alley.
We ran with her.
A woman lay bleeding in a yard. Gunshot. Pale. Eyes fluttering.
Blue dropped beside her. Cyclone was already there. Hands moving like it was the field again.
He scooped the woman up. Ran for the clinic.
I carried the boy.
The day turned red.
Wounds. Blood. Screams. A thirteen-year-old brought his little brother in — stab wounds, fractured ribs.
