Footsteps approach behind me. A set of hands settles on my shoulders. A rough voice speaks.
“You’ve done good. Let me take over,” he says.
They still have to pry me away. And even then, I only take a step back. There’s not a force in heaven or hell that’ll keep me away from my man.
Stitch pulls the bandage back from the wound and there’s a sharp, hissing intake of breath.
“This is not fucking ideal,” he murmurs. Then he turns to Razor. “Go back to my bike. Get the medkit with the black cross on it — not the red one, not the blue one, I want the black one. It’s in the main cargo compartment. Grab a bottle of iodine, too. Hurry.”
Razor leaves at a run, and then Stitch turns to Crash.
“I need you to call Stone. Tell him it will be a fucking minute before we’re back on the road. And bring that fucking Volvo closer — we may need it to take Blaze to the hospital depending on how shit goes here.”
I watch, silent, anxious as Stitch gives orders, and Razor and Crash both leap to obey. With each second that passes, I grow more twitchy, more fearful, and helplessness and anxiety flood through me.
“Is he going to be OK?” I say as I watch Stitch work.
He’s quiet for a second, his back to me, and I fear that he hasn’t heard me. Or he’s ignoring me because he doesn’t want to break the bad news.
Instead, with one hand applying pressure to the bandage over Blaze’s wound, he turns and gives me a warm smile.
“You did good. You acted fast, and you put pressure on the wound. If you hadn’t, he’d be in a much worse spot than he is now. He will make it, Tiffany,” he says. “I just need to get this bleeding under control, stitch him up, and then, once he wakes up, slap him around a bit for getting his dumb ass shot.”
“I was the one who was supposed to get shot. He put himself in the way.”
Stitch nods. “Sounds like Blaze. For all the shit he pulls, it will be the consequences of someone else’s shit that gets him killed. If he would just stop and think sometimes, I’d have fewer occasions to practice my stitching skills on him.”
“He’s working on it,” I say, my eyes glued to Blaze. Glued to his face. Hoping for some sign of consciousness. “Sometimes.”
Stitch chuckles. “Oh yeah? Cause, from where I’m sitting, it sure don’t look like it.”
“He had a chance to kill some of these people earlier. He was spying on this construction site where Anna and the others were meeting, and some workers caught him. Instead of fighting, he talked his way out. He mentioned something about some video game — Animal Crossing, I think — and creeped them out until they let him go.”
He nods. Then grunts. “Huh, didn’t know he played. I’ll have to check out his island sometime,” he mumbles.
“What’s that?” I say.
Razor returns with the medkit and the bottle of iodine and hands both over to Stitch.
“I said that I’m going to need your help holding him down, because he’s sure as fuck going to wake up once I douse his wound and get to work,” Stitch answers. “Now, Tiffany, take him by his good shoulder and keep a firm grip. Razor, I want you to hold him by his legs. The last thing I need is Blaze kicking anyone in the face.”
Razor and I barely have time to get a grip before Sitch starts to work; he moves the bandage aside and I get a brief glimpse of the wound — it’s red and angry, but there’s less bleeding than before. Stitch makes a satisfied grunt, gives me a quick look and a nod, and then starts. And Blaze stirs. Gentle at first, and then struggling like an angry bear on the warpath; he’s so strong he sends me flying back and Razor shouts at me to get back in position while he struggles with Blaze’s kicking legs.
Dodging Blaze’s swinging fists, I take hold of his arm with one hand and, with the other, I slap him square across the face.
“Declan Dunne, you need to calm down,” I shout. “It’s me, Tiffany. Stitch and Razor and Crash are here, too. We’re trying to help.”
He stills. And glares at me — a mix of animalistic anger and confusion.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Tiffany?”
His words come in fits and starts, interrupted by sporadic grunts of pain as Stitch sets about his namesake work.
Before I can answer, Stitch speaks up. “She’s saving your dumb ass. Stormed into the clubhouse like a maniac, got all up in Adella and Mack’s faces, and practically dragged us all here. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be a dead man, Blaze.”
Confusion contorts his face. “You rat me out, and then you bring the club here? Have I lost too much blood, or does that just not make any fucking sense?”
“I didn’t call the police on you, Blaze. It was someone else,” I say. Staring into his dazed eyes, I see realization hit.
“My mom turned me in?” He whispers. “She did it? God damn it, how did she find out where I was?”
I lower my head. “I might have told her where you were. It slipped out. I was still out of it from our fight and from when we, uh…”
Razor and Crash trade a look.
Blaze just nods. “Not your fault. I have that effect on women.”
“You inspire them to call the cops on you?” Razor says.
“I was speaking metaphorically, you ass,”
