Page 80 of Overcast

She needs a fucking doctor. I need to call Lucien and get his ass up here. He's our twenty-four hour, seven days a week physician. We hit him up when we're in a jam, he sews up gunshot wounds, stabbings, cuts and whatever else we need him for.

Stormi appears like she's on the right side of death.

“Can you sit on the toilet for me?” I kneel, still holding on to her while her blue eyes click to mine.

And I’m going to take that as a yes.

Gently I place her down, let her go, and wait to make sure she can sit up on her own. When she does, I start up the water, getting it to a warm temperature before turning back to her.

"I know you're not going to like this, but I have to take off some of your clothes." I think I preferred the silence when she more than likely wanted to tell me to get fucked by a broken beer bottle.

Her chin doesn't pry from her chest, light locks of her hair curtain around her face.

I broke this woman.

I ripped her from her home, shoved her in the trunk of my car, and chased her around an abandoned warehouse when she ran from me. I poured gallons of water over her clothed face to choke her out and hint that I wasn't fucking around.

Stormi lets out a small groan, cowering over more and jerking me from my thoughts.

My hands grip her biceps as I squat down to hold her steady. "Stormi, I—"

I don't know what to do.

Reaching behind me, I pull out my phone. Dialing Lucien, he picks up on the second ring.

"Emric, the gloomy, dark cloud of death," he greets cheerily. "What can I do for you today?"

"Need you up at the cabin ASAP."

"Mhm, no can do right now," he drawls. 'I have—"

"I have a bullet with your name on it if you don't get your ass up here."

"Is it Reagan?" His voice suddenly turns from teasing to solemn. That's one of the things about B723, we take care of family. We take care of each other's shit. "Did something happen to her?"

I shake my head mindlessly. "No, she's fine. I'll give you the details when you get here, but I need you like yesterday."

"I have a surgery scheduled in the morning." He lets out a heavy sigh with my absence of a response that follows. "Fuck...I'll see you in an hour."

He hangs up, a small twinge of hope filters through me that she'll be okay once he gets here.

"Listen," I tell Stormi, as I start to peel off her shirt. "You made it this far, sweetheart. I'm going to get you help, and everything is going to be alright."

Stormi begins to move, to where I’m not sure, probably to get the fuck away from me and my assistance.

I can't say that I blame her, I wouldn't want me around either.

I grip her chin gently to look up at me. "Shirt on?" She gives me a weak nod that I wouldn't see if I wasn't holding her already. "Okay, but the pants...they have to go."

I don't get a reaction this time, so I take it as the green light to go ahead. As I slowly strip off her bottoms, purple and blue bruising wraps around the bloody bandage.

My other concern is the graze of the gunshot wound.

"I'm just going to peek, okay?" My fingers grip the hem of her shirt again. I don't wait for her to give me permission because it's a question that I'm not going to take "no" for as an answer.

The gauze is bloody, caked around the edges, and—fuck me, if this girl dies from infection...

"I need to get you in this bathtub and clean this laceration. You just rest, got it?" Cupping my hands under her armpits, I lift her up to stand. "Can you step inside for me?" She lifts her good leg, but it barely comes off the ground, and she lets out a frustrated grunt.

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