Page 94 of Bloom: Part 2

I gingerly prodded where he cradled his arm, eliciting a wince and a hiss of pain from him. He panted, sweat dripping from his brow.

He’s hurting way more than he’s letting on.

“We need to get you out of this jacket and your shirt so I can check you out properly.” I reached for his jacket, but he tensed.

“Don’t.”

“What’s going on?” Sarge appeared at my elbow, brows narrowed as he eyed me suspiciously as if I was the reason the guy he clearly had feelings for was banged up.

“I need him to take his shirt off so I can examine him.”

Sarge glanced around the room at the bikers sitting at the other tables, nursing their beer. “Not here.”

“What?”

He threw the damp towel at me, then bent to scoop up Chris in his arms like he weighed nothing. “Let’s go to my room.”

“I can walk!” Chris squirmed in Sarge’s arms. “You don’t gotta treat me like I’m delicate. Sarge!”

“Can it. I’m still upset with you,” Sarge barked. “If you’d listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. Why do you gotta be so damn reckless?”

Chris grumbled under his breath but stopped struggling, resigned to his fate. Snickers from the bikers trailed us out of the mess hall.

“That’s right, Sarge. Show him who’s in charge.”

I followed them, feeling a mix of amusement and concern, but I knew by now not to take the bikers too seriously. Sarge’s bedroom was meticulous. The space was simple, with a neatly made bed, a wooden desk with a chair, and a wardrobe in the corner.

Sarge set Chris down on the edge of the bed and stepped back. I moved in front of Chris, keeping my voice calm and professional.

“All right, let’s take a look.”

Chris clutched the front of his shirt and clenched his jaw. He glanced up at Sarge from beneath his long eyelashes.

“It’s okay,” Sarge said softly despite the gruff manner he’d spoken to the younger guy earlier.

As if that was all the reassurance he needed, Chris slowly peeled off his jacket. When he had trouble getting his injured arm out of the sleeve, Sarge stepped in to help. He took off Chris’s T-shirt as well, swearing under his breath at the bruising that spread across his ribs and down his side, disappearing into his cargo pants. A blanket of deep purples, blues, and sickly greens marred his skin in a violent display.

I understood why Sarge was so angry. He could have easily died.

My gaze caught on the scars running across Chris’s chest, and it clicked. Chris was trans. He hadn’t wanted to remove his shirt in the mess hall because he was self-conscious about the scars, which had healed nicely but stood out from his pale chest.

From Sarge’s lack of reaction, he already knew. Of course. That was the reason he’d understood right away that the boy needed privacy. None of the bikers had ever made any statement about Chris, which impressed the hell out of me. They were far more accepting and open than I would have thought. My Mafia family would never have understood. They’d killed the man I was having sex with because they deemed him a temptation for me.

These men are different. They’re nothing at all like my family.

I kept my expression neutral, focusing on the injuries instead of my surprise. Despite the ugly nature of the bruises, he was just banged up with a dislocated arm. I carefully touched it. Chris swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the bed with his good hand. Sarge hovered next to him.

“This is going to hurt but not for long.” Before he could brace himself, I jerked his shoulder back into place. A sharp gasp escaped Chris’s lips as he slumped forward with a moan. Sarge caught him, wrapping an arm protectively around the boy. “Easy. It’s over.”

“Technically, it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better,” I said. “It’ll be a miracle if you’re able to get out of bed tomorrow.”

Sarge flicked Chris in the forehead.

“Ouch.”

“You do anything this crazy again, and I’ll be done with it and break your legs myself.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

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