Page 61 of Property of Thrasher
“No, no, no—” Melody dropped beside her, my voice breaking. “Lyric, stay with me. You hear me? Don’t you close your eyes. Stay with me.”
Her gaze rolled toward her, unfocused, glassy. She tried to speak but coughed, blood bubbling at her lips.
“Call nine-one-one!” I barked.
Brothers had already scattered—phones out, traffic blocked, curses flying. Somebody shouted they had EMS en-route.
Thank fuck.
I pulled my cut off, then my shirt and pressed it against Lyric’s stomach, putting all my weight into it. She whimpered weakly, tears leaking down her temples. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.
“Stay with me, sweetheart. You’re tougher than this, yeah? Tiny needs you. You’re his whole fuckin’ world. You hold on.”
Behind me, I heard another groan. Tiny shifted, his hand twitching like he was trying to reach her. He couldn’t even lift his head. His breaths came shorter, jagged, wet with something wrong in his chest.
“Fuck!” I snarled, torn between them.
Sirens wailed in the distance, the sweetest, ugliest sound I’d ever heard.
The next half hour blurred. EMS swarmed the scene, pulling Tiny and Lyric onto stretchers, strapping oxygen masks to their faces. Melody and I both got checked—cuts, bruises, road rash. They wanted us to ride in too. I didn’t argue, though every instinct screamed to fight them, to stay by my fallen brother and his girl.
I left Frootloop at the scene to wait for the tow truck to come pick up the mangled pieces of my bike and Tiny’s while the rest of the club followed the ambulances hauling us.
The hospital lights were harsh, sterile. They took Melody and me into a bay, cleaned us up, stitched a shallow cut above my brow. My arm throbbed where the pavement had chewed into it, but I didn’t care. Melody sat on the bed beside me, pale and trembling, her hand clenched in mine.
“They’ll be okay, right?” she whispered. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from crying.
I wanted to tell her anything but the truth. I wanted to tell her yes, of course, everything would be fine. But I wasn’t a man built for pretty lies. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice low.
That was worse. The not knowing.
We were released a couple hours later after having all the gravel picked from our exposed skin. Just bruises, scrapes, nothing life-threatening. But Tiny wasn’t so lucky. Neither was Lyric.
Word came down from a nurse who recognized our cuts, knew we were with the accident victims. Tiny had a brain bleed. They were monitoring him, but it was bad—serious enough they had a neurosurgeon on standby, but he wasn’t stable enough to get the surgery yet.
Lyric was already in surgery. Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen maybe, maybe worse. She’d been unstable when they wheeled her in.
Melody crumpled when she heard it, breaking down into sobs she tried to muffle against my chest. I wrapped her up, pressing her tight to me, my own throat thick with rage and fear.
The image of that truck, barreling through the red, would not leave me. Neither would the sound of impact, the sight of Tiny’s body flying, Lyric’s scream cut off mid-air.
I wanted blood. I wanted the driver in my hands. But for now? All I could do was sit in a too-bright waiting room with Melody shaking in my arms, praying to a God I wasn’t sure listened to men like me.
Hours passed. Brothers filled the hospital lobby, leather cuts draped over plastic chairs, grim expressions etched on every face. The club was family, and when one bled, we all did.
I sat stiff in a corner seat, Melody still tucked against me. My hand never left hers. Every time a nurse walked by, every time a door swung open, my chest seized.
Finally, a doctor came out, speaking quietly to the nurse’s station. I shot to my feet, hauling Melody with me.
“What’s the word on Braxton Davis and Lyric Truman,” I demanded, my voice rough, dangerous.
The doc adjusted his glasses, looking at me warily. He was younger than me, but had that clinical detachment that made my blood boil.
“Sir, your friend—Tiny, as you call him—Braxton Davis suffered a traumatic brain injury. We’ve identified a subdural hematoma. He’s in ICU, under close observation. Right now, we’re stabilizing him and reducing intracranial pressure. He’s not out of the woods.”
Melody clutched my arm tighter. “And Lyric?”
The doctor sighed, his tone softening. “She’s in surgery. Internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen and significant abdominal trauma. They’re working to repair it, but… it’s critical. The next twenty-four hours are going to be very important.”
