Page 7 of Flint

“You used to put Gatorade bottles out to mark your miles. Didn’t get that the first month, so I just tossed them. Wasn’t sure if they were a bomb or some shit. You got wise after a bit and changed up the miles so you got your Gatorade before you crossed into our area.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did,” Prospect grits out.

“No, you drank them.”

“Thought you said you remembered nothing,” Law says as we look her over again.

“I don’t. Or I didn’t. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. It’s right, isn’t it?” she asks.

Prospect just shrugs, and Bass laughs as he pats him hard enough on the back to push him forward. “That’s funny shit.”

“Okay, Prospect, your call. We green here or what?” We don’t usually let the prospect call the play, but Law’s like me, can tell this kid has his shit together. No matter how much I hate it.

“Yeah, I’ll vouch for her. She doesn’t run on Fridays, and the rainstorm came in pretty quick tonight. If she took her usual route, she would have taken the path up Hillman, and with no lights up there, it would be easy enough to slip on some shit and take a nosedive down the hill.”

Law nods. “Check the area in the morning just to be clear. I want a full assessment by first light. Flint, get her to General’s office. Don’t need any more blood staining the floors. That’s all.”

Fuck. Means I’m on babysitting duty still. Was kind of hoping boss man would ask me back in here, but nope. I’m dismissed, and I know that look when I see it. Continue to assess and evaluate.

Fucking awesome.

I go to move her, as I haven’t really let go of her arm yet since I first dragged her in here. Her grunt of pain, the first one she’s really let out since she stumbled into us tonight, actually irritates the hell out of me. And not in the way that bitches complaining usually bothers me. More like I don’t like it coming from her mouth.

She takes two half limps forward, and I see the look on the guys’ faces. Concern but still not willing to do anything. I get it. We don’t trust the bitch, even if Prospect vouches for her. A vouch gets you through the door and not shot on spot. Trust is earned from each of us in our own ways.

And I ain’t saying I trust the woman, but I can appreciate her not crying all the damn time or complaining. So, because of that—and only that—I decide to get her to General sooner rather than later. This is the only reason why I reach under her knees and pick her up. Her squeak of surprise has me wanting to smirk again, but too many eyes are on me. Don’t need my brothers thinking this is something it ain’t.

It takes less than half the time it took for her to hop up five steps before we’re downstairs again and in the back, pushing General’s clinic open. It’s not legit, but it’s got all the stuff he could need to stitch up any brother who comes through the door bleeding.

Ain’t surprised to see the man himself already there, leaning against a cabinet, playing on his phone. He’s still got his cut on, so he’s playing his own game as well: don’t tell the pretty new girl he’s actually a doctor. Casper must have had him on standby when he saw us getting close on camera and noticed her limp.

Fuuuck. Why? Why the hell did I start calling her “pretty” in my head? Chick, bitch, slut, cunt—all those words work just fine. I don’t do attachments. I get my dick wet, and I wash it off. I don’t do poetry and calling people pretty, unless I need to use words to flatter the girl who’s willing to spread her legs. Even then, I say very little to them, as they know the score: we fuck, and they get the fuck gone.

I drop her onto the examination table in the middle of the room with probably more force than needed, based on her wince, but she still doesn’t cry out. It’s a bit fascinating, actually. Bikers are badass, but even we complain a shit ton. This girl just bites her lip. And fuck, why does that catch my eye more than anything?

“What we got?” General is still playing with his phone, but I know it’s a ruse. His bark is the same he uses in the ER.

“Girl claims she don’t remember shit. Think she fell all the way down Hillman out back.”

“Girl has a name. We established that, remember? Jesus, maybe I’m not the only one with a memory problem,” she snaps.

I feel my lip twitch and notice General’s eyebrow rise at her snark.

“And that would be?” he draws out when she doesn’t continue.

“Julianne. But I got to say, I feel like that’s the sort of name you give a grandma or something. I mean, don’t you think I would have shortened it or something? Like J or Anne?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. I already know General is looking at me and mentally asking if this chick is serious. Doesn’t even back down when alone with two bikers in a room that’s professional but made to look intimidating, as General likes to keep some of the more interesting tools on display. Like a saw. I mean, we don’t ever use it, but he says if shit goes crazy and he needs to take a limb off, he has it readily available.

“Right, okay.” General walks up and, without warning to her, starts checking her injuries. He might be a doctor, but right now, he’s more biker than anything. And bikers don’t ask—we take over. “You couldn’t have hosed her down before she got in here? Getting mud everywhere.”

I make to go into our usual banter, talking about the person as if they aren’t there. Pisses them off, and what can I say? We enjoy these sorts of things. But she beats me to the punch.

“We didn’t see a hose outside. You got one in here I can use?”

Her comment has General pausing, and I don’t hide my smirk this time. He turns his head to me, and I see what he ain’t saying. Yeah, she’s one crazy chick, talking smack right back to a brother, but it’s kind of cute how she does it. If cute also means you would willingly slit her throat in thirty seconds if she gave us a reason to or if Prez told us to.

---