I don’t scare easily, but I’m nervous about cutting through his shirt, not knowing how threatening his injuries are. I take a deep breath, getting over my fear, and place the scissors against the fabric at his hem.
I can feel Stone’s apprehension from beside me. He’s as worried about Iron as I am.
The scissors cut through both his t-shirt and undershirt like butter, and I pull the material to the side, tucking it under his cut. There is road rash on his chest and stomach, but it’s not as bad as I was imagining. Hopefully, the same goes for the injury to his head. I turn my attention back to Stone, and he has a similar, relieved look on his face. A moment later, Hawk approaches with an IV connected to a machine.
“Okay, now cut his shirt sleeves so that we can remove the fabric from his shoulders.”
I make sure to slice through his sleeves only, leaving his cut intact. Our cuts are sacred, unable to be altered or damaged purposely, for any reason.
“As carefully as we can, we’re going to pull his clothing out from underneath him, okay?”
Hawk grabs onto Iron’s shirt and undershirt, giving them a gentle but firm tug. Stone and I each grip the denim hanging loose from his legs, and we work it down the stretcher until we’re able to toss it to the side.
“Next, I’m going to hold his neck and this c-collar in place while we slide him onto the bed. Blade, I’m going to have you push his hips gently, Stone you can guide his feet.”
We nod in agreement at Hawk’s instructions.
“On three,” Hawk commands. “One, two, three.”
The three of us work on sliding Iron from the stretcher to the bed, and Hawk takes a deep breath once we’re finished.
“That was the hardest part,” he explains. “You guys were a big help. Thank you.”
Both Stone and I nod to Hawk before standing aside and letting him work. Once he’s finished taking Iron’s vitals, he connects him to a ventilator before turning his attention to us again.
“His blood pressure is steady, he’s not running a fever, and his oxygen levels are good. His pulse has evened out a bit since I first checked it at the scene of the accident. I intubated him to help him breathe. Obviously, I can’t order a CT scan, but judging by the size of the cut on his forehead, I don’t believe he has a brain bleed.”
My eyes widen with fear as Hawk speaks his last words. Brain bleed? I hope he doesn’t have one either. That sounds terrible.
“He needs to remain in the neck brace until he regains consciousness. Since I can’t do a scan, we’ll have to wait for him to wake up to let us know if there is anything wrong with his neck. He still has most of his reflexes, so I’m not overly worried at the moment. But these next twenty-four hours are going to be crucial.”
“Is there anything else we can do right now?” I ask Hawk.
He looks at me; his expression is as serious as a heart attack.
“You can find the motherfucker responsible for this.”
Chapter Five
Sasha
I didn’t want to drive east into Delaware in the event Michael decides to tell anyone else where I’m supposedly heading. If the Devil’s Skull finds out, that will be the first place they look for me. So, as soon as Michael got out of my car, I made my way south to Route 70, then headed west. I’ve been driving for nearly two hours when my gas light illuminates, and I decide to get off at the next exit.
There is a gas station just ahead, so I stop to fill up and grab an iced tea. I look around before getting out, hesitant in unfamiliar territory. There are several people here. Some are filling up their cars, but others are just hanging out in the parking lot.
Isn’t there anything else they can be doing right now?
A group of boys younger than me size me up when I get out of my car and walk past them. Before I enter the store, one of them whistles, and his friend snickers at my discomfort. Walking through the door, I try to shake it off. I grab a drink from the cooler and stop in my tracks when I see the display of beer one aisle over.
Ah, West Virginia.
For a moment, I seriously consider trading my iced tea for a six-pack.
No. I have to stay on my toes. I can’t afford to make any more stupid mistakes.
I walk to the front of the store and get in line. While I’m waiting, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Suddenly, it feels like everyone is staring at me. Like they know what I did and that I’m trying to run away from my crimes. I need to play it cool, but I feel like a tweaker searching for their next hit. I’m hoping my paranoia is working in overdrive, and I only imagine this.
When I get to the cashier, I place my iced tea on the counter.
“Will this be all?” she asks.
“I also need twenty on pump seven,” I tell her.
“That’ll be twenty-three thirty-two.”
I hand her twenty-five dollars and take the change she gives me.
“Have a good night,” she offers.
I give her a small smile and nod, and I’m out the door.
See, I was just paranoid.
I walk to my car and open the door that houses my gas cap. Unscrewing it, I place the nozzle in the tank and pull the handle until it starts flowing. Just then, I hear a roar of motorcycles in the distance. My head shoots up, and my blood runs cold.
Shit. Fuck. Damn it.
I watch in terror as several bikers pull into the parking lot, and I just about piss myself. It’s them. The Devil’s Skull has found me. My life flashes before my eyes, and you know what? It’s pretty fucking bleak. I laugh at myself with disdain.
I ease my hold on the handle, ready to drop it and hurry into my car when I catch sight of the back of one of their vests.
It was blank except for a patch at the bottom, which read Hancock.
It’s not them.
Oh, thank God. But I only feel slightly better. I check the pump and see that my tank is almost full. I will the gas to flow faster, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible. Seeing members of another club feels like a bad omen.
Finally, the pump shuts off, and I hang it back up. Getting into my car, it takes everything I have not to peel out of there and get back on the road. But I don’t want to bring any attention to myself.
I should drive back to Route 70, but instead, I travel down the side road a little further, remembering that I saw a sign for a hotel nearby. I wouldn’t mind turning in for the night. It’s early, only seven forty-five, but the sun will be setting soon. I don’t want to drive through the mountain range in the dark.
Within a mile, I see the bright sign for the Mountain Motel, and I pull into the parking lot. I park in front of the office and go inside. Paying the creepy man behind the counter forty dollars for a one-night stay, he hands me a key before returning to his evening programming on the television.
I drive to the other end of the strip of rooms, parking my car in front of room number eleven. Grabbing my iced tea, I haul my bag out of the vehicle. I enter my room and lock the door behind me, placing my bag on the floor and my drink on the table. Then, I collapse onto the bed and stare at the popcorn ceiling.
It feels like it’s been a week since I woke up this morning. This morning, when I was just plain old Sasha Cooper—before everything that happened, happened.
Now, I’m a fugitive in a shady motel just outside of Berkeley Springs in the mountains of West Virginia. Holed up, terrified, and running from a group of men who are sure to kill me if they figure out what I did.