Tattoo (Take It Off #7)(8)
Author: Cambria Hebert

I grappled for the railing, only there wasn’t one. My nails dug into the side of the wall, dirt and grime pushing its way beneath my fingernails, and my knee bounced off the edge of the crude wooden step.

“Fucking A,” Brody swore, sweeping his arm beneath my armpit and yanking me up before I could go tumbling all the way down.

For long seconds, I dangled in his grasp, renewed pain shooting through my arm, and a sharp ache threatened to crack open my skull.

“So much for trust,” Brody muttered, hauling me back into his arms.

Two heads appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “What the hell’s going on?”

Brody grunted. “She needs to lose a couple pounds.” He groaned as he walked the rest of the way down the stairs.

Yeah, I should have been offended because he just called me fat. But I couldn’t summon the energy because my teeth were chattering and my limbs were trembling.

Brody’s mouth set in a grim line as he stepped into the basement of horrors. I was aware of him taking in the surroundings like he was a filing cabinet and everything in the room was being filed into a certain folder.

“Where’s the med supplies?” he asked.

“Over there,” replied the criminal known as Tommy.

I didn’t bother to look where he said because lifting my head felt like way too much effort. Brody strode farther into the room and passed through a framed-out doorway that had never been finished.

He lowered me onto a cot, which creaked under my weight as if it too was telling me I was fat.

“Stupid cot,” I muttered.

“It’s that or the floor,” Brody said.

I didn’t bother to reply as he moved away out of my immediate line of sight. My heart began to pound, like really threatened to burst right out of my chest. As much as I was leery of him, the thought of him not being here was worse.

I guess that taught me I trusted him more than I thought.

He reappeared and I swallowed, noting the handful of supplies he set on the edge of the cot. He raked over me with assessing eyes, not showing any type of emotion.

“This probably is going to hurt,” he said, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Just do it,” I said. I needed to know how bad this was. I needed to know what I was looking at as far as my injury and being able to get the hell out of here.

Brody pulled away the flannel shirt that was acting as my makeshift blanket. I was already cold and the cool rush of air across my exposed skin only made it worse. My teeth began to chatter a little more loudly, but he acted like he didn’t notice.

After setting aside the flannel, it didn’t take long to remove the blood-soaked T-shirt that was tied around my arm. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out. The pain was hot and lancing; it set my entire arm on fire and shot up into my shoulder and down my back. I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face away from him, toward the wall, as a tear leaked from the corner of one eye and slid down across the bridge of my nose.

“I’m going to clean it,” he said softly.

I kept my face turned away as I heard a few little packets being ripped. My body bucked up off the mattress like I was some headstrong bull when the first of whatever he was doing touched the wound.

I felt his momentary hesitation, and I bit my lip, pinning my body back down and willing him to just get it over with. He seemed to know what he was doing, cleaning away what dried blood he could and then dabbing at the entry wound.

“I’m not going to completely clean it the way it needs,” he murmured. “It’s already begun to clot on its own and I don’t want to disrupt that. Blood loss is a concern and the clotting is the best defense against that.”

Yeah, that was good. Clotting was good, a positive sign I might not die. At least not immediately. ‘Course, being in a room full of criminals with guns wasn’t exactly a good way to keep oneself alive.

“You have burns on your skin,” he muttered, his voice turning gravelly. “They shot you at close range. The heat of the bullet burned your flesh.”

I felt the coolness of some kind of liquid or ointment, but I didn’t turn to see. I didn’t want to see. I wanted to maintain what little detachment from this mess I had.

“I’m going to lift your arm,” he informed me. “I need to look at the back of it.”

I offered my wrist and he took it, lifting my arm up over my head. His fingers probed around and a little sound of discomfort yelped between my lips. Brody stiffened.

“Sorry,” I whispered and bit my lip harder as more tears spilled from beneath my lids.

It hurt. It hurt really bad.

He expelled a breath, almost like he was relieved. “It went all the way through the fleshy part of your outer arm.”

“If you call me fat one more time I’m gonna scream.”

His chuckle was warm and unexpected. It was a momentary distraction from the fire in my arm. “You should be glad you have a little meat on them bones. It protected your arm today.”

“So the bullet isn’t in there?” I asked, keeping my face turned away.

“No, the exit wound is here,” he said quietly as his fingers probed the wound.

I jerked. “Poking at it isn’t helping.”

“The exit wound is larger than the entry wound, to be expected. The flesh is torn in this area,” he said as he applied more of what I assumed was an antiseptic wipe. “Most of the bleeding is coming from here,” he said.

He was very matter-of-fact, very clinical, and he seemed to know what he was looking for. Maybe he really was a certified EMT. Maybe I wouldn’t die after all.

He tore the wrappers to more stuff, but I didn’t dare to look. It wouldn’t hurt as much if I didn’t see, right?

“I’m going to apply some non-adhesive pads to the entry and exit wounds and then I’m going to wrap your arm in what gauze I have. That should stop the rest of the bleeding and also keep the open wounds protected,” he explained as he worked.

His voice was mildly hypnotizing, a very even tone. There wasn’t much “up and down” in the sound of his voice. It was steady… like the beat of a heart.

I continued to chew on my lower lip, the motion somewhat distracting me from what else was going on. I couldn’t help but wonder what was next. How long would we be here? Would these men just let us go?

My father must be worried sick by now.

He would stop at nothing to find me.

“Sit up,” Brody instructed a short while later.