Her Possessive Bikers

14. Indy

14

INDY

T he shrill ring of my phone jolts me from sleep, my heart racing as I fumble for it in the darkness. Tres's name glows on the screen. At this hour? My stomach knots.

"Hello? Tres?" My voice comes out raspy from sleep.

"Indy..." Tres's deep voice carries tension I've never heard before. "I need some help."

I sit up, sheets falling away. "What's going on, what's wrong?"

"You got any medical supplies? Something to stitch up wounds?" A pause. "Bar fight. One of our guys got cut up pretty bad."

My paramedic brain kicks into gear, pushing away any lingering drowsiness. "How bad are we talking? Heavy bleeding? Location of wounds?"

"Multiple cuts, broken beer bottle, and then he hulk smashed through the fucking bar window. I've got pressure on it, but he's lost a lot of blood, he needs stitches and fast. I don't have time to fuck with the hospital semantics…"

I'm already out of bed, heading to my supplies. "Bring him here. I've got a full trauma kit. Sutures, antiseptic, the works."

"You're a lifesaver." The relief in his voice is palpable. "We're heading your way now."

"I'll get everything ready." I flick on lights as I move through the house. "Use the back door when you get here. Less visible from the street."

"Smart thinking. Ten minutes tops."

"Tres?" I catch him before he hangs up. "Next time, maybe try calling before the bar fight?"

A low chuckle. "Where's the fun in that, darlin'?"

The line goes dead and I'm left shaking my head, gathering supplies. Dad always said the club was family. Guess that makes me the family doctor now.

The rumble of motorcycles grows closer, and I barely have time to spread out my medical supplies on the kitchen table before urgent knocking echoes through the back door. My bare feet pad across the cold tile as I rush to open it.

Jacoby carries in the limp body of a grown ass man. It's when I see the long dirty blond hair matted with blood that I nearly lose my bearings.

"Oh my god, Kyler?" My stomach drops at the sight of him, blood soaking through his torn shirt, his usually perfect man bun now a mess of matted curls. His eyes are unfocused, head lolling against Tres's shoulder.

"Table. Now." I snap into paramedic mode, directing them as they half-carry him inside.

"Hey beautiful girl," Kyler slurs, trying to smile through split lips. "Sorry 'bout the mess. I'll clean it up"

"Less flirting, more staying alive." I cut away his shirt, revealing multiple deep lacerations across his chest and arms. "Jesus Christ, did you fight the bar or just fall through it?"

"Both." His eyes start to drift closed.

I grab his face between my hands. "Hey Kyler Jones! No sleeping on me. Tell me about the fight. Who won?"

"We did, of course" he mumbles, but his eyes snap open when I start cleaning the wounds. "Mother Fuck!"

"Good, keep cursing. Means you're still with us." I thread the needle, hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "Tres, hold him still. This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

Kyler hisses as I start the first stitch. "Your dad taught me... to throw a proper punch. Guess I needed... a refresher course."

"Yeah? Well, he forgot to teach you how to duck." I work quickly, trying to keep him talking. "Keep those eyes open, Jones. That's an order."

"Yes ma'am." He attempts a weak salute, wincing as the movement pulls at his wounds. "Anyone ever tell you... you're a little scary when you're bossy?"

"Only the ones who live to tell about it." I tie off another stitch, my heart racing as I notice how pale he's getting. "Stay with me, Kyler. Just a few more."

I tie off the last stitch, my hands steady despite the late hour. "There. Twenty-three stitches total." I strip off my gloves, tossing them in the waste bin. "He needs to stay here tonight. I want to monitor his concussion and for signs of infection or complications."

"I'm fine Indsy," Kyler mumbles from the table, his words slurring from the pain meds I gave him. His eyelids droop as he fights to stay conscious.

"Sure you are, tough guy." I pat his shoulder. "That's why you're about to pass out on my kitchen table."

Tres runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "You sure about this? We can take him back to the clubhouse."

"He needs proper medical attention, not just a bottle of whiskey and some band-aids." I cross my arms, meeting his gaze. "I've got the guest room ready. And before you argue - this isn't up for discussion."

Jacoby chuckles. "Damn, she sounds just like Brick when she gets all bossy."

"Watch it, Wilson," I warn, but there's no heat behind it. "Or next time you need stitches, I'm using pink dental floss."

"You wouldn't dare." He clutches his chest in mock horror.

"Try me." I turn back to Tres. "He'll be safe here. I'll keep an eye on him through the night. You have my word."

Tres nods, his expression softening. "Thank you, Indy. For everything."

"That's what family's for, right?" The words surprise even me, but they feel right.

Together, we help a barely conscious Kyler to the guest room. Once he's settled, I walk them to the door.

"Call me if anything changes," Tres says, lingering in the doorway.

"I will. Now go, before someone notices the president's missing."

The rumble of their bikes fades into the night, leaving me alone with my unexpected patient and the echo of my father's words about giving the brotherhood a chance.