6
LIAM
GROANING, I COME to in a place I vaguely recognize. I’ve never felt so sore in my life, and that’s definitely saying something considering the things I’ve done.
Shit.
I reach up to grab my head but feel a pull in my side. Right, I got shot. That’s what that is.
Looking around at my surroundings, I see an old TV and a couch above me where I lie on the floor. It’s dark outside, there’s a soft-as-hell blanket covering me, and my shirt is ripped where the bullet went through. I look at the wound, wondering why I’m not dead from bleeding out, and see silver strips of duct tape patching me up.
Duct tape. Covering a gunshot wound.
Catching movement out of the side of my eye, I see Margaret sitting on some kind of ottoman, staring at me with wide eyes. I sit up and catch a whiff of something horrible.
“What’s that smell?”
Her eyes widen at me and she twists her hands nervously, looking like she’s about to bolt. “I’m not good with blood, I’m sorry.” Her words come out quickly.
“What do you mean? Looks like you kept me from bleeding out.” I gesture toward the makeshift bandage.
“The second I saw it, I puked.” She whimpers a little and looks like she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking nervous.
“So…” I clear my throat and look down at my stained shirt. “You’re saying I’m covered in your puke?” She nods her head in affirmation. Well this is a first. I lean against the couch and decide my next move. “Are you okay?” I ask her.
She looks like she’s stricken with fear, and I wonder if it would have been best to keep my distance, but when I thought they might have found out I went out with her, I couldn’t stop myself from coming to her rescue, making sure she was safe. I’ve gone out with plenty of women, plenty I’ve had fun with, but Margaret was different. Being around her and with her was different, important. It isn’t something I can explain.
She nods at my question and gestures toward me. “Yeah, I was just, uh, surprised is all.” Swallowing, she finally looks me in the eyes. “Who did this to you?” Her question is a whisper, and her expression has morphed from scared to concerned, maybe even angry—on my behalf. Huh. That’s new, and I have a hard time admitting to myself that I kind of like it.
“Some not-so-good people,” I answer, thinking about what I need to do before I lay out exactly what I’ve gotten her into. I have to help her while keeping myself in check around her. Despite our amazing night together, treating her like I did won’t help this situation. I clear my throat and refocus. “Okay, I need a little help.” I look at her and she nods, though it’s a bit hesitant. “Can you get me some alcohol, a small knife, and some tweezers? I’m also gonna need a sewing kit. Do you have one of those?”
She nods again and scampers off to get the items I requested. I figure I’ll wait until she’s back before breaking the news that I can’t really see my own injury. I can reach it for stitching, but getting the bullet out without being able to look would be much harder a feat. I groan again and feel my head; I feel like I fell down a flight of stairs.
“Here.” She comes back and hands me the items I need, and I lay them out beside me.
“Duct tape?”
Margaret shrugs and gives me a shy look. “I’m not a doctor. It was all I could reach in a hurry, and once it was on, I didn’t want to pull it off.”
“But…duct tape? On a gunshot wound?” I don’t know if she can tell I’m giving her shit, but she starts fanning herself and pales.
“A gunshot—” She expels some air and I worry she’s going to pass out, but I can’t even get up right now to catch her. “Is that what it is?”
“Margaret,” I say firmly, “sit. You’re going to faint.”
“I’m not,” she insists, but she complies anyway. I watch her for a minute and assess our situation. I guess it was too much to ask to have fallen for a nurse or something, or hell, anyone who isn’t afraid of blood.
“Mo, do you think you could help me out?”
“Mo?”
I shrug; it just came to me. “It’s short and sweet.” A mix of her name and her favorite drink.
“What do you need help with?” She looks worried about the answer, and maybe she should be, because there’s still a bullet lodged in there and I need it out.
“You gotta help me here.” Standing, she heads over in my direction. I lie on my uninjured side and hand her the alcohol first. She reluctantly takes it from me. “As gently as possible, pull the duct tape off. Then pour the alcohol over the wound.”
“Oh God.” Her words are barely audible. With her bending over me like she is, I can see straight down her shirt, and for a second I let myself pull up the memory of them. A flush makes its way onto my face but before she can see it, I turn away from the gorgeous view and focus on the situation at hand.