Having been in a light sleep, I am startled into consciousness when my bedroom door swings open and slams into the wall. "Get up! Now!" Grayson shouts, shutting the door behind him. Standing now, I notice the gun in his hand.
The hard thudding of footsteps rumbles through the house. I jump across my bed and go to the window. I grasp the bottom and lift with all the strength in me, but it refuses to budge. "My pants!" I point to the ground near Grayson's feet. Still pointing the gun at the door, he reaches down to grab them and tosses them at me. A gun fires from the other side of the door and bullet spit through the door at Grayson. He curses loudly and anxiety swells in my chest. The sound of gunshots becomes deafening in the small space.
I wrap my pants tightly around my hand and and close my fingers in a fist. Covering my face with my bare hand, I reel my arm back and punch the glass, the padding from my pants protecting my hand from the loose shards. I clear the bottom of the sill, making it safe to crawl through.
I send my legs through first and slip to the ground. Looking back at Grayson, I see him limping towards the window. "Let's go!" I urge, throwing my pants down. I look for the car through the early morning darkness.
Glancing behind me, I see Grayson has started to follow. So I start to run, the cold dew on my feet reminds me I hadn't put shoes on before leaving. Cursing, I jump into the car, glad the roof is still down. Initially landing in the passenger seat, I throw myself into the driver seat.
"Grayson!" I yell, searching the car for keys. I duck as bullets fly into the trees in front of me. "Shit." I mumble under my breath. Grayson slams into the car, ducking as I did. Turning his back to me, he fires over the car door.
"Glovebox." He says before firing again, I watch the largest man fall to his knees before toppling over. I find the keys and shove them into the ignition. The car starts and my foot pushes the gas petal to the floor. The tires spit gravel back at the men behind us as Grayson positions himself so that he can fire over the back of the seat. After two shots he breathlessly sits correctly and grabs his leg, tossing my shoes to the ground at his feet.
"What the fuck happened back there!?" I shout through the rushing wind, checking behind us to see if they are following. But three still heaps lay on the lawn, unmoving.
"Get us to a hotel." He groans, wincing as he grabs his thigh. Bloods seeps into the fabric of his pants spreading to his knee.
"Fuck." I curse under my breath, slamming my palm into the steering wheel. "We're not stopping, do you have wound care in here?" I ask, glancing from his wound to the road.
"Yes," His voice weakens and he puts his seat back a bit. "We need to stop somewhere." He insists.
"No, we need to keep moving. You want to get stuck in a situation like that again!?" I shout back, looking to him for a reaction. He stares at me with a glare in his eyes. Clearly unhappy with my decision, he pulls his shirt over his head, immediately his skin rises in goosebumps.
Tearing a long piece of cloth from his shirt, he fashions a tourniquet and secures it tightly above the wound. I watch his face as presses back into his seat, clearly feeling the pain of his wounds. Though he has been nothing but rude and deceitful, I worry for him. If De Luca favored him, there must be something good about him. The fact that he was with her while she passed gives me the urge to protect him.
"I'm going to get out of the woods and find a place to park, I'll help you then." I tell him, glancing over to make sure he heard me. His eyes flutter to stay open, out of of worry I grab his hand and squeeze it. "Stay with me, squeeze my hand."
"No problem, Kitten." He laughs lightly, his fingers gently grabbing my hand. I look over to him and see the paleness in his lips.
"You're a dick." I mumble, unsure if he even heard me. "Just keep squeezing." I speed faster down the road, my worry for him growing. When his hand goes limp in mine, panic sets in and I pull over on the side of the road.
"Grayson!" I call to him, putting the car in park. I look around the area we've parked in, trees crowd both sides of the road, but I put up the roof anyways. His head slumps forward, I twist in my seat and grab his face with my hands, holding him upright. "Grayson! Hey! Look at me!" I shout, gently tapping his cheek. His eyelids flutter, but refuse to open. "Fuck!" I mutter, looking in the backseat for the first aid.
I crawl into the backseat and pull a duffel bag from the floor up onto my lap. I find rolls of cotton and gauze, a stitch kit, and prescription pain killers. Relieved, I throw the bag up onto the dash and crawl back up with him. To prep him, I reach across him and recline his seat flat. Cringing, I unbutton his pants and try my best to pull them off. His recline helps and I push them down to his knees.
Using a flashlight from the glovebox, I examine the wound. To both of our luck, he wasn't shot by a shotgun. It is a single entry wound, but that also means the bullet is still in his leg. It will not need stitches, but will need thorough care and wrapping.
Before I continue, I lay my head against his chest and listen with my breath held. The slow, but steady, beating of his heart floods me with relief. I smile and let out the breath I was holding in, but focus myself on the task at hand.
I dig through the bag, seeking something that can disinfect the wound. I find hydrogen peroxide and a bottle of Smirnoff. I pull both out, take a gulp of the Smirnoff, and pour the hydrogen peroxide over the wound.
I pull small pads of gauze out of their plastic casing and dab the area dry. Blood slowly seeps from the wound, so I continue to wipe at it while I grab a frightening pair of tweezers, meant for this exact purpose.
I take a deep breath and gulp down more of the Smirnoff before readying myself. For lighting, I hold the flash light in my mouth and steady my hands on his leg. The tweezers sink into the wound until I feel the bullet and hear the flank of metal against metal. I push the tweezers father around the bullet and pull very gently on it. But to my surprise, it comes out as easily as it had entered.
Surprised by his pain tolerance, I take a good look at the bullets and find that they are smooth all around, not missing any pieces. A sigh lifts a weight from my chest as I place the gullet and tweezers on the dashboard.
With the flashlight still in my mouth, I closely examine the wound. The location of the bullets was luckily in the muscle of his leg, this way I know his bone has not been chipped or shattered.
The wound pools with more blood, so I wet a section of gauze with hydrogen peroxide and apply ample pressure, hoping that it will clot now that the bullet is out.
Taking a glance up to his face, I see that his is still unconscious, thankfully. Replacing the wet gauze with a dry section, I search for and find the proper dressing for a wound like this.
I stick an iodine patch into the wound and cover it with fresh cotton, which provides padding and material to absorb all of the blood and other fluids. Next is a wrap of stretchy gauze around the leg, and to secure it, a layer of adhesive bandage, similar to the one on my arm.
Finished, I gather all of the used material into a bag and throw it in the backseat. For a final check, I press my head to his chest again and let out a sigh when I hear the thud of his heart. Sitting up, I clear out the front seat and start up the car again.
Before I start off, I look down at his still face, catching myself unable to look away from him. With furrowed brows, I think to myself how strange it is that I've actually began to worry about his well being. I have never done well working with a partner because I have always lacked the ability to care about them in the way that I should. I like to think of myself as a survivalist, but others see it as a way to prevent getting my heart hurt. I never trusted myself with a partner so I have always insisted on working alone. Though we are not partners, I have surprise myself with my natural need to help him.
Knocking myself from thought, I begin down the road, knowing he will need something to eat with the pain killers. The silence in the car becomes unbearable, so I listen to music on my search for a gas station. I roll the windows down a bit to clear out the smell of iodine and hydrogen peroxide.
Soon enough we make it into town and I find a gas station to pull into. Mentally thanking him, I pull my shoes on. Pulling open the glove box, I dig around for the money pack I know the agency provided. Finally finding it under my seat, I stuff a hundred in my pocket and head inside.
My eyes widen when I see my hands, the low lighting didn't allow me to see the amount of blood that I had gotten on my arms. Scared to be noticed, I shove my hands in my pockets and walk straight to the back, where the bathrooms are.
With clean hands, I return to the store and grab two large waters, an iced tea, then wonder over to the sandwich section. I grab four, each a different kind, hoping he likes at least one.
"This all?" The man behind the counter asks, beginning to scan my items. I look behind him at the array of cigarettes and think back to the kitchen, maybe Grayson would appreciate a pack after all that has happened tonight.
"Can I get 20 on," I look outside to see the pump I had parked in front of. "8, and a pack of Marlboro Blacks?" I pull out my bill and set it on the counter.
He nods, putting something into the electronic register before turning around. "Shorts?" He asks, fingers pulling on a box.
"Longs please." I nod, pushing my hands back into my pockets. The man scans the cigs and bags the rest of my groceries. He hands me back a large amount of change and gives me a nod.
"Have a good day," He says.
"You too." I shove the money into my pocket and walk out, walking quickly.
When I get there, I throw the bag into the front seat and check on Grayson. Seeing he is still out, I go to set up the pump. While waiting for the tank to fill, I hear a painful groan come from the front seat.
I lean into the door and see that Grayson is grabbing his head, slowly coming to his senses. Seeing that I have time before he is truly awake, I finish pumping before slipping back into the car. I grab a pill bottle from the duffel bag and check the label, Codeine.
"What happened?" He asks, his voice raspy. Slowly, he sits himself up and with it comes his seat. His eyes don't full open.
"Take this." I grab his hand and place a pill in it. Popping the pill into his mouth, I open a water for him. He nearly chugs the whole thing before looking to me again, his eyes not fully seeing his surroundings yet. "I fixed your leg. The pill you just took should ease the pain, but you need to eat something of it will make you sick." I tell him.
"Why would you help me?" He asks, grabbing his head like it hurts.
"You needed it, you would have died," Grayson looks at me with soft brows, his lips parted. "And, I don't need a dead body to deal with." I brush it off, not wanting to get mushy.
"Well, thank you." He says. "Seriously, I owe you." He puts his head back again, his jaw clenching with what I assume is pain.
I laugh under my breath. "You don't owe me anything." I find the bag and sit it on his lap. "Eat something." I tell him.
Still a bit drowsy, he finds a sandwich and starts to eat. "What are you, some sort of doctor?" He jokes, trying to put down his food, and endure the pain.
I laugh and shake my head. "Nope, just something I had to pick up overtime."
"So where are we sleeping? Since you didn't want to stop anywhere," His turns to face me, chewing on his sandwich.
"In the car," I say, as if it were obvious.
"We should pull over soon, get some sleep, and then get back on the road." He says.
"Sounds like a plan," I nod and look for a secluded place to park.