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I smiled to myself. Nope, she didn’t have to do none of that shit anymore. Now Caroline could stay at my place, sleep in my—our—bed until five in the evening for all I cared, wear my oversized shirts and the panties I bought her, and eat greasy fries at the Well on weekends.
I was going to treat her like a damn queen from here on out.
We weren’t capable of calling the women to tell them we were on our way or even alive—we’d all lost or forgotten our phones somewhere.
So when we pulled up to the back lot, all five of them came flooding out—well, Elle and Sam more waddling than running—both furious and relieved.
They crashed into their respective men, heedless of their injuries. Half of them knocked the Devils off their feet. They were all tough as fucking nails women, but even Suzie and Carrie were emotional wrecks.
“How are you still standing after a knife went through your fucking shoulder?!” Suzie snapped at Mason, looking like she wanted to punch the wound.
“Occupational hazard, Suz,” Mason said weakly.
“I was ready to hunt your ass down,” Carrie said to Jameson, pointing a threatening finger at him. “And haul you back here, you stupidhead.”
Tex wheezed a weak laugh. “‘Stupidhead’?”
“Yes. Shut the fuck up and let me look at these.”
Elle was bawling, clinging to Abel, covering herself in smears of blood while he tried to pry her off to prevent her getting sticky with it.
“Easy, mama,” Abel groaned when she crushed him in a hug, which looked pretty funny with her big belly between them. “You’re supposed to be relaxing, Elle.”
“Not when you leave me thinking I’m going to go into early labor while you’re bleeding out in a warehouse, you jerk,” she blubbered.
Sam and Jackson, meanwhile, were having a romantic moment. Their eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, Jackson’s hands on Sam’s hips, his thumbs stroking the sides of her belly. They didn’t need words. Jackson being alive for his girl and his baby was enough.
But we all knew Sam would give him an earful when he wasn’t covered in blood.
Andy, though, was the most vocal.
She was livid with Brody, wanting to take him to his own damn hospital to get checked out—hell, all of us should! Her badgering invited the other women to do the same, and then every man was getting berated by a suddenly nagging girlfriend, and there was no defense.
And so all thirteen members of the Devil’s Luck—unofficially including Caroline—were driven to Tahoe Pacific.
Brody’s coworkers were not happy about so many bodies to scrape blood off of.
Everything was a whirlwind after that.
I hated hospitals, even when I trusted Brody’s, with their nasty smells, depressing decor, and beeping machines. I wasn’t afraid of needles or any of that kind of shit, but I’d still rather patch myself up in a ditch than get shoved into one of those waiting rooms.
Caroline didn’t give me a choice.
“We’re both going in there even if I have to drag you by the balls,” she said, deadpan. “Don’t be a bitch.”
“I won’t if I get a lollipop afterward.”
* * *
Hours later, around two in the morning, we were deemed stable, but Suzie and Andy forced Mason and Brody to stay and rest overnight before letting them free to, as Suzie claimed, “Haul your broken asses to go get shitfaced at the Well for a celebratory blackout.”
“Not shitfaced,” Abel muttered, picking at one of his bandages, earning a slap from Elouise. “Just enough to dull the pain of getting stitched up like a ragdoll.”
Suzie glowered at him. “So help me God, I will?—”
“Enough, all of you,” Jackson boomed. “Can’t believe I’m telling my club this, but… rest before booze.”
There was a low chorus of groans, but no one pushed back.