Make Me (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 4)

I swallowed hard.

That wound did not look superficial. In fact, it looked deep and angry and Jesus Christ, I was going to throw up.

“Royal,” Justice barked. “I need some four-by-four bandages.”

I threw his go-bag—also known as his medical bag that we kept in the car at all times—onto the floor and had it unzipped in a matter of seconds.

I was hastily yanking open what I assumed was the right four-by-four package when he said, “No! Not that one.”

I threw it down and looked again, finding another such package that could work.

Or, at least, I thought I was.

Turns out that one wasn’t the right four-by-four package either.

“No, that one is for gut wounds. I need one that’ll absorb,” he said. “Deep in the pocket.”

I did this for another two instances before I just fucking lost it.

“Can we please just take her to the goddamn hospital already, Justice?” I screeched.

Okay, this was all too much. I was losing it.

I didn’t do blood well—especially since it was one of my kids that I didn’t do it well with—and Justice was bitching over goddamn four-by-fours when he could just wrap her leg up with fucking paper towels like he was already doing and drive her ass to the hospital.

Loki stepped away and came my way, bending down and retrieving the four-by-fours in seconds.

He had them open, and he was pressing them down onto the wound, covering up the wound, in seconds.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I could no longer see it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Which was a big fucking lie.

My daughter had a cut so deep on her leg that I could see fucking bone.

After everything was pressed to her leg and held down, Justice then wrapped her leg up with a bandage and I held out a really big Band-Aid and he took it without complaint.

I wasn’t sure why.

My brain was just broken.

And my daughter’s cries were breaking my heart.

Each tear that tracked down the cheeks that came from those eyes so much like her father’s, literally tore out a piece of my soul.

“All right, baby. Let’s take you to the hospital,” Justice said. “You’re going to have to ride in your car seat and rest your leg on some pillows. Okay?”

“We’ll stay here and watch over Bryce.”

That was when I looked over and saw Channing holding a silently crying Bryce.

“I’m so sorry, Jane. I didn’t mean to.”

I was honestly surprised that I could understand him with how hard he was crying.

Jane looked over at her brother and said two words. “Love you.”

Thirty minutes later, we were in a bed in the ER with nurses and doctors crowding around.

“Holy shit,” the doc said. “That’s a good one. What happened?”

Justice leaned forward, blood finally wiped clean from his hands, and said, “My parents have a chicken coop. There was a really big spider near it. But to get closer, they wanted to chop some grass down. My father and I had gone to the shop to get the weed-eater, and my mom had gone inside to check on dinner. My wife was in the shower. While we were all gone, my children decided to do their own bushwhacking with sharpened spears. My son took a swing at the grass and lost his balance, falling to the side. The sharpened spear came around and tore straight through the skin of Jane’s calf.”

The doc winced, right along with me.

I pressed my cold hands against my eyes and counted to ten.

“Well,” the doc said. “From here I’m going to recommend laughing gas to calm her down. Then we’ll numb and stitch.”

Justice nodded.

“Will it hurt?” Jane whimpered.

I looked at the doc for him to lie to my baby and tell her that it wouldn’t hurt at all, but he didn’t.

Just like Justice didn’t.

“Yes,” he paused. “But only a little bit. Not much worse than I think it’s already hurting for you.”

The burly nurse came in and sat down next to my daughter, grinning at her wickedly.

“Have you ever had laughing gas before?” he asked.

And from there, the ER staff went on to take care of my baby in every way.

They brought her a blanket and a bear. A bag of goodies. Then they stitched her up and she didn’t cry once.

The physician’s assistant, who was the one that stitched her up, sat back with a smile.

“All right,” she said. “How many stitches was the bet?”

I looked over at Jane and said, “Jane said thirty. Daddy and Mommy both said twenty.”

“Well, looks like Jane wins. It was twenty-six,” she declared. “Nine internal and seventeen external.”

I felt nauseous all over again.

But I didn’t throw up or lose my cool. Not in the hospital. Not in the parking lot. And not in the car on the way home.

“Well,” Justice said as we were driving home. “That was fun.”

I looked over at him like he was crazy.