In Kazimir’s darkest, most painful, moment Emmett was his glowing lifeline in a town swarming with snakes.
Beneath the velvety night sky, Emmett’s piercing green eyes resembled a cat’s in attack-mode. The nippy wind tugged the gangster’s hood down as he rested his shotgun against his truck. Emmett gently touched Kazimir’s arm, taken aback when he flinched at the contact.
Haunting images of Samantha’s kiss and sinister smile flashed through the artist’s mind. He expected Emmett to harm him too. He couldn’t trust anybody.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise.” The gangster gave him a crooked half-smile as he tried peeking at his injury again. Emmett carefully undid the hoodie wrapped tightly around Kazimir’s upper arm, exposing the bloody mess the fabric concealed. A soft gasp escaped his parted lips. “Shit, Kaz.”
A knot formed in Kazimir’s stomach as he sucked in his breath. Stealing a glance at his wound was a horrible idea. He wasn’t sure if he’d puke or faint. Trying to keep himself from spiraling into panic, he looked up at Emmett. He found no traces of malice in the gangster’s face. Emmett would help him. He didn’t need to be afraid.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Kazimir asked softly.
Emmett nodded as he rewrapped the blood-stained hoodie. “Who did this to you?”
“Samantha.... she stabbed me.” Kazimir winced as Emmett slid one of his long arms under his shoulders to ease him into the truck. After which, he came around, stuffed his shotgun in the backseat, and hopped into the driver’s seat.
“That crazy bitch. Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a doctor.” Emmett stomped down on the gas pedal and sped away from the residential neighborhood. The tires screeched against the asphalt as the truck flew them out of there like a bat out of hell.
From the passenger window, Kazimir gazed out at the obsidian terrain that brushed by in a blur. He knew he had to keep pressure on his wound. If he allowed too much blood to leak out, he’d faint or even die.
“We’re going to the hospital, aren’t we?” Kazimir asked. “It’s the other way.”
“Well, not exactly,” Emmett told him, gripping the steering wheel. “Your wound is bad, but you’re not on death’s doorstep yet.”
“If you don’t get me to a hospital, the Grim Reaper’s going to jump out from behind those old buildings and drag me away into the night.”
“I’ll run him over then. I’m not letting you die.”
“Where are we going?” Kazimir asked.
“The Voiceless Rebels has an underground doctor,” he explained. “When we don’t want hospitals to ask too many questions, we pay him in cash and he takes care of our injuries.”
That didn’t sound ideal to Kazimir, but he had no other choice. He needed medical attention from whoever he could get it from.
The clinic Emmett pulled up to was closed and dark. Kazimir’s confusion deepened as Emmett retrieved his cell phone and made a quick call. Seconds later, a bald man in blue and white duck pajamas hurried out from the front entrance with a wheelchair. Kazimir wondered what cuckoo’s nest he flew out of. He couldn’t be a licensed doctor, could he?
The funny-looking man opened Kazimir’s door. “I want my money after I’ve checked this guy out.”
“Yeah, you’ll get it,” Emmett replied. “Just hurry and help me get him inside.”
Strong arms came around to help him out of the passenger side of the truck. As Emmett eased Kazimir down into the wheel chair, he buried his face against the gangster’s black western shirt. He smelled like expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.
The doctor in duck pajamas wheeled Kazimir across the parking lot, and Emmett stayed close beside him. It all felt like a surreal nightmare to the artist. All Kazimir wanted to do was go home to his apartment he shared with Jordy, who had to be so worried about him.
Thoughts about bleeding to death raced through his mind. He had lost a lot of blood and jerked his injured arm around more than he should’ve when he dodged Samantha’s bullets. In his frantic state, he’d reached a hand out for Emmett’s, squeezing the gangster’s wrist tightly. He needed somebody to stay by his side. He didn’t want to die alone.
Kazimir’s vision went hazy when they wheeled him inside the clinic. All he could focus on was the ceiling and the faint smell of bleach. Everything throbbed in his head as the weird man slipped a white coat over his duck pajamas. Kazimir tried to watch his gloved hands to see what he was doing. The so-called doctor cut the fabric of his hoodie so he could assess the bleeding wound.
The artist hoped and prayed to a God he lost faith in so long ago to keep him alive. The bright lights hurt his eyes, and he swore his heart would explode.
“What’s his prognosis?” Emmett asked.
“Give me some space. I just got the guy in here. He’ll survive, but it looks like there might be some nerve damage in that arm. He’s lucky you got him here when you did.”
“When can I take him home? I don’t want anyone getting suspicious,” Emmett said.
“I’d prefer it if he stayed under my care for at least a week,” the doctor said.
“We don’t have that kind of time. How about a few hours?” Emmett followed up. “I’ll make sure he takes it easy.”
“That’s not up to you. I know you’ve left against my better judgment, but you have to remember that this is his body. Not yours. If his wound gets infected, he might not be so lucky.”
“If it gets infected, then I’ll bring him back here,” Emmett replied.
“Fine, but keep a close eye on him. Take him to the emergency room if ya see any signs of infections. Don’t bring him back to me,” the doctor said.
Their conversation got fuzzy. Kazimir couldn’t concentrate very well anymore.
He barely heard Emmett’s voice. “What happens now?”
“He should sleep like a newborn baby.”
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