Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)(58)

I forced myself to stop that thought in its tracks.

Okay, sure, I was unarmed, and even if I’d had a gun, I wasn’t that great a shot, but he shouldn’t have locked me in here. I knew calling the cops would be an awful idea, because Lucas would go back to jail for violating his parole. I wondered if he might be safer locked up and then immediately dismissed the idea. I knew better. An organization like Steel Row or Bitter Hill had a long reach, even behind bars.

He wouldn’t be any safer in jail than he was out there.

Sirens started wailing, and I cursed. Had someone actually called the cops, or was it a coincidence? Running back up the stairs, I shut the door behind me silently and locked it, following Lucas’s original instructions. Backing away slowly, I forced myself to breathe. Lucas was smart. He’d find a way to get out of there before the cops started poking around. And there was no reason for them to look for me. I’d been outside for only, like, two seconds.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a key slipped into the doorknob. I grabbed a knife from the carving block—just in case—and stared at the door as it opened. When I saw Lucas walk in, I let out a sigh of relief and started talking before he took another step. “Are you okay? Did the cops see you? Are they coming up here? What should we do? What should I do? I don’t—”

“The Boys didn’t see me. I was already policing my brass before they were a block away.” Lucas lifted a hand to his head and rubbed his wrist over his temple. He looked exhausted. And pale. And . . . and . . . “They’re not coming up here. Relax.”

“You’re bloody. Are you bleeding?” I took a step toward him, paused, and took another uneven step. Blood soaked through his left sleeve, and his hand hung limply at his side. “Lucas . . . why are you bleeding?”

“Huh?” He glanced down at his arm, his brow furrowed. “Oh. Look at that. I got shot.”

“Look at—” I closed my eyes and counted to three. He said that in the same fashion that a normal person would say “I went to the movies” or “I have a cold” or something inane like that. As if it didn’t even hurt. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

“Hell no.”

I stomped my foot. “Yes. You’re shot, Lucas. Freaking shot.”

“Yeah. I know.” He leaned against the door and slid his gun into its holster. “And if I go to a hospital, they’ll have to report it.”

“But—damn it.” He was right. Gunshot wounds always involved cops. “What do we do? Do you know someone? Is there someone on the payroll that can fix you up?”

“Yeah, but I can’t go in. I can’t trust him anymore. Scotty could’ve gotten to him.”

I pressed my fingertips to my mouth before saying, “Sit down. You look pale.” I led him to the couch, and for once, he didn’t argue. “God, what do we do now?”

Once sitting, he pulled his phone out. He glanced up at me. “Are you good with a needle?”

“Oh my—” I pressed a hand to my stomach. “No. No way. I’d puke all over you.”

He winced. “That wouldn’t really help me at all.”

“Yeah. I know.” A small laugh escaped me, despite the stress of the moment. “But I can’t help it. It’s true. The idea of pushing a needle through your flesh—” I covered my mouth and swallowed back the bile trying to escape my stomach.

He blinked at me. “Okay, okay. Stop thinking about it, sweetheart.”

I nodded frantically, because if I didn’t, I’d hurl.

Lifting the phone with his good arm, he waited. After a few seconds, he spoke. “I need you to sew me up. Some Bitter Hill guys got me in the arm.” He glanced down at the rapidly growing stain. “Yeah, it’s nothing bad. Just a flesh wound, but it’s on my arm, so I can’t do it myself.” He chuckled. Actually chuckled. “No. She’s apparently not on board with needles and flesh.” Another pause. “Thanks—I’ll leave the door unlocked. Be careful. The Boys might actually be doing their jobs and investigating the shots. I heard the sirens.”

He hung up and tossed his phone aside. When he looked up at me, he looked as calm as ever, and that famous smirk of his was firmly in place. “Chris is coming.”

I nodded. “Let me help you get your shirt off.”

He glanced down. “Damn it. This was my favorite dress shirt.”

“You can get another shirt,” I snapped, unable to believe how extraordinarily calm he was being about this. “You can’t get another arm.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he drawled.

I walked up to him and undid the first button. My attention fell to his shirt, and the red blood spread way too fast for comfort. “Did you find them? Did they come out onto the street?”

He flexed his jaw. “I got two, but the sniper got away.”

I undid another button. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I wish I’d gotten them all, damn it.” He shifted his weight and winced. “I’ll get them eventually, though. No one takes a shot at you and lives to tell.”

“I don’t think they were shooting at me,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit.” He gripped the arm of the couch. “They still coulda hurt you.”