Crashed Into a Gangster

6

Victoria

I watch the gangster turn around and walk into the kitchen after I process what he just said to me: hope you're ready, sweetheart. It's time you start working.

I suck in a breath, and go to follow behind him. I hurriedly grab my cardigan on the coat racket to slip on, covering my short sleeve t-shirt but my pajama shorts still reveal my skin.

The gangster stands firmly next to my kitchen table - on the smooth surface a body lays. Blood still drips onto the floor. My heart hammers against my ribs.

My gaze trails onto the eyes of the gang member. "Is he dead...?"

His jaw is structured, clenched. "He could be. That's why I'm gonna need you to help him." I tense as the gangster walks up to me, the same golden gun he held up to me before grasped in his hand. Now he's close, and gives me a once over. "You're a doctor, right?"

"A nurse." I hurriedly correct, still tense by the sight of his gun - the sight of him. He lifts it up without hesitation, the tip of the weapon in between my eyes. He then gestures with the gun to go toward the unmoving man on the table.

"Work on 'em. Now." He raises his tone and I flinch. I carefully make my way toward the wounded man and examine him.

The wound is uncovered, drenched in blood, on his chest. "It's a gunshot wound..." I whisper indirectly. I feel the gang member approach behind me, seeing him on the side of my eye stand by my side, his arms folded.

"So what? Fix it." His dominant tone peeks with irritation.

I turn to glance up at him. "A gunshot wound in the chest?! I can't!" I inform him.

The gangster breathes heavily from his nose, and he turns to face me - and receiving just one look from him, I freeze, and note I have no choice.

I walk by him and grab towelettes, moving quick to apply pressure and stop the bleeding from the man. I see him wince on the table when I increase the pressure.

There's so much blood.

My heartbeat still accelerates. This man most likely isn't going to make it... but how do I tell the guy holding a gun that?

"I have an aid kit in that cabinet." I say quickly, gesturing the last cabinet on the left. I look over my shoulder to see the gang member grabbing it from the cabinet, already coming up next to me from his smooth and fast movement.

I take it and open up the box. Taking the gloves I pull them on and go for the scapula. I slowly create an opening across the man's chest - a low cry releases from his mouth. He starts to move around, uncomfortable.

"I'm going to need you to hold him down." I look at the gangster holding the gun toward my head beside me. He doesn't make a movement. "If you want your friend to live...hold him down." I state orderly.

Something passes within the gangster's face, I can't latch on to it before he takes just one step over and lends a hand. He uses one hand to firmly hold down the bearded man on the table - the other hand still aiming the gun at me, inches from my head.

I take a heavy breath once the man is struggling against his will. Blood peers out like a slow water stream from where I sliced him, and I take the mini tongs to move inside and feel for the bullet.

"You know, it's hard for me to focus when there's a gun up to my head..." I say through gritted teeth, applying more pressure around the man's wound.

"I'm not putting this down." He argues. I feel his gaze remain on me. I fight the urge to give a threatening comeback, but I take a breath, and concentrate on the dying man instead.

Plus, I think I'd rather live.

Moments later, finally, I feel the puny steel and pull the bullet out. With the mini tongs I place it onto a cleaner towelette. Plunging my hand into the aid kit, I grip the stitching kit and prepare to sow him up.

When I start stitching up the man's warm skin, I look at the gang member standing across me. He lowers the gun. When my eyes lock onto his own, his dark brown irises are meeting mine. I want to ask why he lowered the weapon, but again, something stops me.

I look back down to the man on the surface of my table and continue the last stitch as the body below me is now calmed.

A relieved breath escapes my lips, I lean back onto the wall. I pull the bloody gloves off my steady hands. I look to the tattooed guy. "He's alive. Your friend is going to make it." I breathe out, moving past him to toss the gloves into the trash. I briefly shut my eyes for a moment, refusing for the threatening tears to pour.

I just need to get through the night, and lose sight of the gang bangers. Why am I involved?
I leave the kitchen without another word, and take a stand next to the front door.

I grip the door handle and open it. I watch the gang member help balance his limping friend - a similar bird tattoo revealing on the man's right shoulder.

The two walk up to me, the gangster I'm more familiar with, somewhat, takes more of the lead and walks up with his friend behind him. We lock gazes, something unreadable flashes in his eyes. He doesn't say a word, neither do I, yet.

And instead he sends a half nod, presumably in gratitude. The two walk past me as I stand firmly in my house.

"Until next time." I hear the gangster say lowly. My brows furrow as I watch his back, he heads out onto the porch.

"What do you mean next time? I helped you, I did what you told me to."

"Pretty sure my boys might need more medical attention at some point." He claims, still walking away. Irritation floods within me.

"They can get medical attention at the hospital." I remark sternly. He then turns to face me, his friend limping on his own now down the porch steps. The gangster then folds his hands.

"What do you think they're gonna try and do when they see one of us in there? Immediately call the cops? They won't help." A humorless chuckle escapes his full lips when his gaze meets mine. "So, until next time, sweetheart." He mutters.

He glances at me for another moment longer while I stand still on the other side of the doorway. Then he turns and catches up with his friend.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, and shut the door.

I lean my back against the door and can gather sight of the kitchen - drips of blood still hover on the wooden floor and now the surface of the table.

I need to clean this up before Jack gets home... I flick my gaze over to the clock hanging on the wall. It's 9:17 at night.

I have around 20 minutes before he gets off.

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