The Biker's Doctor

Chapter Three

My father, Dean, was on the ground a few feet from me. He moaned, grabbing his shoulder. It did not take me long to realize the sound of thunder that was still ringing in my ears had been a gunshot.

My father was now holding his hand over a wound on his shoulder. I looked at that hand, and there was a large amount of blood protruding from between his fingers over an open wound.

My father had immediately moved his hand to cover it, which I had no doubt was an instinctive act. The sight of blood was nothing I had seen before. The torrents of red liquid that were dripping down his hand into his arms were his life source, and had me immediately afraid that I was about to lose my father.

Panic and fear overtook me as I made my way to his side as quickly as I could manage.

I did not comprehend that I had made the crawl across the pavement where I had landed before I found myself gripping my father’s other hand as tightly as I could in an effort to comfort him and find out what else I could do, as well as ascertain how badly he was actually hurt.

I thought that his blood had reached my hands, as I felt warm drops of something falling into my grasp. I did not gather until a split second later that it was my own tears at seeing my father so critically wounded.

My hands were scratched from skidding across the pavement. The air stung the blood and gravel indents, but I didn’t care. The abrasions were trivial compared to my father’s injury.

Jackson had leapt up from a ducking movement, having also registered what had happened. I heard an unknown curse word shouted in the direction of the alleyway erupt from him. He then looked down at me, cradling the hand of my father, who was breathing heavily.

I thought my father would be in shock, but he seemed clear. His focus was on the alleyway and where the man was now running down, away from us.

There was now a crowd forming from the confines of the bar. The shot had drawn every club member out to the sidewalk.

The last thing I was thinking about was the figure on the other side of the street who had fired the gun. All I could see now, heading in the other direction with such speed, was long black hair tied back and a thin outline of a body.

The lack of care in his direction was not the case for anyone else with the sudden crowd of men that was pouring from the bar. I saw no less than five men start to chase the shooter heading down the alleyway at the fastest pace they could.

I did not care that the raven-haired assailant was getting away. My focus was only on my father bleeding on the hard ground next to me. My hands were shaking as I held my father’s steady hand. How could he be as constant as he is right now?

I released his hand and began to place as much pressure as I could on his shoulder, although I was shaking from shock. My tiny fingers were not doing the best at holding the blood back into his body.

I knew what my father had done. He pulled me out of the way of danger at the exact moment that he jumped in front of Jackson, who the gun was aimed at. My father had stopped a bullet that was intended for Jackson, the President of the Devil’s Protégés. This had been an assassination attempt.

My father was shot was a clear, pounding, repetitive thought in my mind. We needed to get him to the Hospital. I looked at his Harley-Davidson bike. He could not ride. We will have to call an ambulance.

"Call an ambulance!" I heard my voice shout, but I was not aware I was even making the demand of the men around me.

My constant fear of each of them was temporarily alleviated. The sudden force of my words made the men around me look down as if they were only just now seeing me there. I realized their gazes were not towards me for concern; no, they were on my father to see if he was alright. I was, if anything, in the way and did not matter.

"Get out of the way." I heard someone young snap at me, which confirmed my thoughts.

It was that blond, arrogant jerk, Blake Detroit.

He pulled me away from my father's side. I was amazed that he could lift me nearly off my feet. He raised me straight upward to stand and out of his way as he now leaned over my father with the speed of a freight train. I wanted to slap him to get his hands off of me, but he was too quick. I was shocked that an eighteen-year-old could so easily pull me upright to my feet and away from my father like that. Blake must have been so much stronger than he looked.

I stepped forward to protest, but was halted when I saw Blake pull my father's jacket off his shoulders, nearly dragging him to be fully seated on the ground.

Blake then moved the leather coat over his chest and began applying firm pressure to his shoulder, as if the leather was a blanket of protection. I realized that Blake's compression on my father's wound was more than I could ever apply. Instead of barging in his way, as he now clutched my father upright, I lowered to my knees, retaking my father's other hand.

He gripped my hand so tightly. His strength was definitely not gone, that was for sure. He looked from Blake, who was holding him up, back to me and groaned.

"Fuck." Was a curse of pain under his breath.

"I'll be fine, Avery." He said, trying to comfort me.

How my father was, in fact, concerned for me right now, when he had just been shot himself, was only something a good father was capable of. He was thinking about how I would react to what had just happened.

I was not afraid of the gunman at all. I was scared of the hole in my dad’s shoulder and that he was in immense pain, even if he was not at all showing it. I found no comfort in his words.

"How is he, damn it?" Jackson shouted down to his son, Blake.

Jackson was pacing. He was a man whom I knew not to have a temper at all, at least not that I had seen. He rarely showed any emotion whatsoever to those around him. What I saw now was a man on the brink of fury. His pacing was determined and furious. I think he was ready to punch someone out to release that anger.

"It has gone through," Blake informed his father. "He will be just fine. Damn old boy."

He smiled down at my father.

Blake’s address to my father as ‘old boy’ is something I had not heard before. A smile crossed Blake’s upper lip, setting him from dire concern to ease within seconds. The speed with which he had moved from unrest to a lack of worry at all would have had anyone’s head spinning. I was not able to move through my own emotions that quickly. I want to get my father exactly where he needs to be, and that is with immediate medical attention.

"I'm right here, Dad." I said, inching forward on the cement to be closer to him.

I was afraid that Blake would push me out of the way again. From what I witnessed of his strength only seconds before, he could easily toss me away again like a fly. I didn't care. I was going to hold my father's hand.

I eyed Blake. His hand was now painted in blood as he was looking at the reddish black hole in my father's shoulder.

Blake was not a doctor. How could he tell that my father was going to be alright? It was not his place to ascertain that pivotal information.

"We have to take him to the hospital." My little voice repeated, trying to stand up to the men again, who were yet to answer my demand to call an ambulance.

A group of men were quickly taking control of the situation. The grizzly Joe was talking on his phone, yelling more like. The only word I could make out between curse words was some Italian-sounding name. I knew the Italian Mafia were the only true enemy and rival to the Devil’s, so I was not surprised to hear several Italian names of origin sprout from Joe into the other end of his mobile phone.

"No hospital." My father said, trying to sit up more with Blake fully supporting his weight with impressive ease.

Blake held him still, another staggering show of strength. I didn't think anyone would have the strength to keep someone of my father’s size still. Shot or not shot.

Jackson looked back down at Blake and locked gazes with his son. They were speaking their thoughts without saying a single word to each other. I suddenly understood their silent dialogue. A hospital was not going to happen.

No hospital. What do you mean, no hospital? My father definitely needs a hospital, even if he is contradicting that idea right now. He has been shot, all of you!

I thought these men cared about my father and were concerned right now that he was bleeding on a cement sidewalk outside of a bar. I suppose that wasn't the case.

"Call the Doctor." Jackson ordered.

That order seemed more like a nickname than that of someone who was actually a fully qualified doctor, and it gave me no comfort at all.

"It's fine, Avery." My father said, looking back at my teary eyes. "Everything is going to be fine."

"Avery, your father is going to be alright." I heard Jackson say, agreeing with my father.

Jackson, the only other one here who seemed to account for the fact that I was even there, apart from my father, now leaned down to look me in the eye.

"Your father has just saved my life.” He said gently, with complete appreciation for what was happening. “Absolutely nothing is going to happen to him.” He then looked at my father with a determined smile. “Dean. I owe you my life."

My father winced, trying to laugh. How he could find humor right now was beyond me.

I looked around at the group of men that now surrounded us. It was like a pack of wolves stood ready to tear apart anyone who entered our vicinity. They had formed an impenetrable barricade. My feeling of terror at losing my father was gone. These men were not going to let any more harm come to him. He was completely safe.

I looked at Blake, but his gaze was deadest on my father, who was still cradled in his hands. A look of gratefulness was in Blake's gaze, dare I say it, love for my father, as he held the black leather jacket that was blanketing my father and covered in blood.

The badge of the Devil's Protégés was stitched across it.