Gina
The moment I entered the first number of the code on the security pad to lock up the building, I heard the roar of motorcycles approaching the clinic.
No, no, no, s**t, not now. I don’t have time to pick buckshot out of a biker’s hairy ass.
The Burning Saints were a local biker gang I had adopted, along with all the other neighborhood strays, while I was still an ER resident. As one would expect, these were big, scary dudes, but their president, Cutter was a teddy bear inside, and I was heartbroken about his recent passing. I always made sure my services and clinic were available to them, no questions asked. I’m not sure why, really, as they’re all probably thugs, but I also saw a softer side to these men while they were in my care; well, some of them at least. I guess I just figur
