Biker's Claim: The Broken Angel is Mine

Chapter 3

Cora POV

So far, the day had been going great, as more and more bikers rode by, and I loved to watch them, moving like a long snake, flowing fluidly down the road. A few more bikes rode by about ten minutes later, then a few more, another twenty minutes. That was a lot of bikes. I wonder if they are on a charity ride or one of those chase-the-Ace bits of fun. I had a friend who loved going to bike rallies.

I loved the sound the engines made, and it made my chest vibrate. I had the window down, and the sound filled my jeep, louder than the music that was still on. Seeing these bikes perked me up; feeling a lot better than when I got up this morning, I was starting to feel hungry. This was a good sign.

At the next stop, I pulled over, topped up, and sat in the café to eat some lunch. I tried a burger and fries with a pot of tea. My whole outlook was better today. I still hadn't checked my phone, afraid to see what lies they might have concocted. But that can wait until I am settled in my new home and can relax, rather than get upset while still on the road.

Several bikes pulled up, fueled up, and grabbed some food. They were polite, and one actually held the door open for a woman with a child on her hip. She thanked him. It was nice to see that not all the stories I heard were bad. They paint the bikers as bad people, but from what I have witnessed so far, they are just as human as the rest of us. They live by their code, whatever that is, and not all clubs are bad; a few bad ones give the whole bunch a bad name.

Back on the road, I turned on the radio, sick of my playlist repeating, and, wanting something different, chose a rock-and-roll station. My mood was improving with each mile closer to my new home. The songs were ones I knew, and when ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine came on, I sang my heart out. I loved that song, straight after was ‘Patience’, and I was almost in tears. As I listened to the words, all I needed was a little patience, and to me, that meant I didn’t need to run from what had happened, but embrace it, and let time heal me. I need a little patience. I got it; the song might not have meant that, but my mind twisted it into something I needed and gave me peace.

Just as I reached this thought, a single bike flew by, not as fast as the others, the rider looking around as he rode. I wondered what he was looking for.

Suddenly, his bike went all over the road, like he was having trouble keeping it under control. I slowed down and waited to find out how he fared. His bike flipped him off, and he went one way, and the bike went down into a ditch. I pulled up close to him and grabbed my medical kit, which I carried everywhere. As a nurse, my kit contained a bit more than a standard first-aid kit.

He was sitting up, complaining about his broken bike. The man looked like he was talking or yelling at no one and telling them to come and fast. He was yelling about the tyre being shot out, and where he was. To get here fast, and be careful, the shooter was still around.

I waited till he was no longer yelling. Wondering what I got myself into.

“You, okay? I am a nurse, let me help you.” He stared at me, as if he didn’t believe what he was looking at, his eyes taking me in from head to toe and lingering on my chest. I looked down at my chest and jeans, then back to him. No buttons were undone. What’s his problem?

“My shoulder, I think it's dislocated,” he finally said. I moved forward with instinct and helped him remove his helmet, which he had been fighting with the strap under his chin, using one hand; the other was limp, resting on his lap. He threw his lid to one side, and he let me unzip his jacket. He was wearing a cut that said ‘Gunner, enforcer.’ I know a little about bike clubs, so I think it was like a bouncer at a nightclub, or something like that; it meant he could give as good as he got and not get on the wrong side of him.

I looked at his shoulder. It was all out of shape; I've seen this shoulder shape many times in footballers. It was dislocated. That’s got to be hurting.

“Want me to put it back in?” I asked, wondering whether I should call an ambulance, but by the time it arrived, I would have done the job.

“You can do that?” He was looking me up and down again, making me feel self-conscious.

“Yes, my name is Cora. I was a nurse in the ED, so do you want something for the pain, or do you want to do it? Although it really should be X-rayed first, something tells me you don’t want to go to the hospital.” I was ready to do whatever he asked. He looked in pain, even though he was handling it well; you can’t hide it completely from your eyes.

“Gunner, my name, and yeah, do it.” He gritted his teeth.

“Going to hurt like hell.” I positioned myself over the top of him, I moved the arm around a bit, felt what I was looking for and using my body to help push, I suddenly moved his arm back, and a loud pop was heard, followed by words that would not be anatomically possible. But accepted it, for what it was. The pain reaction had got worse, and well, he did trust me, and that was saying a lot, not many trust a complete stranger.

“I suggest you rest it up for a few days, a week if you can.”

"No need, I've dislocated it a few times before; I mend quickly," Gunner replied. Suddenly, a red dot appeared on his head. I knew what that was, seen in movies, a laser from a rifle.

“What the fuk.” I dived forward to cover him, not thinking clearly, had to protect my patient, and a sharp pain hit the back of my thigh. I must have screamed, but I don’t remember doing it. The next thing I know, I am on the floor, and this bulky man is on top of me, looking around, phone in hand, demanding they get here now, as there was a shooter close, sending pop shots at us, and the girl got shot.

“Don’t ask what girl, just get here, and now, before I get shot too.” He demanded before hanging up.

“Stay down, Darl, we got a shooter about. But then you already know that, right?” He didn’t look down at me when he spoke; his eyes were focused on the trees. The sound of bikes arriving and more gunfire, before someone came rushing over to Gunner. Checking him out.

“Gun, were you shot?” The man asked, still checking him for blood.

“That’s not my blood; it belongs to Cora, who took the shot, protected me, she did, no one's done that before.” He rolled me off with a grunt.

“What, thought you were shot? You said on the phone,” The guy was still looking for blood.

“He shot my tyre, hung on as long as I could before it bucked me off, and I dislocated my shoulder. Cora had just put it back when that shooter aimed for me. Cora took the shot for me, saved my life.” He sounded like he had to keep repeating himself; they didn’t believe he wasn’t shot.

They rolled me over, onto my stomach, and then the next thing I knew, they were cutting up my jeans. I was in too much pain to give a damn, but someone was going to be buying me a new pair. These were my favourite jeans. Just got them to sit right on me.

“We got a squirt.” I don’t know what they were talking about, but I suddenly felt cold, and all sound seemed to distort, and darkness claimed me.