Strays On The Run | Night Cat #3

Strays On The Run - Chapter 2

Cleaning the Wounds

It was taking every ounce of self-control to keep me from punching Ryan.

“Ouch.” I hissed, twisting out of his reach. “That hurts.”

“I know it does,” he replied grimly, gently pulling me back by my hand and reapplying the wad of cotton onto my wound. “but I’ve got to get this bullet out.”

Biting hard on the inside of my cheek I said no more as Ryan continued in his ministrations. He’d cut away the small portion of my shirt, around the bullet wound, so that he could have proper access the affected area. It was only the lower half of the side of my torso, but I still felt uncomfortable, exposed. It couldn’t be helped, I guess. What was a little uneasy embarrassment compared to a bullet in your side?

Relatively nothing.

“I don’t suppose Dean could run down to the store and get me some painkillers for when it’s time for the bullet to come out, huh?” I quipped lightly, trying to joke despite the pain I was in.

From where he stood leaning against the wall, Dean smirked. “No chance of that happening anytime tonight.”

“I thought so.”

I felt another stab of pain in my abdomen before deciding that I needed to concentrate on something else. I looked around the room the three of us had holed ourselves in. After Xander abruptly took off into the motel, leaving us with the guy he’d beaten up and threatened, Ryan and I followed behind him; sneaking into the motel and slipping into the one of the two rooms that he hadn’t locked himself in. Dean had joined us a few minutes later, after making sure the drunk guy from outside hadn’t suffered at any extensive damage at Xander’s hands.

The room wasn’t an excessively pleasant one, but it wasn’t gross either. It was just, plain. Uninteresting. Boring. After the night we’d all had, you’d expect me to appreciate boring, but no. I wished I had something besides the dark striped, brown wallpaper to occupy my interests and tear my focus away from the pain in my side.

The furniture was basic. A little round table on the far side of the room, four chairs around it. A dresser pushed close to the left wall, a small, insubstantial closet next to it. And two single beds, facing the window, separated by a short bedside table with a funny looking lamp sitting on top of it.

I sat on one of these beds now, grimacing at the top of Ryan’s head. He was kneeling on the ground in front of me – it was the best position for him to clean my wound.

“You’re going to want to squeeze something.” He cautioned me, picking up the pair of long-nosed pliers that Dean had brought from the hardware store just down the road. It had been sitting in a glass of alcohol for the past half hour, sterilizing. Wincing when I saw it, I nodded. Closing my eyes, I clenched my fist around the edge of the mattress, bracing myself for the pain. “Ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Here goes.”

I wasn’t one for much swearing, so I think surprised both men – as well as myself -when I hissed a strangled, “Son of a b—ah!” when the stabbing, searing pain shot out from where Ryan eased the pliers into my flesh. Whimpering, I bit down on my lip. It felt like he’d set my abdomen on fire, like he’d doused in gasoline and then lit a match. I could feel him trying to pry the bullet out of my rib. It hurt like a bitch.

I’m sorry, but it did.

“Stop, stop.” I choked, squeezing the edge of the mattress as tight as I possibly could. “God damn it, this hurts.”