Club Princess - Nicole James Page 0,47

hear someone mutter my name.

“Memphis.”

Swaying slightly, I turn, seeking something to lean against before my legs give way. The roar is still in my ears.

“Memphis. You’re hurt.” Lola’s voice finally penetrates.

Impatiently, I brush aside the small hand that touches my cheek. “I’m all right.” My voice comes out harsh.

“You’re not all right,” she insists.

I look down at my torn shirt; my cut splattered with blood, but I don’t know whether it’s my blood or somebody else’s. I still feel a driving need for some kind of physical support. Suddenly, a voice takes charge of my problem.

“Come on. Let’s get him out of here. He’s bleeding bad, and he can’t see to ride.” The strong arms of two of my brothers go around my middle.

“You can’t leave,” an officer says, his hand up.

“They started it. Memphis was only defending Charlie. They were bullying him,” Lola firmly informs the officers and he drops his hand. She has a way of making men back down, and I grin.

“Rita, you want to press charges for any of this?” The cop asks, looking around at the mess we’ve made of the place.

“I don’t,” a woman’s voice carries from behind the bar.

“She changes her mind, you know where to find us,” Darko says.

Then I’m being helped out the door and all my concentration becomes centered on making my legs work. I’m loaded into the backseat of a car, and I fall across it, my head spinning, and then we’re moving.

What seems like moments later, we stop and more hands are reaching in to pull me out. With a brother on each side of me, my arms around them, they help me up the porch steps and into the clubhouse. I’m shuffled down a hall, and into Rock’s office. I’ve never been in this room, but I know this is it. Christ, he must be pissed.

I’m dropped into a chair.

The man himself shoulders into the room, pushing through the men to stand before me. I don’t look up, but I hear his voice boom above me.

“So, you dragged the whole club into a brawl in the middle of my favorite bar?”

I have a sudden feeling my name is dirt around here.

Lola pushes the men aside, setting a first aid kit on the desk in front of me. “Let me tend to his wounds. He’s bleeding all over your rug. You can yell at him later.”

The girl’s got guts; I’ll give her that. The men shuffle out.

Rock remains long enough to remind me, “This isn’t over, Memphis.”

Great.

Then he, too, exits, slamming the door, and I’m alone with Lola.

My body is beginning to react to the blows it’s taken. I let my head fall back, closing my eyes as throbbing pain wash over me.

There’s a sticky wetness on my face. I reach up tiredly to wipe it away from my eyes, and then stare down at the blood on my fingers. Shit.

Lola pulls supplies out of the kit and spreads them out on the desk.

I shut my eyes again, wanting only to rest.

A damp cloth presses hard against the cut above my eye, and pain stabs through my head. I flinch, sucking in air through my teeth and swear. “Fuck.”

Lola takes my hand, and makes me hold the cloth against the cut. “Maintain the pressure,” she orders, then begins cleaning blood from my face. When she’s through, she lifts the cloth I’m pressing against my forehead and checks the wound.

“How’s it look?” I ask.

“Like it needs stitches,” she says calmly, her lips tight-pressed. She makes me apply pressure on the wound again and turns to the table to open some sterile-wrapped supplies.

She holds a sterilized needle and suture in her hand when she turns back to me. “Stay still. This is going to hurt.”

That’s an understatement. I break out in a nauseating cold sweat. No sound comes from my throat, though, hissing breaths that force their way through the tightly clamped teeth. Lola works rapidly and competently, showing no emotions.

Fortunately the cut is short, so she finishes before the pain becomes unbearable for me.

While she coolly attaches a bandage to the stitched-up wound, I feel the rigid stiffness drain from my muscles, and I exhale.

She motions to the front of my leather cut. “That’s going to stain.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “Not the first time blood’s been spilled on it.”

At the reminder of my violent life, she purses her lips, but says nothing.

I dig a pack of smokes out of my shirt pocket, then lean back to try