Kris Clarke leaned over towards the center of the ambulance and looked back through the passthrough into the body of the vehicle. “Gimme a go,” he told his partner and straightened in his seat, adjusting the harness in preparation for a fast transport to the hospital. He toggled the lights on, holding off on the siren until they were ready to move out. Where they were tucked back between rows of shops with second floor living space, the sound would be deafening the moment he started it.
“Go,” he heard Webber say, followed by the start of a one-sided conversation with the hospital’s ER. Gearshift in drive, Kris hit the siren, wincing when the cops standing nearby ducked and turned to glare at him. Carefully negotiating the uneven street in front of him, he controlled the heavy, bucking ambulance with an ease born from long experience. At the end of the street, he verified traffic was stopping and aimed the vehicle towards what was a not-quite-large enough gap between two cars. Moments later the drivers had given way, angling their cars towards the curb, and he hit the gas. Favorite part of my day, he thought, utilizing every ounce of his hard-won expertise to ensure they all made it safely.
Later, in the bay of the ER, he was restocking the inventory Webber had used on the patient, glad he didn’t have to wash down the inside of the bus for once. “Understand you had a good run,” he heard a familiar voice and looked up to see Mason standing in the open doors, arms folded across his chest. Mason was the national president of one of the other favorite things in his life, the Rebel Wayfarers MC.
“Hey, boss,” he greeted Mason, lifting his chin, hands still full with bags of saline. “What’s got you in attendence?” A wriggling fear seemed through his belly. Life as a MC member was inherently dangerous, and not only because they rolled thorough the days on two wheels. More than once his training had been called into play when a member had gotten on the wrong end of a disagreement. Mason didn’t look stressed, so he hoped it wasn’t bad news.
“Nothing serious, Goose. Stand down, man. Ain’t nothing worth that frown. Saw the bus headed to the hospital and saw you drivin’. Thought I’d swing through and say hello.” Using Kris’ club name, Mason’s shoulders shifted, his chest expanding with a deep breath. “You and me, brother. We need to chat. Know you got a bug up your ass about Worm.”
Goose froze, struggling to keep his breathing even. Worm hadn’t been a member long, and Goose had made no bones that he didn’t like the man from the beginning. He’d been the lone dissenting vote when it came time to patch the man in, and he still stood by that decision. The last party, however, the man had shown up with a woman. Not a big deal, except Goose knew for certain Worm’s old lady was sitting at home after working her ass off waitressing at the club’s diner. She prolly pays his fucking bills, shit. “I’m not a fan, that’s well known. But, you know me, I won’t cause any shit, Prez.” Offering Mason’s title, he waited for whatever response would be coming his way.
“Francine’s sitting at the diner. Looks like our brother Worm needs an intervention.” Goose’s blood started to race, knowing exactly what Mason meant. “Don’t let him fuck the gal over. She needs a friend, man. You got time, drop by.” Mason’s features twisted, turning ugly for a moment. “I ain’t sayin’ make a move on a man’s exclusive old lady, but you and me both know she ain’t that to him. So yeah, you got time, drop on by and check on her.” With a slow nod, Mason turned and left as Goose stared. A moment later he returned to his work, intent on finishing out his duties and getting his ass to the diner, fast as he could.