Hello Dear Readers,
This story has a T-rating on it, but it is going to contain some M content. The T-rating is because I want as many readers as possible (I know, so selfish), and many who pop onto this page don't change the filters. But! You've been warned, and hopefully it won't put you off :-)
Ow… shit. She dully supposed that this was exactly why her mother had always impressed upon her the pitfalls of hesitation. That was how a one ended up shot. In the shoulder. And with a gun pressed to one's head. Sorry, Mom.
There was a sudden lurch as her captor yanked her around to face the door. And a hostage. Hesitation gets you hostage. Two men with guns stood near the door, weapons raised. One had a cowboy hat that would probably have amused her had she not been distracted by the disconcerting amount of blood she could feel making its way down her shoulder and side. She looked down. She regretted it. She looked back up at the newcomers. Cowboy Hat had lowered his gun as he came through the door. The shorter guy with him, who must have been his partner, kept his weapon up and pointed in her direction. Well, in the direction of the guy holding her, but that was basically her direction, and it was a bit close for comfort.
"You're gonna to want to lower your weapon." Cowboy Hat sounded serious. Short-stack didn't blink, and his weapon didn't move.
She winced as her captor dug the barrel of his gun a bit more firmly into the base of her skull. They get the point asshole. "And I suggest you lower yours, unless you want to be picking up pieces of her-" BANG.
Before she had time to be startled by the shot whizzing past her head, she felt herself jerked backwards as the now-dead man behind her dragged her to the floor. After the initial shocks of the gunshot and the pain from her shoulder hitting the ground, she became skin-crawlingly aware of something wet and gooey on the side her face. There were certain things in life that one had to make peace with very quickly, else panic overtake them. Sometimes those things were grasshoppers that had jumped onto your face in a field in summer, or your baby cousin puking down your collar. Now it was brain matter splattered across her face and head. Pushing aside her revulsion, she gingerly reached to check her shoulder.
A hand firmly, but gently blocked her motion, and her own hand was placed carefully across her stomach. "Hey, easy there, lemme take a look at that." A soft, business-like southern drawl drew her attention up to an equally business-like expression. She looked up to see Short-stack kneeling next to her. He pressed against her shoulder with one hand and undid the buttons of his overshirt with the other.
"Hnnnngggnnn." The pressure on her should her had her gasping in pain. With deft efficiency, he moved her off of the body under her and flat onto the floor, and with apparent indifference to blood or sanctity of clothing, he replaced the hand on her shoulder with his shirt.
His proximity reminded her quite abruptly that she was wearing nothing but underwear. To be fair, before this fiasco she'd been dancing in front of a fair few people in just that anyway, and a bullet hole in the shoulder was more pressing than embarrassment over her lack of modesty. But having a man who wasn't an anonymous patron up close made her want clothing. One more thing she had to make peace with before the discomfort overwhelmed her. Oh, who gives a shit? There's a hole in your shoulder.
A second later she felt a jacket tugged over her. She looked up, but Short-stack was looking intently past her at the door. "Thank you."
"You're gonna be fine. You aren't coughing up blood, so he didn't get a lung or anything. It's just a flesh wound."
She thought about that a moment. She felt a bit sluggish, but what he said made sense. She nodded weakly. "Comforting logic, that."
"I thought so too." With the sleeve of the shirt that was pressed into her shoulder, he began to wipe away some of the gore from the side of her face. That was nice of him. She looked up at him sideways. Cute, this one.
She grimaced as a small shard of bone was wiped down her nose. "Sorry about your shirt."
He looked down at her and chuckled. "I'll survive."
"Me too, we have so much in common." He chuckled again. It was a comforting sound.
She was getting tired. Her head lolled to the side. Oh. The bodies of the other two dead men in the room came into her vision. The ones who hadn't been saved by her hesitation. Mom would have been proud. At least it had been quick, two quick shots, one to each heart. It was easier to think of them in terms of anatomy.
One was face down. His nose probably would have hurt like a bitch if he weren't dead. The other had fallen half on his back and half on his side with a chair tangled between his legs. His eyes were open, and she could see them rolled back. He didn't look in pain or surprised. He didn't look like anything. She started to feel unaccountably queasy. It wasn't regret for saving herself. They'd meant her serious harm, and she knew she'd had no choice. She didn't like that that had been her only choice. Perhaps she could have shot to wound, not kill. They'd have lived, maybe done something better with their lives. Fat chance, dear. She saw the wedding ring on his finger, turned her head into the floor, and puked.
The pressure from her shoulder disappeared momentarily as he pulled her away from the puddle of her own sick. Then the pressure reasserted itself and she felt the back of his hand wipe her mouth. Wow, you are not squeamish.
"I've never killed anyone before," She explained. Talking was starting to be hard. It took too much effort to properly enunciate words.
That soft drawl answered, "And what would have happened if you didn't?"
What indeed? "You and your logic." Then, staying awake became too hard.
