Logan stood before her entryway rooted in place. Was she dreaming? Was it the wine?
"Help me, damn it!" her father's Texas twang barked at her as he came through the door. You can imagine how many times Logan envisioned their reunion. None of which included carrying a bloody, disheveled man under a severe thunderstorm.
Another flash of lightning lit up the backdrop as Logan stepped forward, shouldering the stranger against her and bringing her arms across his shoulders. The dark tailored suit he wore was drenched from the rain and by the metallic tang of blood assaulting her nose, she feared that also had something to do with the sodden fabric. How could he have gotten this wet from the truck to the front door? The thought answered itself and she wondered what kind of trouble they fled from before coming here.
Despite that he was heavy and struggling to maintain consciousness, Logan held him up as her father headed back outside into the storm. Tracks of mud, water, and now blood covered the hard floor where they stepped. Mindful of this, she turned carefully and steered him towards the couch. Step by step, they ambled away from the door as her father's truck lights washed over her front porch again. The man was heavy, her thighs burning under the exertion.
"What the fuck?" she gawked, attempting to glance beyond the man slouched against her without losing control.
Was he leaving her? With this guy? Better yet, what had just happened?
Plopping the man down as gentle as she could, he staunched a painful groan and rested his head back. For a moment, Logan wasn't sure what to do next. The taillights of her father's truck were drifting down the driveway and the man before her was turning a sickly pallor. Was she supposed to do something with him? Take him out of his misery? Tend to him?
Swallowing thickly, she knelt and began unfastening his tattered shirt. Peeling away the drenched fabric, her eyes darted across his exposed torso in shock. Deep, but barely superficial cuts maimed his ribs and abdomen like someone had attempted to stab him but narrowly missed, and kept missing. She tried imagining such wild determination and felt her anger flare. Alongside those what looked to be several gunshot wounds. Was that a bite mark?
Cursing beneath her breath, she continued to remove the fabric carefully. He needed to be stitched, the bullets dugout. He needed to be hooked up to an IV and most certainly required blood.
"I need..." the man's words were hardly audible. There was probably a litany of stresses he was fighting to stay awake. Better yet, stay alive. Logan wasn't sure if it was rainwater or sweat across his brow.
"I know," she interrupted, slinging heaps of sodden clothes into a pile in her living room. "You need blood, yes. I know. What type?"
His mouth moved but no words were formed. His eye closed in concentration. One nostril was painted red. Blood crusted as the corner of his mouth. Small scores littered his face. Bruising hid behind a trimmed black beard. The man had probably seen better days.
"Positive? A positive?" she read his lips.
"Yeah."
"Awesome," she muttered sarcastically. She needed supplies of every variety. Had any other person showed up in the same fashion without her father, she'd allowed the wounded to bleed out on the front step, but this man meant something to Caldron. Out of fear of disappointing him, Logan decided to do what she could with what she had. Checking his wounds again, she counted the ones needing stitches. Initially, she thought about cauterizing them. But it appeared he was already in enough distress so she opted against it.
"I'll be right back," she said. Disappearing for a moment, she returned with a large black duffel and readied an IV. She draped the saline bag against a lampshade, flushed the line, and prepared the syringe. After that, she dressed down into a tank top and sterilized the bend of her own elbow.
"Just your luck, John Doe," she murmured, wiping the alcohol pad over the intended injection site. "I'm A positive, too."
The Ryder estate was many things. A doom's day bunker. Refuge. A safe house. A redneck's toy store, but it wasn't a blood bank. She hoped her father had left to get blood because a couple of pints was all Logan could offer without getting sick and passing out. And clearly, judging by the puddle of blood by the door, the trickle across the floor, and the thick smell hanging in the air, two pints would not be enough.
She slipped the needle into his vein, replaced it with a catheter, and connected the tubing in three fluid motions. Now it was her turn to prime. The only problem was she hated needles.
Setting her jaw, she aimed the needle and pushed without giving herself time to stall and change her mind. The catheter swapped the needle, she switched to the tubing and the blood surged forward. Tightening the clamps on either end, she slowed the trickle of blood nearly to a stop and sat back. The breath she had been holding came out slowly as she relaxed. The worst part was over. Now she began stitching, which was an easy feat. Two birds, one stone. Two pints maximum, she reminded herself. At the rate she had adjusted, maybe after three hours, she could stop the transfusion. Glancing at the clock, she read 2200.
It's going to be a long night.
Across the room, her device chirped, alerting her of her father's return. The truck parked and this time he let himself in, much to her relief. For the second time that evening, her heart swelled painfully as he made his way into the living room. Slung over his shoulder was a large white trash bag transparent enough to see the bags of blood inside. A heavy wooden trunk also came with but he left that by the door. He dropped the trash bag, freeing little drops of rain onto her rug. He eyed the tubing starting at Logan's elbow and finishing in the incapacitated man's and nodded, pleased with her efforts. Her heart soared.
There was a certain way she felt in the presence of her father: small and meek. As if his existence took up space and the air around them. Even the light seemed to shine brighter. His arms were thick like a tree's trunk and carved with tattoos from shoulder to wrist. Glancing at his worn hands, she recalled the times those very hands helped her to her feet when she fell or wiped her tears when she cried. Caldron was nothing but gentle and endearing, albeit she couldn't help but feel timid in his proximity and towering stature. He had that effect on the majority of people. Logan was not immune to it.
Respiring, Caldron ran a calloused hand down his rugged face then scratched his chin hidden by a thick red beard. Apparently it was a long night for him, as well.
"Thank you for doing this," he muttered, propping his meaty hands akimbo. "I already dug the bullets out before I came over." He leaned a bit and narrowed his eyes, noting the small stiff black thread crisscrossing each other. "I guess you've already finished with the stitching. That's my girl." His deep voice was music to her ears. Her favorite part of her favorite song she hadn't heard in years. Logan didn't know what to say. She wanted to stand and hug him, but she was already in the middle of a transfusion.
As quickly as she was pleased to see him, reality bit into her. Where the fuck had he been this whole time and why show up now? Like this? Who was this man and how was it he knew of Caldron's whereabouts and she didn't? What made this warm corpse more important than his entire family?
Setting her jaw, she couldn't stop the anger heating her chest. Harsh words bubbled up, ready to launch from her lips and berate him for ignoring her, for the years of silence. Had she not been tethered by plastic and blood flow, she would have jumped to her feet. She wanted to stand and reprimand him disappearing. But her eyes followed the crimson tube that led to a very injured person. The situation was delicate and beyond Logan's scope of understanding. Of course, she had questions and concerns. Why did he bring this man? Who the hell was he? Where did the bullet holes and knife wounds come from? One person or multiple? Did they know he was here? Whoever they were?
"Where have you been?" Logan asked icily. She didn't mean to say that. That question was supposed to remain in her head, locked away for her to fret and fester over.
"Logan," he warned, exasperated already. It would have to wait. Her questions were not a priority right now.
She knew that tone too well and considered shrugging it off. Inside, though, the questions were surmounting. Just moments ago she had been thinking of him as a fond memory, like a ghost she once knew. But here he was in the flesh, toting with him a problem he dragged, no she dragged into her living room. She glanced at the man again. His eyes were closed and she thought he was dead if it weren't for the subtle rise and fall of his bare chest. She wished he was dead. How simple that resolution could be. End the transfusion, clean up the mess, bury the body. Then she could sit down with her father finally.
Logan was a patient woman, but she knew a sketchy situation when she saw one. Caldron was an operator and delved heavily in firefights. If this was a man caught in the crossfire, he had no place in her home and should have been left, not brought to her. Of the years of silence that passed, never would she have considered this to be the reason for his return. She had done everything she could think of to find him, even went at length as to assign an investigator. But Caldron was good at hiding. And killing. The PI couldn't find him any better than he could remove his own head from his ass. For his own safety, she called off the investigation. Prying eyes and badgering phone calls was not how to lure Caldron out from hiding and she didn't want the investigator getting hurt or killed.
"Is he from Blackwater?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him.
"No," replied Caldron, staring at the man. "He has nothing to do with us."
Us, she snorted. As if there's such a thing between them now.
"Then why is he here? What happened to him?"
He looked down at her, meeting the same shade of eyes like his. That small feeling came back to her again. His gaze was so heavy and predatory. Then a smile lifted the corner of his mouth and he chuckled through his nose. Her questions were ignored. How was that funny to him?
Groaning like an old man, he sat down in a cigar chair. "Have you heard from your mother?"
Looking down at the tube, she noticed its warmth laying against her forearm. Not of Hallmark quality, she reminded herself. Jennifer wanted nothing to do with Logan. Her daughter was too rough, too unladylike, too willing to run through the hill country barefooted and chasing quails and lizards.
"No," she whispered.
"I figured."
"Then why'd you ask?" she shot back, already wishing she could recant her words. The topic was still sensitive. Though she was careful and respectful of her words, she was currently supplying blood to one of his friends. She felt like she had the room to stir the pot. Caldron failed at hiding the effects of her bitterness. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose. When he exhaled, he tilted his head and looked at her.
"I need you to help me right now, Logan." he drawled. "I don't want to fight. I didn't come here to fight. This man, there's a lot of people after him. You trackin'?"
There was a lot of sighing going on in the living room, she noted. She hated that saying you trackin'? Part of her wanted to say no so he would have to go into further detail and hopefully omit the phrase entirely, but she nodded instead.
"Good," he muttered. "And another thing. I'm the only person allowed to come through that door, okay?"
"Okay."
"I'm serious, Logan. I don't care if the milk man's got a special sale on his chocolate 2 percent. No one comes through that door or even on this property. If they do…"
He perked an eyebrow and pointed a finger. That was her cue.
"Shoot 'em," she smiled weakly. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Could he hear it through the rain? Probably.
He stood then, reaching for his keys in his bloodied jeans. He moved towards the door and fear began to creep along Logan's shoulders. She was never going to see him again, she realized. Lowering her eyes, she refused to watch him leave. The last time she had been hopeful and ignorant. There had been laughter in her heart and a smile on her face. If she knew then what she knew now... Those heavy boots stopped and came back. Still staring at the floor, the steel toes breached her field of vision, but she didn't lookup. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head then mussed her dark hair like she was a kid again.
Her body was shaking. Why was she shaking?
A knot formed in her throat, threatening to choke her to death. If only… She didn't want to see him go. Twenty-six or not, she would always be his little girl. She lost the battle and looked up.
"Now don't do any of that." He chuckled as he noted the tears welling in her doleful stare.
"I can't help it." she hissed, looking shamefully to the floor again. "I haven't seen you in so long."
"I'll be back, darling." he twanged, returning to the muddy foyer. He paused again, staring out into the black churning storm. He reached for the door, grasped the handle, and seemed to struggle internally. The latch gave and a rumble of thunder slipped passed the threshold, heralding the sound of rainfall into her home. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
"I love you, Logan." his southern accent wavered.
Logan could feel herself slipping again. She nodded as the colors of the living room and the foyer blurred together.
"I love you too..."
Time stood still after her father left. She didn't know just how much blood the man needed, so she focused on the warm tube resting on her arm until she grew tired. Sitting up, she went to extract the catheter from her elbow when something caught her eye. She glanced up as soon as the man reached for his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose tiresomely and dropped his hand back to his side. He seemed to be waking up now. It hadn't been that long. Perhaps she woke him up. Maybe she could get some answers out of him?
Glancing between her arm and his, while fingering the catheter without detaching it, she considered now to be a good time to investigate.
"Who are you?" Logan eyed the newcomer as her blood continuously flowed into the ditch of his elbow.
"My name's John," he said simply. His voice was deep and hoarse.
Her eyes narrowed incredulously, readying to probe further. "Where did you come from?"
"New York."
That surprised her. She was expecting somewhere closer. A drug bust in Oklahoma or a gamble went wrong in Louisiana. Perhaps a Navajo, drunk and homeless, fleeing the New Mexico state line.
"That's quite a ways," she muttered. "Well then, welcome to Texas."
Keeping his eyes open seemed a chore. He also exuded very little interest at conversation, which was fine with Logan. She was a person of few words, as well. Removing both catheters, she drained the blood and cleaned up. She had some spare clothes she was certain he could fit into. Might as well ready him a room, she considered as she gathered the bloodied pile of clothes to throw away.
Bullet holes. Stab marks. A bite mark! God knew what else.
She tossed the clothes into the trash, grabbed the trash bag of packaged blood, and wandered upstairs. Despite their seemingly estranged relation, Logan kept a room ready for her father's return. Albeit, she hadn't expected it to be so sudden and also so short and confounding. In fact, she hadn't expected it at all. Logan set aside several blood bags and fashioned one to be ready for transfusion when she got John upstairs. Rummaging through the drawers, she grabbed cotton pajamas that still held the tags and a large, weathered shirt. When she came back downstairs, John was sitting up and fully awake.
Black stains of blood pooled in places he laid. She wanted to mind, to have a sense of normalcy within the whole situation but she had never been normal, no thanks to Caldron. She didn't care about the bloodstains or the couch, or the muddy footprints and trickles of blood in the foyer. She still held onto the high brought by her father's return. Highs and lows, of course.
"Here," she proffered the articles of clothing. "Can you walk?"
"I think so."
"Can you walk upstairs?" she clarified.
He glanced the way she had come from, gauging how much energy he had left. Before he could decide on an answer her or provide something vague and useless, she decided for him.
"Alright, I'll help you. It's fine," she almost snapped. Why was she mad at him? Perhaps because there was a chance this man knew more about her father's whereabouts than she did and that did not sit well with her.
Like before, she helped him to his feet, draping an arm over her shoulder. He was much taller than Logan, fitting just beneath his underarm as they walked. He had to hunch to take advantage of her help as they mounted the stairs. It took straining several minutes and a few times a stop had to be made so John could catch his breath and staunch the pain. Logan needed to rest too. Her thighs were burning again.
"Almost there," she reassured him, advancing one careful step at a time.
They reached the room and she gently sat him down on the edge of his new bed before placing his clean pajamas next to him. She headed to turn the bathroom lights on.
"I can't help you shower," she explained, retrieving a towel and turning the water on. "But there's a bench for you to sit on in case you get weary." Logan came back into the bedroom and placed the clean towel next to him. John leaned forward to rest his elbows against his thighs and hung his head. His hair listed, long enough to hide his eyes from Logan. Uncomfortable, she stepped back and eyed the bags of blood on the nightstand.
"The sooner you clean up, the sooner I can administer another transfusion," she told him. "And the sooner you can go to bed."
Here's another lengthy chapter. Sorry, I really don't mean to dump hefty word counts on yall, but I have to go back and make sure I didn't make any mistakes and when I'm rereading, I see parts where Im like "Oh, I see what I'm trying to say." and I add more. Just part of the editing process. I'd also like to go ahead and say there will be John Wick 2 spoilers (not too bad) and of course gore, violence, language, and sexuality. I feel like I really need to emphasize this because I intend to make things loud and crazy. Also to my encouraging readers!:
lilmissbrave: I'm glad you're enjoying this and thank you for the kind words.
Guest: Awesome! It makes me super happy I could achieve that in one chapter!
HollyHobbit13: Write on! I shall! And oh yes, Keanu. So delicious. So stoic! What's not to love?
Iona: thank you for the review!