Trouble

“Buen trabajo, querida,” Alejo grumbled in a low, condescending voice as he examined the wound. “You should have taken out your gun and cut the guy down yourself. That’s what it’s there for.”

“I don’t want to shoot anybody if I don’t have to,” I answered. “Now just fix it so I can get home to my sisters.”

He let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Alright, but it’s going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You’d be far better off going to the hospital, where they have that Anastasia stuff.”

“Anesthesia, idiot. And when they ask what happened, you can tell them that we’re gang members, and I was selling drugs in an alley when someone tried to mug me,” I responded sarcastically. “Can you please just fix it and stop yapping?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “Alright, if you insist. Gotta go get my Just Got Shot kit.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, the floorboards squeaking under his feet as he made his way toward his bedroom.

With him gone, I leaned my head back against the chair and let out a long groan of agony. The adrenaline had made the pressure of impact lessened, lost in the excitement of the moment, but once I found the wound, it had been impossible to block out the blinding pain. There was no way whatever Alejo was going to do wouldn’t be worth getting rid of this.

“Brace yourself,” Alejo told me as he entered the room again, carrying a little white first aid kit with him. It made an almost hollow noise when he dropped it on the table, but when he opened it up, it was filled with thread, needles, and bandages of various sizes.

I was just about to ask what I was preparing myself for before he took my arm in his hand and felt around the wound. “Are you sure the bullet’s in there?” he mused, examining the wound.

“No,” I responded. “But I think I would have heard the sound of the bullet clanging on the ground if it had exited.”

He nodded mutely before checking around the rest of my upper arm. “I don’t see an exit wound, so I’m going to have to take out the bullet. Are you ready?”

“You’re going to what?” I gasped, but I was too late. Before the words could completely leave my mouth, he dug a finger in my wound, searching desperately for the source of the injury.

I clenched my teeth together and squeezed my eyes shut, my vision coloring with red, blinding, consuming torture. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t want to alert the neighbors. They had enough to deal with without having to hear the sound of a nearly grown woman complaining about a relatively minor wound.

“Found it!” Alejo exclaimed enthusiastically.

I opened my eye just in time to see him draw his bloodied hand out of my arm, dropping a tiny piece of red-stained metal on the table with satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, right?” he asked.

I glared at him, sending him all the insults and hatred in the world that I refused to say out loud, as I was afraid my voice would crack from the pain still throbbing through my arm.

“Okay then,” he agreed. “I’m going to stitch you up, and then I can put a bandage around you, and then I’ll give you some new clothes so you don’t have to go home with blood all over you. And no one will know you got hurt. ¿Está bien?”

I nodded shortly, my jaw still tight with anxiety. I knew the stitches were going to hurt, too, but hopefully, it wouldn’t be as bad as having Alejo’s pudgy finger snooping around inside my muscles.

Okay, so his finger wasn’t pudgy, but still.

The needle pinched my skin as Alejo worked to sew the wound shut after he disinfected the thing with some alcohol. God, I had no idea how some guys put up with this shit day after day after day. I had been lucky enough that I’d only been shot one time before, and that had just been a scrape, really. I hadn’t even needed stitches.

Once he was finally done, he poured a bit more alcohol on the thing and wrapped a length of bandages around my arm, making sure that it was tight enough to keep the bleeding under control, while loose enough to keep circulation going. “Now, pop a bunch of aspirin when you get home,” he ordered. “You’re in for a rough couple of days.”

“I figured,” I sighed. “But I’m back out on the streets tomorrow. Can’t miss a day of work, you know.”

“Do you want me to take over for you?” he asked with a concerned look in his eyes. “I swear, I’d give your share to you, and all the rest to Cristobal. You really should get some sleep and let yourself heal.”

I shook my head. “You know that Cristobal would never allow one of his most prized bodyguards work the streets, even for a night. I’ll be alright, Alejo. Thanks, though.”

He opened his mouth, his full lips poised to say something else, but he ended up thinking better of it. “I’ll go get you some clothes,” he mumbled before setting off down the hallway again.

I let out a sigh and closed my eyes, trying my hardest to block out the pain in my arm. Dealing the next day while trying to fight off the pain was going to be brutal, but it was better than the alternative, which would be leaving Cristobal hanging and angering him.

“Here,” Alejo granted as he threw a sweatshirt and sweatpants on my lap. “They’ll be big, but they’ll do the job.”

“Gracias,” I responded with a small smile. He kept looking down at me, as if expecting something, before I cleared my throat.

He realized what I meant and groaned as he turned around. “For fuck’s sake, Soledad, we used to bathe together.”

“That was a long time ago,” I grumbled as I slid down my jeans and put on Alejo’s black, incredibly baggy sweatpants. Even when I tied them the tightest they could go, they still kind of slid down my waist, but it was going to have to do.

It was my shirt that became a problem. I couldn’t lift up my other arm to get the shirt off, since it sent a shot of stabbing pain up into my shoulder. Gasping a little bit, I struggled to work the shirt off using only my right arm, weaseling my way out of the thing.

“¿Necesitas ayuda?” Alejo questioned knowingly. “It seems like you’re having trouble.”

“Don’t touch me,” I hissed as I sank my head below the neckline of the light blue t-shirt. “Lord knows the last thing you care about is my pain. You just want to look at me in nothing but my bra.”

“You think so little of me,” he grumbled, but he refused to say anything further than that.

Finally, I got the blood-soaked shirt off me and let out a gasp. Putting on Alejo’s sweatshirt was just as difficult, but my best friend knew enough this time that asking to help me would result in nothing but a punch in the gut.

“Okay, you can turn around now,” I told him, trying to catch my breath. “What am I going to tell my sisters when they ask why I’m wearing different clothes than I was when I left the house?”

Alejo shrugged. “Say that you had some hot sex with Liam, and those are his clothes. Claudia knows what sex is now, right?”

“She has a rough idea, but I’m definitely not saying that to my younger sisters,” I snapped. “God, Alejo, do you ever think of anything else?”

“You’ll never find out,” he laughed. “Do you want me to walk you home, or are you okay going alone?”

I shrugged with my one good shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I have to get used to being alone sometime, since I’m going to have my shift alone tomorrow. I’ll talk to you later, okay? And I’ll be over in the morning to wash my clothes.”

“I’ll wash them myself,” he insisted. “But they’ll be done tomorrow, so you can pick them up. And don’t strain yourself. You’re just going to pop the stitches, and you’ll be worse than you were at the start.”

I nodded shortly and smiled at him. “Gracias por la ayuda, Alejo. You’re the best.”

“I know. Tell the girls I say hi.”