Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
“Sure,” I yelled back, then looked down at Izzy. “You keep an eye on Daddy for me, okay? Make sure he makes good choices.”
Painter nipped the back of my neck. Smacking him, I headed over to London, who handed me a knife.
“Is this for Painter or the pie?” I asked.
“I haven’t forgiven him yet. Could go either way,” she said, winking. “Cut each one into eight pieces, except the big ones from Costco. We can get twelve out of those.”
I started in on the pies, noting that one of them was huckleberry—I wonder who’d brought that? I needed to make friends with them ASAP.
“Can you hand me that towel?” someone asked. I looked up to find a girl with skin just a little darker than mine and a head full of springy black ringlets. “I wanted to wipe off this casserole dish.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling at her. “I’m Melanie—what’s your name?”
“Deanna. I’m new around here, just moved to town.”
“Oh,” I replied, wondering if she was with someone in the club.
“Mel, can you help me grab the veggie trays?” Loni asked. Giving Deanna a quick wave, I followed Loni through the back door and into the kitchen, where she made a beeline for one of the fridges. Pulling out three big veggie trays, she handed them to me and then grabbed a cardboard box off the counter, loading it with packages of hot dogs.
“We’ve got sticks so the kids can roast their own,” she said.
“That’s a lot of hot dogs just for the kids.”
She laughed.
“Yeah, well once the kids start, the guys will follow. Usually I hate hot dogs, but even I enjoy one roasted over an open fire every once in a while.”
“So who’s Deanna?” I asked. “I just met her outside—never seen her around before.”
“New club whore,” Loni said bluntly. “She seems friendly enough—Reese said she showed up a few weeks back. Duck gave her a place to stay.”
I raised my brows.
“Her and Duck?”
She nodded. “Apparently.”
“Wow, good for him.”
• • •
An hour later, Izzy had crawled into my lap and was starting to yawn.
“You ready to take her home?” Painter asked. I nodded.
“I think so. It’s been a long day. Are you staying at the party?” More people had been arriving steadily, some I knew and more I didn’t. Among them were far too many girls wearing “costumes” the size of postage stamps.
“I’ll come home with you guys,” he replied, and I smiled. Melanie: one. Halloween tramps: zero.
“Fucking hell!” someone shouted. I looked up to see a group of men gathering around something near the bonfire. “Call nine one one!”
Painter and I shared a look, then I thrust Izzy at him. She squawked in protest, but I ignored her as I ran toward the fire, pushing forcefully through the crowd of men.
Duck was on the ground, eyes closed.
“What happened?” I snapped, kneeling down next to him, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No breathing, either.
“He said his chest hurt,” Reese said. “We were getting him a chair, and then he fell.”
“Reese, call nine one one,” I ordered. They all paused, and I realized they weren’t used to a woman giving their president orders. Rolling Duck onto his back, I looked up at the circle of men and snarled, “I’m a fucking ER nurse, and that means right now I’m in charge. Call nine one one, and someone get Painter. I need my keychain. Do you have a defibrillator?”
“No,” Horse said bluntly. “Never occurred to us.”
Of course not.
Rising to my knees, I traced my fingers over Duck’s chest, finding the bottom of his breastbone. Centering the heel of my left hand just above it, I braced my right on top of my left and pushed down using all my weight.
His sternum cracked loudly. I felt the crunch of his ribs as I started chest compressions. One. Two. Three—all the way up to thirty, and fast, too.
“Where’s my keychain?” I yelled, looking around. Painter dropped down next to me, handing it over. I found the little pouch I always kept attached to it, and pulled out a lightweight pocket CPR mask, slapping it over Duck’s mouth to protect myself from any diseases he might have. Then I gave him two powerful breaths, watching for his chest to rise and fall.
Time to start compressions again. I looked at Painter.
“You’re going to help me,” I told him. “I’ll do thirty compressions, then you’ll give him two deep breaths. Watch me this next time, then do exactly what I do. After five cycles, we’ll trade off—otherwise we’ll never make it.”
He nodded.
One. Two. Three. Four . . .
I could feel myself tiring already, which wasn’t a surprise. Real CPR wasn’t nearly as smooth and easy as they show on TV, and the compressions had to be deep if they were going to work. His organs needed oxygen, and every minute that passed, more heart muscle was dying.