2–Blood and Trust

MARYJANE

I don't want to do this. But I'm extremely easy to push around, and I hate that about myself.

I'm on my way to my dad's LA warehouse. He owns Diego Medical Supplies, the biggest supplier for doctors, dentists, and who the heck knows what else. The company is based in the Bay Area, and he wants me to do this inspection because I'm 'the only one he can trust.'

Complete bullshit. Just him pulling a highly effective manipulation tactic on me. It always works.

I'm meeting the warehouse manager and spot-checking inventory. Which apparently, I'll be great at because I have a business degree. This is a job for someone who works in supply chain, not accounting. But it's whatever. I graduated with a 3.95 GPA and aced my supply chain class, so it won't be too hard.

I grumble as I park in the alley at the docks. Why am I incapable of saying no? I use my key to open the padlock on the side gate. I don't feel like going through the main entrance, because that means greeting whatever security guard is working, and I don't want to socialize.

I think the warehouse is left from here. As I search for the correct warehouse, a black SUV drives slowly through the area, which is weird, because no business is conducted here on weekends. But I am here, so I suppose there are exceptions for other people, too. I don't think too much about it as I walk to the building.

The door was locked when I arrived. I'm a bit irked because the manager is supposed to be here, and I don't feel like wasting my Saturday waiting for him. It's not like I have anything better to do, though. I pull out the key to the warehouse and let myself in.

This place is massive. I show myself around as I wait for him to arrive. It's organized by type of supply, and it doesn't look like there's a thing out of place. I doubt there will be issues passing the spot check with how neat everything is.

It's a bit creepy being here alone. The warehouse is huge, and I'm surrounded by things such as metal dental tools, which look like they can double as torture devices. I really hope the manager shows up soon.

There's a popping noise from outside, and I freeze. It can't be gunshots...right? I decide my imagination is running wild, and the palm trees are slapping against the shipping containers. It is abnormally windy today.

After a few minutes, the front door to the warehouse creaks open. Finally. He's thirty minutes late; it's about time he got here. I walk towards the front door, and what I find isn't the manager.

It's a man who has a stomach wound and is bleeding profusely. I wasn't imagining things. Those were gunshots going on outside.

The man is flat on his back and is taking short breaths. With his wound he doesn't have long if he doesn't receive minimal medical attention; maybe twenty minutes.

I can't help but notice how big he is. The man is around 6'6", and most people around that height are lanky, but this man's biceps are bulging. There are tattoos that run along his arms, and I'm not sure, but I think they're gang-related. I wouldn't want to encounter him alone, anywhere.

Wait. I guess we are alone, but this huge man seems far less terrifying because he's about to die. The ethical side of me won't let him bleed out, even if he is a criminal. Against my better judgement, I approach him to see what shape he's in.

He notices my presence and points his gun at me.

"Oh my god!" I say, jumping back.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asks.

"I was just inspecting the warehouse; I didn't mean for this to happen. Please don't kill me," I sob, tears streaming down my face.

Listening to my dad is always a bad idea. I should have never come to this stupid warehouse and helped him out. Historically, helping him never leads to anything good. Now I'm going to be murdered by some thug because of it.

My nose starts to run from crying, and I use my sleeve to wipe it. I look pathetic.

"Tch." He puts his gun down. "Fucking fantastic."

His breathing has become even more labored. This man needs help soon, or else he's going to die.

"I should call an ambulance," I squeak.

He glares at me. "No, you will not, or I really will have to do something about you."

The look on his face says he'll follow through with that statement. I'm not sure what to do. Do I run? He might shoot me as I go for the door. If I wait for him to die, it'll feel ethically wrong, even if whatever he was doing is illegal.

I watch him grimace as he holds his wound and know what I have to do.

"I can stitch that up for you," I say.

"What makes you think you're capable of that?"

"I spent two years in med school."

"You must not have been that great if you were only there for two years."

I frown at him. "I was top of my class. Why I left med school is none of your business. Do you want help, or not?"

The man lets out a grunt of pain and realizes he's out of options.

"How do you plan on stitching me up? Do you carry your old supplies around with you?"

I'm really irritated with his sarcasm. "It's fortunate that you stumbled into a medical supply warehouse."

His brown-red eyes burn with irritation for me. I hate how beautiful they are. Why is someone so bad blessed with such beautiful eyes?

"Ok," he says. "Stitch me up."

"Alright. Let me just grab what I need."

He glares at me, and his hand starts to reach for his gun again. "You're going to call the cops?"

"No. And even if I did, you'd be dead before they got here."

I set down my purse and phone in front of him. "See? I'm not calling anyone. Now let me get what I need."

I'm nervous as I turn my back to him. If he thinks I'm going to call the cops, he really will shoot me in the back. I take hesitant steps away from him as I walk towards the supplies. Luckily, I don't get shot.

The previous tour around the building proved useful for finding the supplies I need. I quickly pick up gloves, antiseptic, gauze, and the required materials for performing stitches.

I'm secretly nervous about performing the stitches. I haven't done it in a little over a year. But my professor said it's like riding a bike, and I wouldn't forget. I hope that's true, or the man might change his mind about killing me.

"Ok," I say, holding everything up.

"Great," he responds.

"This will hurt."

"I guarantee I've been through worse."

I don't doubt that. He managed to walk after getting shot in the abdomen, which is unheard of. I push up his shirt and start to clean the area around his wound.

My face flushes when I see the dips of his abs-I had been so afraid of this stranger that I didn't notice how attractive he is. His shirt slips down every time I go to perform stitches.