Screams And Scotch - Part 1

1st time writing

Tw: vehicle accident, not gory

Screams and Scotch - Part 1

Chibs had seen some stupid shite in his time, but this? This was bloody ridiculous.

He was pulling out of TM’s lot when the sound of a screaming engine made him pause. His sharp eyes tracked the sleek, black Ducati as it weaved dangerously through traffic. The guy riding it was a reckless bastard, leaning too hard into turns, gunning it between cars with barely an inch to spare. But it wasn’t the rider that caught his attention.

It was the girl on the back.

She was tiny—five foot nothing, at best—and clinging to the rider like her life depended on it. Her hands were locked around his waist, her knuckles white even from this distance. Her hair whipped wildly in the wind, and even over the roar of the engine, he could hear her screaming. Not the kind of scream that came with excitement or thrill-seeking. No, this was terror.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already swinging his Harley around. He wasn’t about to play hero—stupid people did stupid things, and they suffered for it—but something about the way she clung to the guy set his teeth on edge. She looked like she wasn’t there by choice. And that? That was a problem.

He kicked his bike into gear, following at a distance, keeping an eye on them as they shot down Main Street.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

One second, the Ducati was tearing down the road, the rider too cocky, too sure of himself as he cut through traffic. The next, he made a critical mistake. He didn’t see the truck ahead of him slamming on the brakes.

Chibs barely had time to swear before it happened.

The bike clipped the back of the truck at high speed. The front wheel crumpled, the force sending the rider flying over the handlebars. He slammed into the pavement and rolled, limbs flailing. But Chibs’ focus was on her.

The girl.

She was thrown off the back like a ragdoll, hitting the asphalt hard. She skidded, her body bouncing once—twice—before going still.

Chibs was already moving, his Harley forgotten in the middle of the road as he ran toward the wreck. The rider was groaning, trying to push himself up, but Chibs ignored him. He crouched next to the girl, his gut twisting at the sight of her.

Blood smeared the pavement beneath her. Her jeans were torn at the knees, scraped raw, and her arms had deep road rash. But it was her head that worried him. Her face was slack, peaceful in a way that didn’t belong here. A deep cut on her forehead leaked crimson into her hair.

“Shite, lass,” he muttered, pressing two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was there—faint, but there.

“Hey,” he tapped her cheek lightly, his accent thickening. “C’mon now, open those pretty eyes for me, yeah?”

Nothing. "Ah, fuckin’ hell.”

He checked her breathing—shallow, but steady—before looking up. People were gathering. Someone had already called 911. Sirens were wailing in the distance.

The rider groaned louder, drawing attention, but Chibs shot him a look that shut him up. “You keep your arse right there,” he warned, voice low and sharp. “Yer lucky I don’t put ye under for good.”

The bastard had been laughing on that bike. Chibs had seen it. The reckless grin, the thrill of showing off. And now she was lying here, broken because of him.

When the ambulance arrived, Chibs was still kneeling beside her, his gloved hand pressing gently against her shoulder. When the paramedics rushed over, he didn’t move.

“She’s breathin’. Took a bad hit to the head.”

One of them nodded, assessing her injuries, but when they asked for her information, Chibs stiffened.

“I dunno,” he admitted, glancing down at her. “I don’t know her name.”

The ride to St. Thomas was a blur. Chibs hadn’t planned on going, but when the paramedics loaded her onto the stretcher, they just assumed.

“You’re coming with her, right?”

He could’ve said no. Could’ve walked away, probably should have.

Instead, he muttered, “Aye,” and climbed into the ambulance.

He sat in the corner, arms crossed, watching as they worked. Her tiny frame looked even smaller against the white sheets, and for some reason, that pissed him off. She looked fragile, in a way that had looked like she had no business being tangled up in this shite.

When they rolled her into the ER, he followed. Nurses swarmed. Someone tried to stop him, but he just gave them a look, and they backed off.

Finally, a nurse approached him. “Are you family?”

Chibs hesitated. He didn’t even know her bloody name.

“Filip Telford,” he said instead. “Call me Chibs.”

The nurse nodded. “She had a wallet on her. Her name is—”

She said it. Her name.

And for some reason, it hit him harder than expected. He rolled it around in his head, memorizing it, feeling it settle in his chest.

When they finally let him into the room, she was still unconscious. Her face was pale, but the bandages were clean, the IV steady. Chibs pulled up a chair, watching her breathe.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

Didn’t know why he felt this urge to make sure she woke up.

But he did.

And something told him this wasn’t the last time he’d see her.

Not by a long shot.