Free The Switch by JC Emery Page A

I give it a tiny tug, but she cries out in pain, so I leave it be.
    Looking into the first aid kit , the first thing I see is a medium-size bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Sure, there are stores a few miles down the road, but should something happen, I don’t want to use all the peroxide in one cleaning. I’ll need it for later. Shelby looks pale. Her eyes are clamped shut, and she is taking deep breaths.
    “I’m going to boil some water to sterilize it and clean out the wound. Do you need something to drink?”
    “Water,” she says.
    I eye the bloody material atop her wound and then take a look at her face. Two things are going to happen when I start to clean this bad boy. She’s going to pass out would be my first guess, but I also wouldn’t put it past her to start screaming. Loudly. In my ears.
    “I have to stitch up your wound. It’s going to hurt. You might want to go for something stronger.”
    “Bourbon,” she says, deciding instantly.
    I look to my left at the bathroom and then to my right at a nearly bare wooden wall, adorned only with a cheap, old painting. Behind me to my left is the kitchenette, but I doubt there’s any bourbon in there. It’s just too small.
    “Bookcase.”
    I raise my eyebrows and look around the cabin. Sure enough, in the corner of the living area is a tall bookcase—half-filled with books and half-filled with booze. I stand and walk over, spotting the bourbon on the top shelf. I bring her the bottle and tell her to hang on. I rush to the kitchenette and swiftly locate the few glasses that are here and bring one back to her. I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour two fingers into the glass, then hand it to Shelby. She eyes it cautiously, sniffs the liquor, and then takes a tentative sip. Her face scrunches up in displeasure, and she pulls away from the glass. I hold back a chuckle.
    “You can’t sip it. Bourbon is meant to be tossed back.”
    “It tastes nasty,” she says.
    I nod my head and look at this girl —I mean I really look at her. When I first met her, staring down the barrel of a gun in that restaurant, I thought she was a helpless victim. Her big gray eyes were filled with half-shed tears, and her tanned skin looked pale under the weight of the situation. All I wanted to do was to help her. Then she picked that lock like a pro, and the lingering doubt began to creep in.
    Is she a victim?
    Is she playing me?
    How much trouble am I going to be in when Sarge finds out?
    Having a woman pull a gun on me could have gone a much different route than it actually did. I could swear that was the first time she pointed a gun at somebody, and most definitely the first time she pointed one at a cop. The ease with which I overpowered her emotionally tells me more about her than she likely realizes. Whatever she’s gotten herself and her friend into with Victor, she’s not a hardened criminal. Whatever she’s doing, she’s doing out of love.
    I clear my throat and shake my head of those thoughts. Regardless of why she’s doing what she’s doing, she still pulled a gun on a cop , and she still made off with a stolen fucking diamond. I have to keep my head right and not let those moments of vulnerability suck me in.
    This is a job , I remind myself. It might not be a typical day at the office, but it’s a job nonetheless. And I can’t afford to let myself get sucked into Shelby’s story.
    I stand from the bed and walk over to the kitchenette. Out of the corner of my eye , I see Shelby sucking back the rest of the bourbon in her glass. Her face pinches up, and after she swallows it, she shakes her head and arms like she’s trying to get rid of the taste. When she’s not trying to blow my head off, she can be pretty cute. But that’s a dangerous thought.
    In the kitchenette there’s a small pot in one of the two cupboards. I pull it out and set it in the small sink and fill it up. Once it’s full enough , I set the pot on the two-burner stove and turn it on full blast,