Hatchet & The Hellcat (Lone Star Mavericks MC #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The executives in this goddamn hospital preferred shuffling paperwork to saving lives.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I pressed back unshed tears and clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. I could have saved my patient—a seven-year-old girl with black hair and an adorable gap in her smile—if the system wasn’t total shit.

Children’s Medicaid had denied the treatment that would have stopped her condition from deteriorating to the point that she was put on the transplant list, and the hospital bureaucracy bleated along like sheep, indifferent to the suffering of an immigrant child without top-tier insurance.

The door behind me clicked, and light footsteps approached before my mentor and boss, Dr. Visha Patel, spoke. “Tough case.” Her white coat whipped in the wind as she waited for my response.

I balled my hands into fists. “If they’d approved the treatment weeks ago, she’d be alive.”

Dr. Patel sighed and ran a hand through her long, dark hair. “It’s possible. Or, the treatment would have failed, and you’d still be standing here wondering what you could have done differently. I know I ask myself that every time I lose a patient.”

“This loss was unnecessary,” I argued.

She half shrugged. It wasn’t in dismissal of my feelings. It was the resigned acceptance of a doctor who remembered every patient she’d ever lost but didn’t let the grief crush her passion for the job. “We’ll never know. You care. That makes you a good doctor.”

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I turned away to hide my face.

“Go home, Dr. Morris,” she murmured. “With Dr. Jones back from maternity leave, we’re not short-staffed anymore. Get some sleep and take a day for yourself.”

I scoffed. “Doing what?” As an intern, time to myself was a luxury that no longer existed.

“I don’t know. Watch trash TV. Read a book. Day drink. I saw your fiancé leaving a few hours ago. The transplant wasn’t viable, so he went home. Spend some quality time with him. Maybe plan your wedding.”

My stomach rolled at the thought. “I have patients,” I said weakly.

“I’ll take your cases today. Go home. That’s an order.”

I sighed, turning to follow Dr. Patel through the door. A whoosh of cool air hit my face, and the sweat on my back instantly cooled, causing goose bumps to spread across my skin.

My movements in the locker room were mechanical as I swapped scrubs for yoga pants and a tank top.

I sat on the bench, scrolling through my phone as I decompressed.

A text from my brother, Merrick, explaining that he and his girlfriend, Kenna, were heading on a road trip.

An invitation from Rhetta and Eva to get drinks later in the week.

A funny GIF from Hatchet, my brother’s best friend and a former patient.

And three texts from Luca. I released a sigh as I skimmed through each one.

A link to an ostentatious wedding venue with gaudy gold moulding and marble floors.

A wedding-day necklace he thought I’d like.

And a screenshot of a ridiculous display of flowers—lily of the valley and orchids.

My eyes bugged out at the price tag for a single bouquet.

I ignored all of them and pocketed my phone. When we’d met, I’d enjoyed how Luca showered me with expensive jewelry and flowers. These days, his affection chafed like a golden handcuff. Shiny, beautiful, and more cage than comfort.

I stood, my back protesting more than it should at only twenty-six, and slipped out of the hospital before the nurses peppered me with questions.

I drove home in silence, with just the hum of my truck’s engine filling my ears.

I parked on the curb in front of the oversized townhouse Luca had bought when we moved to Texas, the garage better suited for his sports car than my F-150.

Luca thought it was ridiculous that I wanted such a large vehicle. He’d tried to talk me into a cute BMW or a Lexus instead. But I’d chosen the truck—a Texas girl all the way through.

I unlocked the door and quietly stepped inside. I paused at the door, a rhythmic sound echoing down the hall.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

The distinct beat sounded like … our bed. I hesitated before dropping my purse to the floor.

A low, feminine moan drifted from the room at the end of the hall. My stomach dropped. He had to be watching porn, right?

“Luca,” a high-pitched voice whined.

OK, so the likelihood that Luca shared the same name as a porn star was low. I stomped down the hall, my steps heavy in the way that always led to arguments when I accidentally woke him after a long shift.

For half a beat, I froze in the doorway and stared at the tangle of limbs and lace on our sheets.

I grabbed Luca’s precious glass orb from the shelf—a family heirloom he babied like it was a Fabergé egg—and drew my arm back.

I hurled it like a softball, and it sailed through the air, striking the back of his skull with a satisfying thunk.

His hand flew to his head as he glanced back, eyes widening at the sight of me.

“What. The. Fuck.” Fury rolled off me in waves.

The blonde shrieked, scrambling to cover her half-naked body with our sheets.

Luca scrambled for his jeans. “I can explain.” The thick Italian accent I’d once found sexy turned my stomach.

I snatched a porcelain vase from the shelf and heaved it at his chest. He caught it deftly.

He stood before me, a practiced expression of manipulative charm crossing his face. “It meant nothing. She means nothing to me, amore mio.” His hand reached for my cheek, wiping a tear I hadn’t realized streaked down my face.

I pulled back sharply and grabbed another item from the shelf—a gaudy piece of metal art with sharp edges. I palmed the flat end before slamming the jagged points into his side. He yelped as they embedded shallowly into his skin.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

I spun on my heel to head back to my truck. Luca grabbed my forearm, wrapping his fingers around it in a grip that would surely leave a mark.

“Let me go,” I snapped, wrenching hard against his tight hold.

“We need to talk about this,” he demanded. “You can’t leave me.”

Unable to break free, I kneed him in the balls. He crumpled, and I broke away.

“Should have thought of that before you fucked her.”

I marched toward the door as I heard Luca’s phone, sitting on the side table beside his keys and wallet, abuzz with the tone reserved for hospital notifications.

I grabbed it, read the message, and threw it at his chest. “Looks like you got a heart for that patient after all. Better get to the hospital before you fuck up someone else’s life. ”

“Stop. Let’s talk about this.” Luca’s words came out clipped—more command than plea—as I stormed out the door.

He watched me from the stoop as I leaped into the cab of my truck. He hesitated, looked at his phone, and returned to the house.

My hands shook. What the fuck would I do now? I couldn’t kick him out. He’d bought our home and nearly everything in it. I picked up my phone, automatically thumbing to call my brother. He’d kill Luca. And I’d enjoy helping him.

But, shit. Merrick and Kenna would be well on their way to their vacation in the Ouachita Mountains in Arkansas. My phone pinged. I glanced at the message. Another funny meme from Hatchet.

I watched as Luca tore out of the driveway, followed by his slut waiting at the curb for a ride. I stared daggers at the tall, leggy blonde, and recognition struck. She was one of the hospital baristas who’d served us coffee over the past few weeks.

I keyed the ignition and fired up the truck, throwing it into reverse to back into the driveway. A thrill shot through me as the harlot skittered sideways to avoid tire tracks across her body.

I wasn’t actually going to hit her, even though a tiny part of me wanted to.

I glared at her as I slammed the door closed and stepped back into the house.

I looked around the large, open space, deciding what to take.

The furniture I’d brought with me—an antique hope chest and a river coffee table—was too heavy for me to move on my own.

I sighed, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and minimalistic decor that Luca insisted was classy. I shot off a text message and ground my teeth as I formulated a plan.

Me: I need your help.

Hatchet: Hiding a body?

Me: Maybe later. I need help moving first.

My phone rang three times before I decided to answer.

“Hey,” I answered, my voice cracking unexpectedly.

“What’s wrong?” Hatchet asked, concern threading his tone.

I bit my lip. “Can you come over and help load a few things into my truck? I really don’t want to talk about it.”

I ended the call before he could question me.

Twenty minutes later, Hatchet pulled in beside my truck on his red and black Harley as I tossed a duffel bag filled with clothes into the back.

“Pretty bike,” I commented, admiring the sleek FXDR model gleaming in the sunlight. “When are you going to crash that one?”

Hatchet pulled off his helmet, shaking loose his messy blond hair. His broad shoulders flexed under his leather cut.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, his bright blue eyes appraising the haphazard stack of clothing still on hangers in my backseat.

I turned to walk back into the house. “I’m moving.”

“Where? Why?”

I paused in the doorway to the bedroom. “Good question. Do you have a spare key to Merrick’s house?”

He chuckled. “Nope. That place is Fort Knox now. Paranoid bastard put in a security system when Kenna moved in.”

Well, fuck. I needed a Plan B. I grabbed my pillow off the bed and ripped the pillowcase off it. It stank of cheap perfume. “Put this in my truck,” I said, shoving it to his chest.

I threw open a large suitcase and began to open dresser drawers, tossing in socks and underwear. I pushed past Hatchet into the den, grabbing a framed photo of me and my father wearing the leather cut and patch signifying he was a founding member of the Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club.