Chapter Six
Doc
Sometimes I imagine flashes of metal. The glint of a shiv, hidden and deadly.
The cold steel of a cell door slamming shut and echoing through the silence.
A spoon sharpened to a razor’s edge, a makeshift weapon hidden under the mattress to be used on someone later.
The metallic tang of blood after violence. The glint of handcuffs.
Each flash is a sensory overload, a visceral reminder of the life I led for five years.
Whenever this happens, I make use of the club’s gym. I punch the bag until my knuckles are raw and wrists sore, and on the rare occasions when even that barely soothes the raw feelings in my gut, I step into the ring and go a round or two with one of my MC brothers.
Other times, I jump onto my Harley Davidson Road Glide and ride for hours along Lake Michigan until blood isn’t roaring in my head. Tonight, however, none of those are an option. I’m not at the clubhouse, and hence have no way to deal with these haunting memories.
I spent five years in a shoe box of a cell, among people who lived and thrived on violence.
Most of the inmates in there had nothing to lose, seeing that they would live out the rest of their lives behind those barbed wires.
To be fair, I had it easier than most inside.
I earned respect by providing aid to anyone who needed it, regardless of who they were or where they came from.
But that doesn’t mean I was shielded from the violence that happened around me.
In fact, I bore witness to most of it and nearly became numb to it all.
But I got out.
I glance at the woman sleeping soundly beside me and nearly swallow my tongue at the sight of her, and suddenly, I realize I don’t regret the past, despite everything that happened.
I managed to escape my hell, and more importantly, so did she.
Cara is an angel. Her light hair, a silken river, flows across the pillow.
The moon caresses her skin, highlighting the perfect curve of her cheekbones and the softness of her lips.
Even something as simple as the gentle rise and fall of her chest is mesmerizing.
How could I hate her? The little girl, or the woman she grew into?
I reach up and trace the curve of her brow with my thumb, taking in the way the moonlight dances over her face, and Christ, she’s so beautiful. I’m completely in awe of her.
And I want her. Desperately.
Not wanting to wake her and knowing I won’t be able to help myself if I stay, I push back the covers and slowly climb out of bed.
It’s only four in the morning, but I doubt I’ll catch any more sleep.
Staying in bed with a half-naked Cara poses a whole different challenge for me, so I decide the kitchen is the safer option.
Besides, I could use a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll read through the medical article I’ve been meaning to check out.
With a last glance at Cara, I head into the bathroom to get cleaned up.
A quick, cold shower clears the fog in my brain, and by the time I walk into the kitchen, I feel like an entirely different person.
I prepare the coffee before settling on one of the stools to read through the article I saved.
I drink my coffee as I read through the latest advancements in concussion protocols.
Heaven knows I need all the knowledge I can get, especially when one is responsible for treating adrenaline junkies with an extreme aversion hospitals.
I’m so buried in the latest research that I don’t even notice that my coffee’s gone cold and the sun has already risen. It’s not until my phone vibrates that my attention is pulled from the article.
My brows draw as Saint’s number flashes on the screen, but I shouldn’t be surprised. As the club’s medic, I am used to getting calls at odd hours, so I take it.
“I’m standing outside your door. We need you downstairs,” Saint’s voice breaks through the speaker.
“Problem?”
“Yes, Trigger shot himself when one of the prospects didn’t properly unload his gun before returning it to the armory and Trigger decided to clean the pistols while still half asleep.
The son of a bitch woke everyone with the shot.
We were sure there was an attack or something.
I am surprised you didn’t hear it from your place. ”
Yeah, about that. “I’m not at the clubhouse.”
There is a pause, which I understand. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent the night out away from the clubhouse. In fact, most of my MC brothers tease me for having no social life, but I always like to be available when there’s a medical emergency at the clubhouse. And there are many.
“You know, men are not allowed to stay overnight at the shelter.”
I don’t bother asking how he even knows where I am. Saint makes it his business to know everyone else’s business. “There are no rules against staying in the staff quarters. Just the residents’ rooms, unless I’m wrong.”
“Fuck, I don’t even want to know. Can you get here or not?”
My eyes move to the bed where Cara is sleeping, then glance at my wrist watch. It’s only six, and although I don’t want to leave without telling her, I also don’t want to disturb her sleep. Besides, I’ll be coming right back here to check on Abby and another woman who’d arrived a few days ago.
“Where did he shoot himself?”
“It grazed his hand.”
“Apply firm and direct pressure to the wound to stop bleeding,” I instruct. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
I hang up and stuff my phone into my pocket before getting up. I walk over to Cara, intent on just looking at her and leaving, but I lose a battle against myself as I lean in and brush my lips over her temple, letting them linger as I inhale the sweet fruity scent clinging to her hair.
Pushing back, I allow myself to look at her and admit to myself that even without the history that binds us, I would have still pursued her. Perhaps things would have progressed further without the past hovering between us like a dark cloud.
I need to clear things up between us. When I get back, I’ll fix everything.
With a final glance at the woman who has quickly wormed her way into my heart, I leave. I take the back exit so I don’t run into any of the other residents and scare them, circling to where I left my bike parked.
The ride to the clubhouse is spent thinking of Cara, when typically it would be on the patient I am on my way to see.
I should be considering the best course of action if Trigger damaged any major blood vessels or nerves, but instead, my mind is on her.
It’s still on her when, fifteen minutes later, I walk into the clubhouse and I am met by Saint, who leads me to his office where Trigger is waiting.
The second I hear his voice, I figure the injury must not be so bad if the man can still laugh.
“Heard you had a sleepover. Who is she, Doc?” he teases when I step into the room.
“That’s none of your fucking business,” I say, walking over and removing the bloody cloth he’s holding to his injured hand.
I assess the size and depth of the wound, humming when I realize it’s a superficial injury.
Probably hurts like a motherfucker, but the bullet simply grazed his hand, causing a laceration that, while bloody and painful, should heal fairly quickly. “What the hell were you playing with?”
He grins. “A 1911. She’s a beauty. One of the new prospects just bought her, and she packs a hell of a punch.” He watches as I organize the tools I’ll need on Saint’s desk before slapping on some gloves. “I pity the poor bastard that ends up on the other end of the barrel.”
“That poor bastard was you,” I say, grabbing a syringe to irrigate the area. “You are lucky you didn’t shoot your ugly mug.”
Saint laughs from the door. “I guess you’ve got a handle on this. I’ll go assure the others that it’s nothing serious.”
The door shuts with a click, but I barely notice it as I focus on my work. “So, where the hell were you?” Trigger asks after a moment. “It’s not like you to spend the night away from the club.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“Fuck off.”
I smirk, letting him stew on it for a bit.
Among my MC brothers, I am the closest to Trigger.
Heck, he’s the reason I joined the Steel Rebels in the first place.
Just a few years ago, I was treating him after he got into a fight with another prisoner.
We were cellmates for the last three years of my sentence.
He never talks about what led to him getting arrested, but in all fairness, no one ever does.
Talking about it while incarcerated somehow makes it real and reminds you what kind of a horrible human being you actually are.
But we got out. Me sooner than him.
“I found her.”
I don’t need to elaborate who I’m talking about. There’s only one female in my life I’ve ever told him about and it’s the one whose words sent me to jail.
“Where?”
“At the woman’s shelter,” I say, numbing his injury so I can begin suturing it. “She works there.”
Trigger is quiet for a beat before it finally clicks where I’d been all night. “Doc, please tell me you didn’t!”
“Stay fucking still!” I hiss when he moves his hand.
“She has to be what? Nineteen?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Fuck, Doc, that makes you fifteen fucking years older than her. You’re robbing the cradle here, don’t you think?”
My lips stretch into a grin. “Our age gap is the least of our problems right now.” In fact, it doesn’t seem to be an issue at all. Not between us at least.
“Right, the biggest ones being you killed her brother and she sent you to prison.”
I stay quiet. It was an accident, but the court didn’t see it that way. They didn’t even consider the fact that I tried to save the man’s life, and Cara’s statement about attacking the man unprovoked seemed to be damning. “I don’t blame her.”
“Don’t you?” I look up to meet Trigger’s steely gaze with one of my own before he lets out a sigh. “Fuck, I guess you don’t.”
“She doesn’t believe it either.”
“Can you blame her?” he asks. “You suddenly run into the guy you sent to prison, and he takes a liking to you. Wouldn’t you be suspicious of his intentions too?” I hum in response. “She probably thinks you’re biding your time before you take your revenge.”
“I don’t blame her,” I repeat, and isn’t that the crux of all.
“Knowing that is not enough. I imagine she would prefer to know why you don’t hold a grudge over her sending you to jail for five years, perhaps more if you hadn’t been released early.”
“For someone who shot themselves this morning, you almost sound smart.”
He sighs. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“No,” I say cheerfully, dressing the wound. “You’re lucky you didn’t need surgery. Still, you’re going to be off your motorcycle for a few weeks.”
“Fuck!” he curses under his breath, but this ought to teach him to save handling guns for when he’s fully awake. He may be the club's weapon expert, but he’s not immortal. He more than anyone else should have known better.
“There, we’re done. If you decide to ignore the doctor’s orders and tear the stitches, I’ll skip the analgesic when I replace them.”
He gawks at me. “Damn, that’s cold.”
I arch a brow at him and he raises his hands placatingly. Then I start packing my things into my bag.
“You are serious about her, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, not one bit surprised by the shift in the conversation.
“Why else would you stick around?” he says, leaning against Saint’s desk. “You have a hero complex, Doc. That’s one of your many flaws, but you don’t stick around unless something matters. So, I’m thinking she must matter.”
Looking him dead in the eye, I answer, “She’s the only thing that matters.”