Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
MCKINSEY
I pinch the bridge of my nose, another migraine brewing after speaking to my mother.
I love the woman. I do.
But she has been driving me absolutely bat-shit crazy the majority of my life. After Rick walked out on us when I was nine, she required 110 percent of my energy and attention. Even after she got remarried.
She’s bulldozed every boundary I’ve ever set with her. Including not jumping to conclusions when I don’t answer the phone the first time she calls. Despite not wanting to work with Draven, the responsible thing would have been for me to turn my phone off after the first time my mother called. I know better than to think she won’t call right back.
Speaking of Draven, I check the time and realize I’ve been gone for ten minutes.
“Shit.”
Leaving my phone on the counter, I walk back down the hallway and into my office.
“Draven, I apologize again. It was my…” I freeze and stop talking the moment my eyes land on the sleeping man on my sofa.
Uh…
I stand frozen, not knowing what to do. This has never happened before. Do I wake him up? If he were a normal patient, that’s what I would do.
Approaching the sofa, I lightly pat him on the arm trying to rouse him.
When that doesn’t work, I grip his shoulder a little tighter and shake him gently.
To which I receive a mild snort followed by rhythmic, deep breathing.
The dude is out cold.
Standing over him, I take in his appearance in more detail than I did earlier, now that I can stare as long as I want without judgment. Draven has always been handsome. I remember thinking so from the first night I met him, the very first time I was summoned to the clubhouse to meet with Delilah. He’d shown up outside of my old office as I was leaving for the night.
Scared the fucking shit out of me, but even my terror couldn’t mask how remarkable he was.
I notice the unfamiliar motorcycle the moment I exit the building my office is in, but I don’t see anyone nearby. We share the space with a few other tenants, so I assume it belongs to someone here to see one of them.
Even though it’s nine at night and all the businesses in the building have been closed for hours.
A shiver skitters down the back of my neck and across my shoulders as I quicken my stride toward my car.
“Dr. Caraway?”
The voice comes out of nowhere the moment I reach for my door handle, fear spinning me around to face its owner. Dropping everything in my arms, my hand flies to my chest, terrified by the sudden appearance of a man I’ve never met before. I chastise myself for not having my keys in my hand, ready to unlock and jump into my car.
“Sorry.” His hands come up in surrender as though he’s trying to assure me he isn’t a danger. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Before I can reprimand him for sneaking up on someone the way he did and ask him how he thought his approach would go over, he ducks down and picks up the patient file I dropped along with my keys. I watch, unmoving as he works to get all of the paper back into the folder before handing it to me.
Dumbfounded, I stare at it for a moment before taking it back. I swallow, barely able to push the ball of nerves out of my throat.
“Wh—who are you? What do you want?”
A gentle smirk spreads across his plump lips. My eyes quickly dip down to the darkened square of his chin before roving over his long eyelashes. He’s got a toothpick between his lips, his tongue teasing it back-and-forth from one corner of his mouth to the other. It’s sexy the way his tousled, shoulder-length, brown hair curls behind his ears.
When I meet his dark eyes, there's a glimmer of amusement in them. The color is indiscernible in the dimly-lit parking lot, but I can feel them drawing me in.
His level of attractiveness is overshadowing my fear of him.
A stupid fact for me to admit, even to myself.
His tongue dips out, wetting his lips before he shifts the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.
“My name is Draven. I’m the VP of the Royal Bastards here in Gettysburg.”
My eyes briefly flick over his vest, taking in the different patches attached to it.
I’ve seen them around town before, but I’ve never met any of them. Their reputation precedes them, however.
“A friend of mine, Harleigh, called you to schedule an appointment for someone.”
“Yes. Yes, I remember.” The words fly out of my mouth. Terrified. Irritated. I need him to get to the point of why he thinks approaching me at night, in an empty parking lot, was the correct course of action for whatever reason he’s here. “Are you the friend?”
“No.” He shifts the toothpick again.
Breathe, McK. In for four, out for four.
“But I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Presumably noticing how shaken I feel, he speaks again.
“I promise you, no harm will come to you. The girl—Delilah—she’s in really bad shape.”
Finding my voice once again, I object, “Take her to the emergency room, then.”
“Hospitals aren’t really our thing.” He crinkles his nose and shakes his head gently.
A second passes before I hear an engine revving as it comes down the street. Hoping it’s a cop—or some strong man with a savior complex—my eyes leave Draven’s, waiting to see if help is coming my way.
My heart drops into my stomach when I see another Bastard pull into the parking lot on his bike. Thankfully, he doesn’t dismount it, but that does nothing to quell the unease coursing through me.
“You’ll follow me to our compound. Atticus will trail you…” he gestures to the other guy. “Just to make sure you don’t make a wrong turn and lose your way.”
His threat isn’t lost on me, no matter how gentlemanly his words sound.
“Bring her here tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. My first appointment isn’t until nine, so I can see her before then.”
I’m given a resigned glare as he presses his lips into a thin line.
“Fine, then. I’ll drive.” I hear the jingle of my keys in his hand. I hadn’t realized he’d held onto them when he gave me the folder back.
Before I can respond, he grips me delicately around my bicep and walks me to the passenger side of my car. Draven opens the car door, but instead of entering the car, I just look at him. It’s the only challenge I can muster.
He smirks again, his tongue wrestling with the toothpick before he responds to my silent disobedience.
“Be a good girl, and get in the car, Doc.”
Fuck.
His words should incite nothing but fear in me. However, it’s more than fear churning deep within me. I push down whatever the fuck I’m feeling. Knowing I have no other choice, I do as he says.
Best case scenario, I go wherever the fuck they’re going to take me, meet the girl, then tell them the treatment she needs is outside of my expertise.
Worst case?
They realize they don’t need me and … dispose of me.
Suffice it to say they didn’t believe me when I told them I couldn’t help her. Probably because Harleigh had already told them how her sessions with me had done wonders for her mental health.
The following week, I was met in the parking lot by Draven again.
This time, he brought his car and a challenging stare as he waited for me to deny his unspoken request.
I didn’t.
I’d given Delilah my business card and implored her to have someone bring her to see me, at my office, during business hours. But Royce wouldn’t have that. He said there were things that she might need to discuss with me that were safer out of earshot of anyone else who could be in my office.
Then the condescending asshole had the nerve to remind me of the oath I took when I became a therapist to keep anything discussed between her and I locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
At least Draven knew how to make a threat with eloquence.
I can’t say I was upset when Delilah ended our regular sessions.
I haven’t seen Draven—or any of the men—as much since then.
His hair is shorter now than it was back then, allowing his chiseled chin and sharp cheekbones more visibility than before. It makes him appear more striking than I’ve ever seen him, even with the harsh wrinkles around his eyes.
I wonder how old he is—something I would know if he were a regular patient who fills out patient intake forms. In my anxiety of the situation I’ve found myself in, I jumped straight into this appointment instead of having him go through the steps all my other patients do.
He’s likely younger than he looks. His premature age lines were probably caused by sun exposure from being on his bike so often. Or from massive stress and anxiety, which would be possible from the years he spent caring for his dying mother. Even before that, when he had to take over as man of the house after his father died. That’s a tremendous responsibility for a sixteen-year-old kid. The heavy burden he laid on himself back then is enough to stress even a grown individual flung into a situation they aren’t prepared for.
The lines on his face are further impacted by how much he admitted to drinking recently. And the fact that he’s a smoker. Both factors eat away at a person’s appearance overtime, not to mention what they do to you internally.
Leaving his side, I sit at my desk and pull out a copy of the report from his run-in with the cops last night. Something I would normally do before sitting down with a patient for the first time. But this morning has been nothing short of chaotic. This little impromptu nap of his works to my benefit.
With the report is a timeline of events that occurred last night, including all the calls that were placed complaining of Draven’s erratic, and at times, dangerous behavior. The officer at the station was hesitant to give me a copy, but I told him if I was expected to treat him to the best of my ability, I needed to know exactly what happened. Which is the truth, but there’s also a part of me that craves to know more about him. His moves, his intentions, his background.
I quickly look at the call log.
5:34 P.M. - Complaint called in about a visibly intoxicated suspect, later identified to be Mac “Draven” Hoffman, in the Mount Wine and Spirits store at 4587 State Road 358. Call made from payphone outside of the store. Caller claims suspect is part of the Royal Bastards MC, so they didn’t want to give their name for fear of retribution.
His name is Mac?
Same as my initials. McKinsey Ann Caraway. MAC.
It’s an interesting coincidence I decide to file away for later…
5:42 P.M. - Liquor store owner, Brad Cory, called back to let police know he had sold the suspect alcohol out of fear for his life, even though he could lose his license.
The poor guy would rather risk his livelihood than his life. I suppose I can’t fault him for that, but he shouldn’t have been put in that position in the first place.
5:45 P.M. – Officers Lincoln and Harris arrived at Mount Wine and Spirits, but the suspect was already gone.
6:27 P.M. - Complaint of a visibly intoxicated driver swerving and weaving in and out of traffic on Rt. 15 while drinking an unknown substance from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
6:47 P.M. - Multiple calls received from individuals (see appendix A) at Culp’s Hill, complaining of a belligerent man climbing the outside then hanging from the observation tower.
6:50 P.M. - Park security descend on Culp’s Hill. After approaching the area and attempting to talk to the suspect, he fled the scene on his motorcycle going at a high rate of speed.
6:53 P.M. - Chase ensues down Rt. 30, heading west. Additional Gettysburg Sheriff’s officers join the chase at Hunterstown Rd. Chase reached speeds upwards of ninety miles an hour at times.
7:24 P.M. - Chase concludes when the suspect loses control of his bike along Rt. 116 in Fairfield at the dead end of Jack’s Mountain Road. The suspect’s bike landed on the shoulder, launching him into the grass. Rate of speed at the time of the crash was approximately forty-five miles per hour.
Jesus.
I look over at Draven again, in disbelief of his dumb luck. He could have been killed. He probably would have been if he’d been going faster. My eyes rake down his long body. I can understand a little more clearly now why his clothing is filthy and torn in a few areas.
Why’d you do this, Draven?
Grief does different things to different people.
Did Draven want to die? Probably not if he slowed down as much as he did by the time he was thrown from his bike.
But I don’t feel like this was just him blowing off steam either.
As much as the Bastards scare me, I can’t help the intrigue that gnaws away at me, wanting to know more about club life and what that actually looks like.
What does it take to become one of them?
What does one gain from being a member?
Obviously, if the cops are choosing not to press charges for his little joy ride, there are definite advantages, but to what end?
He’s hurting.
Who does he have to lean on?
How much of himself has he already given to become who he is today?
And what happens when there’s nothing of him left to give?