Chapter 2 #2
I’m still unsure whether she believes me. The odds are against it. But she’s probably realising that’s all she’s going to get. After taking a moment to digest my words, she shakes her head.
“Just remember, you don’t need to stay in a position where you put yourself at risk.
There are options, people who can help.” She pauses to let that sink in, then continues, “You had a pneumothorax. The knife punctured your lung, and it deflated. It was a fairly straightforward surgery to correct, and you seem to be recovering well. I’ll be happy to discharge you in a day or two, as long as you take it easy.
You’re not to do any heavy lifting, smoke, or fly in a plane or go scuba diving—”
“We’re in fuckin’ Arizona.” I bark out a laugh, then frown. No smoking? Maybe Saint’s woman will bake some of the good stuff into cookies for me.
Face tightening, she checks the notes and the readout from the monitor, then takes a stethoscope from around her neck.
She indicates I should pull down the fucking fasten-at-the back hospital gown I’m wearing.
Once I’ve bared the top half of my body, she places the cold metal against each side of my chest.
“You’re making a good recovery, though your breath sounds are still unequal.
Believe me, a collapsed lung is no joke.
You’ll need physical therapy to regain full function, and even then, you may not achieve the full capacity you had before your…
accident.” She jots something down on the tablet, then gives me another assessing gaze.
After a moment, she takes something out of her pocket.
“Keep this.” She passes a card to me and actually pats my hand as I take it. Then she leaves the room.
Looking down, my eyes widen incredulously. She’s given me a number for a local domestic abuse support group. I’m still chuckling when Saint rejoins me.
Pulling out the chair, he sits his ass down. “What’s the joke?”
Jerking my head toward the door, I laugh more, only immediately regretting the movement, which pulls at the stitches in the wound over my lung.
Trying to answer him while keeping my mirth inside, I wave the card toward him.
“She thinks I’m a victim of abuse. Offered to help me escape from the Kings. ”
Saint’s eyes go wild. “For real?”
At my nod, he outright belly laughs. “That’s fuckin’ precious.” He holds his arms over his stomach and adds, “The others are going to love this.”
“Where are they anyway?”
His mirth fades like a switch being thrown.
“Prez has got Tempest, Woody, Freak and Rattler out searching for any sign of the Mojave Devils in case they’re still around.
Winchester and Paint are back at the club nursing their wounds.
” More likely using alcohol to numb the pain, or perhaps that’s just me projecting my own thoughts onto them, as that’s what I’d give anything to do myself.
Somehow, I don’t think the hospital prescribes whisky.
Saint purses his lips. “He’s keeping the rest of the brothers back at the club, just in case the MDMC comes to the source. If they do, we’ll be ready for them.”
My brow furrows and my mouth tightens. For some reason, I’d expected the entire club to be hanging around the waiting room, anxious for news on my health. “It’s just you here?”
Saint snorts. “You’ve got your VP keeping you company. You only going to be satisfied if Bullseye comes here himself?”
Realising I’m being unreasonable, I sigh and shake my head. “Nah, you’re right. It’s imperative to protect the club.”
He dips and raises his chin. “Win and Paint walked us through what happened.” Splaying his legs, he rests his elbows on his knees and places his chin on his clasped hands. “If they really thought we’d offed their Skunk, they’d have double-tapped all three of you, seeing as they got the upper hand.”
I fidget awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry about that. Should have been more alert, but that ambush was perfectly planned.”
Saint waves a dismissive hand. “They must have had intelligence you’d be travelling that road.”
“They’ve got someone watching the club,” I surmise.
Lifting his chin, Saint shows his agreement. “Another reason to make Prez cautious if they’ve got eyes out front. Don’t want to risk anyone seeing the clubhouse left empty.”
Now I’m feeling like a real ass. Of course, they couldn’t all come to wait around for me. I’ll survive. I’m not a fuckin’ baby.
There’s a gentle knock on the door, which Saint had closed when he’d entered. Without waiting for a response, it opens, and the last person I expected to see appears. Saint shoots a sideways warning glance at me.
Bronwyn, Doc’s timid daughter, hesitates before taking more than one step into the room. Now she is one person I’m always happy to see, but I didn’t expect a visit from her.
“What you doing here, darlin’?” My voice takes on a softer tone than I’d used during my conversations with my VP.
“Working,” she states, then gestures to the scrubs she’s wearing, which I should have spotted immediately.
“Working?” I repeat as a question, before belatedly remembering she’s a trainee nurse.
She straightens slightly, a visible sign of pride, not so much the cowed woman who she is around her father.
“I’m in the third year of getting my registration.
At the moment, I’m on a surgical rotation.
I was in the theatre when you had your operation.
” She swallows and seems to shrink into herself.
“I hoped you wouldn’t mind me popping in to see how you’re doing. ”
“Of course, I don’t mind, sweetheart,” I reply fast, not missing Saint clearing his throat. When I look at him, I see the caution he’s trying to convey in his expression.
Pulling something out of the pocket of her scrubs, she holds it out for me to see. “I thought you’d like to have this, maybe keep it.” What she’s offering is an empty tobacco packet.
Completely bewildered why she’s giving something so strange to me, I chuckle softly. “Even if I could smoke, which the doc has just forbidden me to, there doesn’t seem to be much in there I could use.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “This empty packet saved your life. One of your brothers taped it over the hole in your chest. If he hadn’t done that, you probably wouldn’t have survived.”
“That was Paint,” Saint informs me. Then, seeing my eyes open wide, he adds quickly, “I was on the phone telling him what to do.” He chuckles, “But if you’re missing hairs on your chest, it’s because he used duct tape.”
Bronwyn smiles as well as she adds, “That was a bit of a devil to get off.”
I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.” As she passes it over, I examine the plastic I’m now holding. Such a simple thing, but apparently the reason I’m now able to breathe. “Thank you,” I tell her.
She seems to deflate now that her reason for being here is gone. Her hands flutter, then she says, “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” She nods at Saint, then backs out of the room.
“You owe Paint a replacement,” Saint tells me, after watching her leave. “He was pissed he had to throw away almost a whole pouch of tobacco to save your life.” Shrugging, he smirks. “Took him a full minute to decide whether it was worth making the sacrifice.”
“Glad he thought my life was worth more than a roll-up.” My attention isn’t on my VP. My eyes are drawn back to the door through which Bronwyn had left.
Saint notices everything and growls, “You know you can’t go there, Brother.”
“So you’ve already said,” I snap, then relent. “I hear you, VP. That slip of a girl is not for a man like me.”
We’ve had this conversation before. Bronwyn is twelve years my junior, she’s barely over five feet in height, and probably one hundred pounds soaking wet.
While I’m six foot seven, and the scale tells me I top out at two fifty.
Physically, we don’t make sense. Not only that, she’s an obvious virgin, clearly untouched, nervous around men, and under the thumb of her father, who just so happens to be the no-questions-asked doctor we have on speed dial.
A bullet wound? Well, he’ll dig it out and fix you up.
In fact, I’m the first example of anything he couldn’t make right by himself.
Not that he’s a hero. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.
The man we only ever refer to as Doc has been struck off the medical register for being over-handsy with his female patients.
Though no official charges stuck, the medical community was satisfied they had enough evidence to never let him practise again.
We pay him a handsome retainer for being at our beck and call.
Until Pippa, Saint’s old lady, came along, we’d had no firsthand experience of his roving hands.
But even that we had to turn a blind eye to.
Though he might have acted inappropriately, his value to the club topped all our misgivings and dislikes.
It was when he was saving Pippa’s life that I’d first seen Doc treating his daughter like an unpaid skivvy, barking his orders, and making her carry his heavy bags.
I’d seen her struggling and eased her of her burden, taking them out to her car.
Saint mistook that to mean I’d developed the wrong kind of interest in her.
He’d gotten it wrong. I’d be the worst type of man she could have in her corner.