Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
brONWYN
“Hi, Mom,” I greet as I walk in, sighing with relief when I toe off my shoes in the entryway.
My feet hurt like hell. I’ve had another long day in the surgical wing.
Being a student nurse means I’m rushed off my feet, at the beck and call of all the doctors and qualified nursing staff.
Today’s been particularly gruelling – a young boy knocked down by a hit and run.
We’d all been rooting for him, but his injuries were too much for even the senior consultant to fix.
I’d stood there, swab in my hand as he’d coded, watching the all too short life slowly seeping out of the kid’s eyes.
Failure is always hard to swallow, but to lose one so young is even harder.
And though I’d only had a minor role on the team, I had played my part, saving my angst and tears until I was alone.
All I want now is to escape to my room, put my feet up, chill out, and try to get the memory of the blood and gore out of my head.
Christ, that kid’s face was a mess. I hope he has a closed casket.
“Bronwyn,” Mom states with a frown as if she was expecting someone different. She goes to the stove and pulls a plate out. “Got a bolognese waiting for you. Don’t take too much spaghetti now. You’ve got to watch your carbs.”
The red mixture just reminds me of blood. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry right now—”
“Good to hear,” my dad barks, entering the room.
“No time for her to eat, Felicity. We’ve got to head out.
Need to check that biker out. The one who,” he lifts both hands and ducks two fingers on one hand down and raises them again, “managed to shoot and stab himself. Got bandages to change and wounds to check out.”
Twin emotions rush into me. Despair as I’m just too damn tired to cope with anything more tonight, tempered by the pleasure of getting a chance to see Short again.
Short, a biker, who is so wrong for me in so many ways.
For one, he lives on the wrong side of the law.
For another, he’s male, and I’m the girl who flinches away from any man’s touch.
But he’s always been kind to me, able to see through my father, who takes advantage of me in so many ways.
When Dad wanted me to carry his heavy bag, Short noticed and stepped in, taking that burden for himself.
Dad sees me as a minion, someone to do all the work while he gets the credit. The respect he’s apparently due, having worked hard to get alphabet letters after his name.
He forgets he’s no longer got the right to use them, having lost his licence for abuse of his female patients.
Something he continues to deny, even though I’ve witnessed it myself.
When the Kings of Anarchy called him in to help an unconscious woman they’d found, in full view of them, and me, his hands had started to roam toward her private parts when he was supposedly assessing a broken leg.
He just can’t help himself, and I’m glad he can no longer treat females every day.
I hate being a nurse. Never wanted to take this path in life.
Not that I don’t like helping people, but I wanted to make a difference in other ways.
Maybe as a teacher or in social services.
Blood and gore sicken me to my stomach – although being subjected to them over the last three years has steeled my stomach – but Dad had given me no choice.
Unable to practise himself, I was pushed to follow him in his shoes.
Not that I’d paid enough attention to my studies to become a doctor like him, but a nurse, yeah, that was something he thought I could do.
My dad isn’t allowed to treat real patients, but some people like the Kings of Anarchy don’t care about that, only about his medical skills. And it’s the hefty retainer they pay him that’s paved my way through school.
Dad thinks he owns me.
Only one more year to go. I’ve just turned twenty-two and have three years of studies under my belt. In less than twelve months, I’ll be a qualified registered nurse and will be able to strike out on my own. I’ll make use of my qualifications until I find something I prefer.
My fists clench at my sides. Pipe dreams. I’ll never be free of him.
He’s tied me tighter to him than anyone would be able to understand.
While I try to deny it, he really does own me.
And if he needs me to go to the bikers’ club and do all the work, while he stands back, to take both the credit and the hefty amount they pay him, then that’s what I’ll do with a smile and never a complaint.
“Get my bags and put them in the car.”
“Go on, Bronwyn, snap to it.” Mom’s words don’t surprise me. I don’t expect her to see I’m dead on my feet, let alone defend me.
“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” I murmur, as I walk back to the shoes I’d left by the door. My feet pinch as I slide into them, and I complain under my breath. “I just worked a twelve-hour shift.”
Unfortunately, Dad’s got ears like a bat. “If you want to be a qualified nurse, you have to pull yourself together and actually do some work. If I had a dollar for the number of times I’ve done a straight twenty-four hours without rest, I’d be a rich man now.”
I have to resist rolling my eyes. Dad never put himself out. He forgets I’m employed at the very same hospital that let him go, and yes, that connection has sometimes been hard. I’m just grateful I’ve been able to build my own reputation.
“Bronwyn?” he growls when I haven’t moved to obey him.
Weary, tired, completely wrung out, I know only too well the threat he holds over me. “Yes, Dad,” I answer meekly, and go to collect the bags he’s more than capable of carrying himself.
But perhaps, tonight, I’m not as annoyed as I otherwise would be.
I’m going to see Short. For some unknown reason, that excites me, but why, I’m not even sure.
Maybe it’s because he’s the only person who I think sees me, and not as an extension of the medical help provided by Dad.
Perhaps it’s because, for some reason with him, I feel safe.
“Don’t embarrass me,” Dad says as he starts the car. “And don’t talk to any of the bikers more than you have to. I need their patronage, even though I hate administering to criminals, but that’s the injustice in this world.”
Perhaps you wouldn’t have had to work for them if you’d kept your roaming hands and predilections to yourself, I think, as we head toward the clubhouse.
But that’s Dad, always blaming others and never himself.
It’s that he’d been caught that most upsets him, not the deeds he’s committed, for which he’s never shown any remorse.
As always, I wish I could escape from his orbit, but I can’t. I’m trapped.
We arrive at the clubhouse, the gates slide open and a biker waves us in.
Pompously, Dad steps out of the car and walks to the door, leaving me to trail behind, lugging his bags and his equipment.
There’s no need for half the stuff he’s brought.
He says it’s so he can be prepared, but I know it’s to make him look important.
“Take me to my patient,” he demands, the moment he’s inside.
He doesn’t get the respect he thinks he’s entitled to, even though he thinks he does.
I can tell every man here is in some way sneering at him, his past well known and going before him.
Saint, the VP, in particular, now the partner of the woman who Dad had tried to molest in front of their eyes and right here on their premises, looks the most unimpressed.
But they, too, have their hands tied. If not for a dismissed-in-disgrace doctor like my dad, who else would treat them when they got injured or shot, and going to a hospital was out of the question, as being criminals, they don’t want to attract the attention of the cops?
Nevertheless, it’s the VP who directs us to the room where their man in need of medical attention resides.
As I step in behind my dad, I take in the surroundings with interest. This isn’t some anonymous room for their injured. This is Short’s private residence. The evidence is all around.
The paintwork looks fresh and cared for, and pictures hang on the walls.
Some are of bikes, all Harleys if I’m not mistaken, and numerous photos of Short with members of his club.
I take a moment to soak in those where he’s smiling and happy, standing tall in the midst of his brothers.
They’re snaps of happy times, obviously, those he wants to remember.
Do I have any memories I’d like a reminder of? There’s none that I can think of.
Pulling my attention away from the photos, I cast a glance around the very bachelor looking room – a brown leather chair, a desk covered in paperwork, and a super-king-sized bed with masculine-coloured covers.
And there, in the middle, lies the man himself.
Even with his expression screaming fatigue and pain, he dominates his domain like the giant he is.
I’ve never met a man as tall as him, nor as muscular.
If he hadn’t been kind to me before, I’d be terrified.
He’s certainly not a person you’d want to meet in the proverbial dark alley on a dark night.
He’s a man you should run away from screaming.
Yet, when viewed against my dad, he’s the much more comforting individual.