Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
brONWYN
Short asked whether my father’s taking advantage of me. I suppose it was apparent. This is far from the first time I’ve treated one of the bikers, and my father’s done nothing but address me with disdain, standing back and watching me do the things he could easily do himself.
Of course, he’s making all the mileage he can from me being a nurse.
It’s not even my choice of career, but the only one he would pay the tuition for.
While I wasn’t eager to pursue the course he wanted, I didn’t object.
I was so desperate to get out of that oppressive house, even if it was just to spend some hours in college, and later, the hospital.
From my birth, my father’s controlled every aspect of my life.
You might wonder where my mom stands in this.
Well, she’s behind him all the way. It’s not just me that my father exerts his dominance over.
It’s her as well. From the time I was old enough to be conscious of my surroundings, I learned to copy her behaviour, to try to be seen and not heard, to not draw attention to myself. If I misbehaved, I was punished.
It’s her side of the family where I probably get my meekness from, my desire to please, to not challenge authority, and, where I can, the talent to fade into the background and make myself invisible. Or maybe it wasn’t learned, but beaten into me.
I don’t love my father. I fear him. My mother? I can’t even respect her. To keep the peace, or the fists away, she goes along with everything he says or does, or turns a blind eye if it suits her better.
“Bronwyn?”
Short’s cautious, enquiring tone brings me back to myself as I realise I’ve been standing here holding a clean bandage while lost in my head.
Returning to my duties, I put the thoughts of my dysfunctional family out of my head and concentrate on my task. Within moments, I have Short’s leg wrapped neatly. Then, wishing I could get out of here, I turn my attention to the dressing on his chest.
Forcing myself to act professionally, I remove the gauze and tape, clean the wound, then apply a fresh patch, fastening it firmly.
Disappearing into his en suite bathroom, I strip off my latex gloves, toss them in the trash, then wash my hands thoroughly before returning to his room. Keeping my eyes away from the man in the bed, I start gathering up the supplies I hadn’t used and put them away.
His sitting up surprises me, as does the firm grip of his hand on my arm. “Bron, I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” I say sharply, ignoring the way his touch makes my heart race. I try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me go. Strangely, I don’t feel trapped or fearful, even though I’m alone in the bedroom of a huge man I barely know.
A glance at his face shows his eyes have softened.
“I was brought up by a controlling and abusive man,” he confides.
“It continued until I was big enough to fight back.” His gaze rolls over me, but not in an uncomfortable or sexual way.
It’s more assessing. “I’m guessing, for a slip of a girl like you, it might be harder to get away.
” Just as I’m going to tell him he doesn’t understand the situation I’m in, he continues, “I’m going to offer you something I never had back then.
” He pauses, takes a breath, then states, “A friend who you can talk to. I promise you, Bron, nothing you say will shock me.”
Taken aback by his offer, and not knowing how to respond, I brush it off by telling him breezily, “I don’t have time to chat now. I’m due at the hospital.”
He lifts his hand away, and weirdly, I feel bereft at the loss of his touch. “The offer’s there. Take it or leave it. I won’t bring it up again. But if you want to talk, then just tell me. The ball’s in your court.”
Grateful he’s not going to push further, and is leaving any decision about continuing this disturbing conversation to me, I raise my head toward him, giving a quick up and down jerk to show I’ve acknowledged his words. Then I pick up my bag and leave.
Practically running, I rush down the stairs, into the clubroom, which had been empty when I arrived, but which now seems overflowing with bodies. My stomping, due to my fast pace, gets attention. Coffee cups paused midway to mouths tell me I must have interrupted their breakfast.
I just want to get out of here, so I don’t stop, or not until someone steps in my path. “You alright, Bronwyn?” Saint growls, casting a look behind me as if he expects to see Short chasing me down the stairs.
Breathing fast, I respond, “I’m going to be late to work.”
He stays in my path, and I’m too chicken to try to skirt around the VP of the club. “Short behaving himself?” he asks, his lips pursing.
“What?” Short had been the perfect gentleman. Quickly, I shake my head. “Short’s fine. His wounds are healing well. I’m sorry, but I do have to get to the hospital.”
His eyes pierce me as they stare into mine.
Oh hell, he thinks Short’s done something to upset me.
I don’t want to cause trouble in the club.
“Please, I really will be late if I don’t go now.
” I shift from side to side while realising the action might suggest the “go” I refer to might have something to do with my bladder. My face flames brighter.
But luckily, after one more assessing look, Saint steps to one side, jerks his head, and calls out, “Clear a path, Brothers. Lady’s in a hurry.”
Sparing him a thankful glance, I make my exit from the clubhouse, keeping my head down and avoiding meeting anyone else’s eyes.
Once outside, I toss my bag into the back of my car and head toward the gate, which the prospect has already opened for me. Steadying my shaking hands, I force myself to drive carefully until I’m out on the highway, then I pull over into the first rest area and place my head in my hands.
I can spare the time. I’m not due at work for an hour, but I suspect I’ll need most of those sixty minutes to pull myself together.
Short knows. Or at least is close to putting two and two together.
I can only be glad he’s nowhere near the extra detail that will bring his addition up to five.
Though I hadn’t said anything or intimated the real relationship between me and my father, Short’s cottoned on to there being something very wrong.
I didn’t know how to react to him telling me his own sad story, which, I have to admit, does bear similarities to mine. All I felt was fear that his suspicions might get back to my father, who’d blame me for talking out of turn.
That it was Dad’s behaviour toward me, which gave Short grounds for his conjecture, would never be recognised. Dad would never admit he’d done anything wrong, and if Short confronted him, it would be me paying the price.
Huffing a strangled laugh, I recall how Short got away from his father. In that moment, I’d wished I were a man, able to use my strength and fists to escape my abuser. But I’m not. I’m just as my dad has so often told me, a weak and useless good-for-nothing who can’t stand up to anyone.
Banging my fist on my steering wheel, I berate myself for having a dad who refuses to carry the shame of his misdemeanours, who blames everyone else for finding out.
Who derides the women who reported him and his ex-colleagues at the hospital for conducting an investigation.
He’s never been thankful that all he got was dismissal, and that he didn’t end up where he should have, serving time.
Does it reflect on me? You can bet it does.
I’ve had to live with the whispers, the suspicion of people wondering whether, as the fruit of his loins, I haven’t fallen far from the tree.
Being so fucking weak, instead of calling them out on it, I suffered in silence, trying to prove by my actions that I afford all my patients the utmost dignity, young or old, and whatever gender they are.
It’s taken three years, but while some of the diehards can still be prone to making comments about the man who spawned me in my hearing, most of my colleagues tend to forget the relationship and how I’m related to the man who committed such heinous crimes.
The man who abused the trust his patients put in him.
Suddenly, I realise the time, and that the excuse I’d given Saint is coming true.
I’ll be late for real if I don’t get a move on.
Wiping away the tears I hadn’t realised were falling, I start the engine, put my car into drive, and continue the journey to the hospital.
I try to force to the back of my mind my worries about what Short might say to my dad the next time he sees him.
Although he’d only speak to him with the best of intentions, anything he said would result in making my life worse.
And it’s a life I’m stuck in. There’s no escape for me. The worst of it is that there are reasons Short can’t know, and wouldn’t even be able to guess at.