Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHORT
Fuck! Freak took more delight than he should have when he punched me in the face, then roughly pushed my cheek into the gravel, tearing skin and letting the small stones abrade it, embedding a fuck load of dirt into my wounds.
He said he needed to make it look authentic to Doc, but I could tell the sadistic bastard was enjoying himself.
The only saving grace of this situation is that if anything, Bronwyn’s looking even worse than she did last night.
Those black eyes are coming out in force, which confirms we were right to come check up on her, as did Doc’s brush-off explanation.
I didn’t believe for a moment she’d fallen.
He’s also shown no sympathy for her injuries, which surely a decent father should do.
Even a man who uses his daughter as his own personal skivvy should have some compassion for her existence?
Though what do I know? My only experience was with a shitty excuse for a dad.
Bron told me one thing, Doc another, and I know exactly who I find the more believable. It’s not the one who, after a loud huff, gestures to his daughter.
“Clean him up,” he instructs.
Yeah, no fucking compassion at all. A blind man would be able to see she’s still hurting, even if she’s making an effort to appear normal. Her swollen eyes cause her to squint as she gets out some antiseptic wipes.
“Your daughter’s more in need of doctoring herself, rather than treating Short,” Bullseye suddenly says in a loud, clear voice. His brow draws down in a look of total disgust directed toward Doc. “So why don’t you do what we pay you to do?”
“Bronwyn’s a nurse,” he snaps. “Cleaning wounds is more in her lane than mine.” Doc, his face pinched, draws himself up, as though challenging Prez.
“Don’t doubt it,” Bullseye drawls. “Bet she’s better at it too. But right now, her eyes are almost swollen shut, and her hands are shaking.” He turns his attention to Bronwyn. “Did you hit your head when you fell, sweetheart?”
Bronwyn stands like a deer caught in the headlights, wipes held close. Her hands flick to her father as if seeking guidance on what to do.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Doc steps forward, wrenches the wipes out of her hands, and applies them to my face with far more force than necessary.
As I hold in my exclamation, I wince at the bite of pain. I’d far rather have Bronwyn’s gentle hands on me, but as she’s hurting, I’ll put up with Doc.
Doc wipes away the blood, then, with a huff, delves into his medical bag and comes out with a pair of tweezers.
Without much care, he removes, I assume, every trace of the gravel embedded in my face.
When he finishes, he literally slaps some antiseptic cream on my poor road-rash-ravaged, and now raw, thanks to him, face.
A hamburger ready for the grill probably looks better than I do.
It’s for Bronwyn, I remind myself. My face will heal. But if Doc keeps putting his hands on her, she might end up worse. I want to make him understand that he’s never going to lay hands on her again.
Doc roughly cleans the blood from my nose and pinches it between his fingers. Christ! If it were broken, I’d be screaming. As it is, I grind my nails into my palms to keep myself from vocally protesting his actions. Finally, he lifts my eyelids and shines a torch into my eyes.
“No sign of concussion. Your nose isn’t broken, and it’s already stopped bleeding,” Doc pronounces. “You can get off my table now,” he directs toward me. Then to Bullseye, he rasps, “And all you bikers can get out of my house. I’ll drop my bill at the clubhouse next time I pass.”
While I sit up, swing my legs round, and ease myself off the table, Bullseye makes no move toward the door. Instead, he kicks out a chair, sits his ass down, then beckons to me, Freak, and Tempest to do the same. His eyes gentle as they fix on Bronwyn. “Take a seat, yourself, darlin’.”
Doc’s upper lip curls. “I believe I asked you to leave.”
“Now, that’s just not neighbourly,” Prez drawls. “I would expect with the retainer we pay you, the least you can do is make us a cup of coffee.”
A sound comes from Doc’s throat that suspiciously resembles a growl. But Bullseye keeps his eyes solidly trained on him.
Obviously, concluding the best way of getting us to leave is to pander to Prez’s whim, he gestures to Bronwyn. “Get them coffee,” he demands.
“Nah, sweetheart.” Curling his leg around the vacant chair next to him, Prez eases it away from the table. “You sit down, and rest yourself.”
“You expect me to serve you?” Doc’s brows have risen to his hairline.
“I’d say you’re probably compensated by the amount we pay you.
Short needs a moment to gather himself after your treatment of him.
” At least Prez saw how rough he’d been.
“And,” Bullseye adds, his eyes narrowing, “if you haven’t noticed, your daughter looks dead on her feet.
Looks like she could also do with some pampering. ”
Doc’s mouth opens and closes, but my focus is on Bronwyn. She hasn’t taken the seat Prez offered. My brow furrows. Fuck it, she looks scared.
She’s more frightened of her father than an MC prez who could wreak havoc on her family if he so desired. She ignores Bullseye and instead steps up to her father. “You sit, visit with your friends. I’ll make coffee for all of us.”
Uh uh. Prez’s request was more like an order.
He’s not happy that he’s been disobeyed.
But as Doc rolls his eyes and approaches the table, someone enters the room.
A very small someone, who I immediately assume is the brother Bron had spoken about.
She’d told me he was eight, but he appears a skinny kid, and if I hadn’t known his age, I’d have taken him for younger.
Doc senses his arrival, swings around fast, and hisses, “Get out of here, Trip.”
Intrigued to meet Bronwyn’s brother, I study him. He seems completely oblivious to the strange men sitting around the kitchen table. His reaction to his father’s voice is interesting. His face is blank and expressionless, and instead of jumping to his father’s demand, he stays rooted to the spot.
“It’s alright, Trip,” Bronwyn says softly.
“For heaven's sake.” Doc moves to the door, disappears from sight, then we hear him call loudly, “Felicity? Get your ass down here, Trip’s playing up.” He clearly gets no reply, and his feet stomping up the stairs can be heard clearly.
Playing up? All the poor boy did was enter the room.
“Hey, kid.” It’s actually Freak who tries to get his attention, but then again, he’s the only one experienced with children. “You not in school? Are you homeschooled?” When the boy doesn’t respond, he tries again. “Trip, isn’t it? Hey, that’s a cool name.”
Bronwyn moves fast, leaving the coffee she was making. She crouches down, and her arm hovers as though she wants to put her arm around the child, but doesn’t want to touch him. I frown. Her face, even battered, shows an obvious care for the boy, but the lack of physical comfort seems off.
In a gentle voice, she tells him, “Trip, why don’t you go to your playroom? I’ll be there in a moment.” Still, the boy doesn’t move.
Bron looks toward us anxiously. Her hand waves toward the coffee, then at her brother. “Do you mind if…?”
Before she can finish her question, Bullseye leans over the table. “Fuck no, our need for coffee is less than your need to look after your brother.”
Mouthing, thank you, she calls Trip’s name, eventually gets his attention, and ushers him out of the kitchen.
Tempest snorts as they disappear from sight. “Guess that explains why Doc never talks about having a son. Fucker is retarded.”
Surprisingly, it’s Freak who rounds on him.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth. Kid looks like he’s non-verbal.
Ace was slow to start using his words, too.
I reckon he has to be on the spectrum. And you know what?
So is my son. With him, it shows in his advanced intelligence, though he sometimes lacks basic common sense.
Hits all kids differently, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less than anyone else. ”
Tempest lifts his hands defensively in the air. “Sorry, Brother. I didn’t know.”
“Well, you do now.” Freak doesn’t sound appeased.
Doc’s voice can be heard in the hallway, as can his wife’s. But he’s the only one to enter. Red veins are prominent on his face, and he’s breathing heavily as though he’s just run a mile.
“You still here?” His words are clipped.
Bullseye, having vacated his chair, leans back against the sink with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes had followed Trip as he left, like he was trying to solve a conundrum. It takes a moment for his attention to come back to the kid’s father. “Didn’t know you had a son,” he says, casually.
If anything, the colour on Doc’s face deepens, and his jaw clenches. He’s frozen for a moment, then he snarls out, “I provide medical services to your club. We’re not best buddies. My family life is none of your concern.”
Off-handedly, Tempest remarks, “Nice kid.” His eyes are fixed on Freak’s, his words obviously offered as a gesture to suggest he’s learned his lesson.
Making an abrupt turn, Doc takes a pace toward Tempest and leers into his face. “Don’t be fucking sarcastic. Kid’s a disgrace. He’s a fucking moron.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bullseye’s arm shoot out to pin Freak in place. Before the enforcer can comment, he gets in first, “I’m not sure I like your tone.”
Honestly, Doc looks like his head’s about to explode.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead from an aneurysm on the spot.
Fuck knows what his blood pressure would measure at.
His mouth opens and closes until he finally chooses the words, and when he does, he spits them out.
“You’re in my house. You weren’t invited. My family is none of your business.”
“Well, they kind of are,” Bullseye refutes. Pointedly, he looks around the room before he continues, “Seeing as what we give you pays for the upkeep of this house.”
I have to turn away to hide the smile on my face.
Prez has backed Doc into a corner. He’s not got the high ground.
Sure, he could tell us to fuck off, and he won’t work for us anymore, but where else will he find a steady income from people who ask no questions about his past?
He’d be killing his golden goose if he told us to fuck off.
Doc’s fucked and he knows it.
Taking pity on him, Bullseye pulls himself up straight. “Well, seeing as it’s unlikely we’re getting that coffee, we’ll be off.” It’s hard not to miss the look of relief on Doc’s face.
We’re just going? Without having accomplished anything except to wind Doc up? I’m scared he might take his anger out on the people weaker than him, namely his daughter, and possibly even his son and wife.
But Bullseye hasn’t quite finished. He starts to head for the door, then stops and addresses Doc straight to his face.
“I hope Bronwyn doesn’t have any more accidents.
If she does, we’ve got brothers with the skills to check out how to make this house safe.
” He pauses and employs that stare, the one that normally makes any recipient shiver.
Doc blanches, as Bullseye adds, “Brothers who know how to remove any dangerous objects in it.”
Fuck yeah. Now that’s what I’m talking about. I’m fucking proud to call Bullseye my prez. Who else could offer such an obvious threat disguised as assistance?
From the expression on his face, Doc hasn’t missed it.