Sarah #2
“I know.” Ripper's tone stayed calm. “But if she wants to walk, she walks.” Something about the way he said it made Sarah's throat tighten.
The nurse looked at Sarah. “You feel steady?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“Any dizziness?” the nurse asked.
“No,” Sarah said.
“Then okay. As long as someone is with you,” the nurse said.
“I’m with her.” Ripper's answer was immediate.
The nurse smiled. “I'll give you a few minutes.”
She left, and Sarah stared at him. “What?”
“You didn't even ask if I needed help,” she said.
“You said you could walk,” he reminded.
“What if I fall?” she asked.
“I'll catch you,” he offered.
“You sound very confident,” she said.
“I am,” he breathed with a shrug.
“And if I don't want you to catch me?” she asked.
“Then I'll let you hit the floor.” Sarah's mouth fell open, and Ripper grinned. “I'm kidding.”
“You're an asshole,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he agreed. He said it like he'd been waiting for her to call him an asshole again. Something warm moved through her, and Sarah hated that too—mostly.
She stood, and her knees felt weak. Ripper didn't move. He didn’t reach for her.
He just watched her. Sarah straightened and realized that she was fine.
She could do this. She took one step, then another before the room shifted.
Her hand shot toward the edge of the bed, and Ripper's body moved instinctively before he stopped in front of her. His hands stayed at his sides.
“Can I?” he asked.
Sarah knew what he meant and nodded. “Yes.” His hand closed around her forearm—careful, steady, and warm. He wasn’t trapping her, but supporting her. The contact sent a strange jolt through her. It wasn’t fear, and that was the shocking part.
Ripper looked down at her. “You good?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Are you lying?” he asked.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted.
“Thought so,” he said. Sarah rolled her eyes, but she didn't pull away. They walked slowly down the hallway. Ripper carried the pink bag over one shoulder. It looked ridiculous on him, but it made her smile.
“What?” he asked.
“That bag really clashes with your whole serial-killer-biker aesthetic,” she teased.
“I'm not a serial killer,” he said.
“Good to know,” she breathed.
“Serial implies a pattern,” he insisted. Sarah stopped walking, and Ripper looked at her, and then she burst out laughing. She couldn't help it.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she agreed.
“You're still laughing,” he pointed out.
“That doesn't make it okay,” she insisted.
“Kinda does,” he said. By the time they reached the elevator, Sarah's chest didn't feel as tight. The doors opened, and she saw three men standing inside. Sarah froze. They were just two visitors and one orderly, but it didn’t matter.
Three men in a small space were a hard no for her.
Her hand tightened around Ripper's arm. He looked at the elevator and then at her.
“You want to take the stairs?” he asked.
Sarah blinked up at him. “We're on the fourth floor.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “We are.”
“That's insane,” she insisted. “We can’t take the stairs.”
“It’s probably insane, but it’s doable,” he said.
“You're carrying my bag,” she insisted.
“Unfortunately.” She glanced toward the elevator again and saw the men inside waiting for them to decide to get on or off. One looked annoyed, and Sarah's breathing changed. Ripper stepped between her and the elevator. He wasn’t blocking her, but he was blocking them.
“Stairs, sweetheart,” Ripper said.
She nodded. “Okay.” They slowly took the stairs.
It took forever. By the second floor, Sarah was breathing hard, and by the first, her legs felt like jelly.
Ripper never rushed her. He never complained or suggested that he carry her.
He just stayed one step below her—close enough to catch her if he needed to, but not too close.
When they reached the lobby, Sarah wanted to cry from relief. Instead, she smiled. “I did it.”
Ripper looked at her. “Yeah.” Something in his expression made the moment feel bigger, and Sarah had to look away. Outside, the afternoon sun hit her face, and she stopped to breathe in the fresh air. There were no bars, no locked doors, and no man telling her when she could go outside.
Her eyes burned. “Sarah?”
She closed them. “Give me a second.”
“Take ten,” he said. She breathed as cars passed, a helicopter moved somewhere in the distance, and people crossed the parking lot. Everyone was going about their normal lives. It had continued while hers disappeared, and that realization hurt more than it should have.
“I used to complain about parking here.”
Ripper stayed beside her. “What?”
“Before.” She opened her eyes. “I had to come here once when Harlow's mother—”
She stopped and shook her head. “It doesn't matter.” Ripper didn't push. “I used to hate this parking lot.”
He looked around. “Still shitty.”
Sarah laughed softly. “Yeah.” His truck was parked near the curb. It was black and big enough to intimidate every normal-sized vehicle around it. “You overcompensating for something?” she teased. Ripper stopped, and Sarah immediately regretted it. Then he slowly looked at her.
“Feeling brave today?” he asked.
Her face heated. “I walked down four flights of stairs.”
“That’s fair.” He opened the passenger door, and Sarah stared at it. It was high—very high. Ripper followed her gaze. “Need help?”
“I can do it,” she insisted.
“Okay,” he breathed. She grabbed the handle and put one foot on the running board and pulled, but nothing happened. Her muscles were pathetic. Sarah tried again, and Ripper said nothing, which somehow made it worse.
“Don't,” she breathed.
“Didn't say shit,” he said.
“You're thinking it,” she said.
“What am I thinking?” he asked.
“That I need help,” she guessed.
“You do need help,” he said. She glared at him, and Ripper shrugged. “You want me to lie?”
Sarah sighed. “No.”
“Can I help?” he asked. She hated needing to answer him. She hated needing help. She hated all of this. But then, she remembered what he'd said upstairs about her having a choice.
“Yes, I could use some help,” she admitted. Ripper slowly moved closer.
“Waist okay?” he asked. Her stomach flipped. Not from fear. Jesus.
She swallowed. “Yes.” His hands settled carefully at her waist—large and warm as he easily lifted her into the truck, like she weighed nothing.
Sarah grabbed his shoulders, and for one second, they were too close.
His face was inches from hers, and all she could do was focus on his dark eyes and beard.
The faint smell of leather and smoke hung in the air between them, with something warmer beneath it.
Her heart skipped, and Ripper noticed. Of course he fucking noticed.
His hands immediately released her once she was seated.
“You good?” he asked.
Sarah looked away. “Yes.” Liar.
“Seat belt,” he said.
“I know how cars work,” she drawled.
“Wasn't sure,” he teased.
“Asshole.” He shut the door, smiling. Sarah watched him walk around the truck with his broad shoulders, dark hair, and confident stride. He looked like trouble—absolute fucking trouble.
He climbed behind the wheel. “Ready?” Sarah looked through the windshield.
The hospital stood behind them. The clubhouse was somewhere ahead, but to her it was just another place she'd never seen, with another room, another bed, and another set of men.
Her fingers curled against her thigh. Ripper didn't start the truck, and Sarah looked at him.
“Why aren’t we going?” she asked.
“We don't have to go yet,” he insisted.
“You said we’re going to the clubhouse,” she reminded.
“It will still be there in ten minutes,” he assured. “We can just sit here.”
Sarah stared at him. “You'd just sit here?”
“Yep,” he breathed.
“For how long?” she asked.
“As long as you need,” he assured.
Her throat tightened as she looked through the windshield again. “No.” Ripper waited as Sarah took a deep breath in and released it. “Let's go.”
“You sure?” he asked.
She almost smiled. “Yes.” He started the truck, and she took another deep breath.
This time, she didn’t let it out. Sarah had a feeling that she was going to be doing that a lot now—holding her breath, waiting for the next bad thing to happen to her.
But somehow, having Ripper by her side made her feel a little more at ease, which was crazy, because how could the big, bad biker help ease any of her pain?
The Savage Bastards clubhouse looked exactly like Sarah had expected it to, which was not reassuring.
There were motorcycles, big metal buildings, men in leather cuts, and a high fence around the property.
Her stomach twisted the second Ripper turned into the drive.
A prospect opened the gate, and Sarah's pulse jumped.
Ripper noticed her staring at the gate. “You want it left open?”
“What?” she asked.
“The gate—do you want it left open?” he asked.
“You can do that?” she questioned.
He shrugged. “For a few minutes,” he said.
“Won't Butcher be mad?” she asked.
“Probably,” he said. Sarah looked at him, and Ripper rolled down the window. “Leave it open.”
The prospect frowned. “Prez said—”
“Leave it open,” Ripper ordered again.
The younger man glanced at Sarah and understanding crossed his face. “Yeah. Okay.”
Sarah swallowed. “You didn't have to.”
“I know that,” he said. The truck continued toward the clubhouse. There were maybe six motorcycles outside, two trucks, and a handful of men—but that was still too many. Ripper parked away from the main entrance, and Sarah stayed seated. He turned off the engine, but didn’t move.
“You've got options.”
Her eyes stayed on the building. “Like what?” she asked.
“We go inside,” he offered.
“Obviously, that’s my only option,” she grumbled.
“We sit here,” he said.
“Okay, but we can’t do that forever,” she insisted.
“We can leave,” he said.
Sarah finally looked at him. “And go where?”
“Anywhere,” he said.
“That's not an answer,” she insisted.
“We can go to Wade's bar,” he offered.