Chapter Seven
Colter
“No shit,” Raff said with a laugh from behind me.
If he hadn’t spoken, I was pretty sure the woman and I would have stood there staring at each other forever.
There was the surprise of it all, sure.
But, fuck, she was even more beautiful in person.
Her dark hair was down this time, but with the sun shining down, it lit the strands of gold. I’d been right about her eyes. Dark. Brown. I could get lost in them for days.
She was dressed in black again. Black jeans and the same black leather jacket with a black bra under a mostly see-through black mesh shirt.
She smelled good too. Like coconut and pineapple.
“Are you on an IV?” she asked.
Damn.
I hadn’t expected that voice, either.
It had a slight huskiness to it. Sexy and sultry without even trying to be.
“Crazy thing,” Raff said. “Someone tried to kill us the other night.”
“Really? Imagine that,” she said.
“Then, crazier still, some hot chick with a sexy gun put a plug in one of those guys.”
“Wow. How generous of her,” the woman said.
“It would be rude of us not to let her in and offer her a drink,” Raff said, nodding.
He was already reaching for his phone, likely shooting off a text to Slash.
“Did I hear… oh,” Saint said, coming to a stop halfway into the room. His gaze zeroed in on the woman’s face, likely taking in the dark hair, eyes, cleft chin, and body I’d described. “Is that…”
“Yeah,” I said, finally taking a step back in a silent invitation.
Saint, more used to being a leader than the rest of us, strode forward and offered his hand to the woman.
“Saint Courtland,” he introduced himself. “That over there is Raff,” he said, gesturing. “And this is Colter.”
“Dylan,” she introduced herself. “And Sugar,” she said, gesturing down to the dog when Saint’s gaze slid there.
“This is Cat,” he said, waving toward the gray and white cat with the big blue eyes. “He hates women. I wouldn’t get too close.”
“How is he with dogs?” she asked, pulling her chocolate lab closer.
“He tolerates them if they’re not too pushy.”
She loosened the hold on the leash.
“Are you in charge here?” she asked Saint.
It was an easy assumption to make. Because back before he went to prison to save his brother the same fate, Saint had run his own operation for years. He still carried himself the way a boss might.
“I’m not,” Saint said. “But if I’m reading it right, Slash should be here any second. Can I get you something to drink? Eat? A bone for the dog?”
“No, we’re good.”
Her head turned, hearing the rumble of bikes suddenly making their way through Shady Valley and toward the clubhouse.
“Well, this is awkward,” Raff announced as the air seemed to grow thick.
I couldn’t force my gaze away from Dylan’s profile as she looked around the clubhouse, taking everything in.
Luckily for everyone, the bikes rumbled into the lot, and within a minute, the door burst open, and Slash, Detroit, Rook, and Sway made their way inside.
Sway looked Dylan up and down. “That was a good description,” he declared, nodding at me.
“So, you’re the president,” Dylan said, zeroing in on Slash. Either because he had the same leadership carriage as Saint. Or simply because his road name matched the scars on his face.
“So, you’re the woman who saved Colter’s life,” Slash responded.
“That’s why I’m here,” Dylan agreed.
“To shake me down?”
“To propose a… partnership,” Dylan said.
“Slash, this is Dylan. Dylan, Slash,” Saint made the introductions. “And Sugar.”
“Alright, with that outta the way,” Slash said, “what kind of partnership are you proposing?”
“Well, it seems like we have a common enemy now,” Dylan said.
“Roach,” Slash said. “Rodney Harris.”
To that, Dylan let out a snort of a laugh. “Roach suits him better.”
“So you know him.”
“More than you do,” Dylan said. “I was working on getting to know more when your guys made me blow my cover. Now they’re onto me.”
“You good?” Slash asked, his gaze tracking up and down her, looking for injuries.
“Thankfully, we were out for a walk when they showed up.”
Slash nodded at that.
“So, Roach knows who you are.”
“Oh, he definitely knows who I am. He stole my club from me.”
Club?
My gaze shot to the leather jacket she was wearing.
Old. Well-worn. Maybe her boyfriend’s. More likely, though, her father’s.
“My club. My clubhouse. My money.”
“Your men?”
Pain sliced across her face at that.
Before she spoke, she took a breath so deep that her chest shook with it.
“I had an all-female club,” she explained. “After my old man died, that was the choice I made. A sisterhood.”
All women.
My gaze went to my club brothers, seeing the mix of understanding and horror on all their faces. Because we knew what Roach’s history was. Pimping. It wasn’t even a stretch to assume that Dylan’s former club sisters found themselves in Roach’s stable.
The bastard.
I kind of wished we’d taken them all out when we had the chance.
“So this is personal,” Slash said.
“It doesn’t get more personal.”
“Can I ask why your girls stayed? I’m assuming if they were being chained in a basement, you would have called the cops on them.”
“I tried calling the cops. That was my clubhouse. But he had some bullshit paperwork for the club they claim I signed. And the girls… the girls said they were there willingly.”
“He got ‘em hooked on something,” Slash said.
“That’s my guess. I saw one of them once on a street corner. I tried to get her to come with me, to get her the help she needed. She screamed, and one of the guys came running. I had to book it.”
“Sucks,” Slash said. “So, he needs to pay.”
“They all do.”
“And by pay, you mean—”
“The ground around the clubhouse will be very fertile in the coming years.”
“Dark,” Raff said. “I like it.”
“So, you figured we might want to team up to take them down. You, with your knowledge, us with our numbers,” Slash guessed.
“Exactly. I think we would make a good team.”
“What makes you think we want to go after them?”
“If you don’t, then I think I underestimated your club. Because if I hadn’t been following Roach that night, you would be down one of your men. Though, I’m not sure what he’s worth to you,” she said, her gaze flicking to me.
If anyone was looking more casually, they would have just seen indifference. But I was watching closely. I saw the tightness around her eyes that said she was not as calm and collected as she seemed. That she was, quite possibly, anxious about the whole situation.
And why wouldn’t she be?
Not only had she killed a man, but she’d been tracked down by the very men who stole everything that belonged to her, then rounded her girls up and forced them into prostitution. On top of that, she was one woman in a clubhouse full of unfamiliar men.
She had a lot on the line.
And she was holding her own.
It was impressive.
“I mean, Colter’s gotta be worth a finger or two, right?” Raff asked. “Someone’s gotta lose a whole head for what they did to my sexy-ass thigh, though.”
“Is it impossible for you to be serious?” Slash asked, shaking his head.
“Hey, you had the option to shove me up in my bedroom. You chose to have me out here.”
“Dylan, we should—”
Slash was interrupted by a knock on the door.
He cast a look around and got a shrug from Raff. “Probably time to get my wound dressing changed.”
Sway walked to the door, glancing out the window beside it. “He’s right. It’s Dr. Price,” he said, opening the door to let him in.
“I came to check on my patient,” he said as he came in with his leather medicine bag.
Not many doctors did house calls anymore.
It was one of the perks of a small town.
Something a lot of us were worried we might lose as the developers got their plans approved and broke ground.
Though, I figured the club would always be able to entice Dr. Price to visit as our own personal concierge doctor.
Money talked. Not even good men like the town doctor were immune to the appeal.
“Doc. Good. I’m going crazy over here,” Raff said, throwing his arms out.
“It’s only been, what, two days?” Dr. Price asked, shaking his head. “I think you can manage to stay down for another ten.”
Conversation stalled as Slash and the others made their way over toward the kitchen to look more natural.
“I need to thank you,” I said when we were standing there alone. “I had no idea there was someone behind me.”
“He crept up while you were knocking the other guy out.”
“Did you know him?”
“I knew of him. His road name was Blade.” A snort escaped me at that. “Yeah, I know,” she said.
“What’s your road name?”
“I think forced road names are ridiculous,” she said. “It’s one thing to have a nickname that you go by. But just choosing a name for yourself? Lame. I’m assuming Colter isn’t a road name.”
“I was born in the backseat of a car on the way to the hospital, so in a way…”
“Your president has a road name.”
“Well, for obvious reasons. Raff is a nickname from when he and his brothers were kids. Riff and Raff.”
“Like who let the riff-raff in.”
“Exactly.”
“How’s he doing? I didn’t see what happened to him, but I heard him cry out when it happened.”
“He was stabbed. Fucker dug in and pulled up. We barely made it home.”
“He seems to be in good spirits.”
“He’s got a revolving door of women dressed in nurse costumes coming to dote on him.”
“Scrubs or slutty Halloween costumes?”
“What do you think?” I asked, making her shake her head. “Bikers and their club girls,” she said.
“Does it work the opposite way?” I asked.
“You mean did we have hot, muscular guys walking around in thongs, feeding us grapes and rubbing our feet? Shit. Lost opportunity…”
A surprised huff of a laugh escaped me at that.
“So no.”
“I think for most of us, the safety of a sisterhood was kind of the point. We didn’t want to invite men into that space.”
“Which makes how shit turned out especially rough.”
“Yeah,” she said, exhaling hard.
“Whoa, you okay?” I asked when she wobbled on her feet.
“I… yeah,” she said, touching her forehead, where she was starting to sweat. She looked pale too.
“You sure?” I asked.
She was trembling lightly.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she insisted, her hand sliding to her heart as the dog at her feet started to whine and nudge her.
“Hey, Doc?” I called, reaching out to press a hand to Dylan’s lower back. “Got a sec?”
“I’m fine,” Dylan said again, but she sounded less sure.
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”
Dr. Price stood, turning with a concerned look on his face. His gaze moved over Dylan, then down to the dog who was nudging her.
“Your dog is alerting you,” he said.
My gaze slipped down, seeing the kind of frantic look on the dog’s face, like she was worried that her human wasn’t listening to her.
“Colter, get her on the couch,” he demanded.
“I’m just a little low,” Dylan said, but she moved along with me as I led her to the couch.
“Your sugar?” Dr. Price asked, moving in front of her, reaching out for her wrist to check her pulse.
“Yeah.”
“When’s the last time you tested your sugar?”
Sugar?
She was diabetic?
“Last night.”
“Last night?” Dr. Price asked, his tone a little sharp.
I didn’t know anything about managing diabetes, how often you needed to test. But, clearly, she was not doing it often enough.
“I’ve been careful not to eat carbs. I’m out of insulin,” she admitted. Then her gaze flicked up to me, “they took it all.”
Christ.
That was a real dick move.
Who steals someone else’s medicine?
Well, I guess the kind of men who would kill or force women into prostitution.
“Well, we can fix that,” Dr. Price said, reaching into his kit. “Do you not have a continuous monitor?”
“No. I have… Sugar,” she said, patting the head of the dog who was still letting out pathetic little whimpers.
“Okay. Let’s test you then,” he said, pulling out a little kit.
He spread it out, opening an alcohol wipe and cleaning Dylan’s finger.
“I can do it,” she insisted.
“I’m sure you can,” Dr. Price agreed, reaching for a little blue plastic thing and shoving it into something pen-shaped.
He pressed it to her finger and hit a plunger.
The way Dylan inhaled was the only sign that anything happened.
When he came away, a bead of blood was on her finger. From there, Dr. Price gathered up the blood and checked it with the monitor.
“Can someone make her some juice or candy? Even a soda would work, but not diet.”
Slash came over with some orange juice.
“Thanks,” Dylan said, her voice small as she took it.
She wouldn’t look at anyone, making me think that she was embarrassed about the whole situation. It was stupid. But I could understand. She was used to being in charge, in control. No biker president wanted to seem weak or reliant on anyone. Especially strangers.
She sipped her orange juice while Dr. Price started to ask her questions about her medications and insurance.
“I’ll pay out of pocket,” she said when he reached for his prescription pad. “Is there a pharmacy in town?”
“In the grocery store,” Dr. Price said. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Six-ish, I think.”
“This morning? Dylan…”
“I know. I was driving. And I didn’t want to spike my sugar without insulin.”
“You need to eat soon.”
“I’ll get something when I leave here.”
“What does she need?” I asked. “We can make something.”
“Something low carb. Eggs, non-starchy vegetables, chicken, turkey, or fish.”
My gaze slid to Saint, our live-in egg cooker.
“On it,” he said.
“No!” Dylan said, shaking her head. “I can go get something.”
But Saint just ignored that as he went to the fridge. “Can she have cheese?” he asked.
“I don’t want—”
“Wasn’t asking you, babe,” Saint said, shooting her a lazy smile.
“Yeah,” Dr. Price said, looking bemused.
While Saint cooked, Dr. Price tested Dylan again, declared her sugar was up, then packed up his testing kit, tossing the two disposable needles into a small red plastic square marked “Sharps.”
“Feeling a little better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“Good. Don’t waste time filling your insulin. I gave you a refill for your basal insulin too, in case you don’t have any others on file. Are you in town for a while?”
“For a bit,” she said.
“Well, my name is Dr. Price. And if you need anything, this is where you can find me,” he said, passing her a business card.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little thick.
I imagined she had to be scared shitless when she learned her medication was gone. It wasn’t like it was the kind of thing she could skip. I was no expert, but I was pretty sure people died without insulin.
“Here. I’ll go get these filled,” I said, reaching for the prescriptions on the couch cushion. “I’ll go drop this off, so they get started on it.”
“No, I can—”
“I’m sure you can,” I cut her off. “But you have an omelet to eat. So I’ll drop these off. Then you can pick them up after you eat.”
“Fine,” she agreed. Then, a little more quietly, “Thanks.”
I gave her a nod.
I had scripts to drop off.
And a basket to build.