Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
My shift started before the vet’s office opened, so Hatchet promised to text me photos of the puppy every hour after he picked her up.
I showed my favorite nurse, Hadley, a selfie he sent at lunch with the pup wearing a cone around her neck, snuggled on his pillow with her muzzle touching his neck.
“Isn’t she adorable? What should I name her?”
Hadley ripped the phone from my hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see the puppy through the insanely hot man attached to her. Who is that and is he single?”
I laughed. “Hatchet, and yes, he is perpetually single and with a woman at all times.”
“Where do I sign up?”
“He’s a frequent flier. The next time he crashes his bike, I’ll introduce you.”
“The man has a motorcycle and a beard, and you aren’t trying to get both between your legs? Lock that down, girl.”
I scoffed. “No one’ll ever lock that man down.”
“In that case, why can’t you just take him for a joy ride?”
I snatched my phone back. “Because that would be a terrible idea. I want a real relationship, not a one-night stand. Besides, he’s not my type.”
“Girl, maybe that’s a good thing. ‘Rich, narcissistic asshole’ doesn’t exactly seem to be working out for you.”
I nodded in agreement and read another text from Hatchet. “Oh, no,” I said, immediately calling him. He answered on the first ring.
“You’re not naming her Wobbles.”
Hatchet chuckled. “How about Stumpy?”
“You’re going to be stumpy if you name my puppy something stupid.”
“Our puppy,” he reminded. “How about Tripod?”
“Absolutely not. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“Fine. Pogo says she loves you.”
“Hatchet,” I warned. “If you call her another ridiculous name, I will amputate something on you, and it won’t be a leg.”
“Fine,” he said, laughter still coloring his tone. “Text me when you leave the hospital. I’ll order a pizza. We’ll name her after you’ve had a few beers.”
“When has alcohol ever made me more agreeable?” I asked.
“Valid point,” he conceded.
The rest of the day pummeled me, bureaucracy and insurance denials slowing down my work in ways I couldn’t explain to the cranky, sleep-deprived parents in the Pediatric wing of the hospital.
“I hear you did a good job in Peds today,” Dr. Patel commented as I walked out of the hospital.
I scoffed. “If by ‘good job,’ you mean watching a six-year-old suffer because her insurance doesn’t cover shit, then yeah, I guess.”
Dr. Patel clasped a hand around my shoulder. “That’s the American health system. You push, they push back. You win some, you lose some. Dr. Keller said you didn’t stop fighting for your patient today. You worked every angle. You’re a good doctor.”
I offered a grim smile. “How do you come in every day knowing that your hands are tied? That there’s a way to help your patient, but you’re not allowed to do it because it’s too expensive and some executive in a high-rise has decided that their lives aren’t worth shit?”
She shrugged. “The lives you change, the people you save, make it worth it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The thick July humidity coated my skin the second I stepped out of the hospital. I settled in my truck and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel before pulling out my phone.
Me: I need all the carbs today. Better order some garlic bread with that pizza. Leaving now.
Hatchet: Yes, ma’am! Hopper is excited to see you.
Me: I’m going to kill you in the most painful way possible, resuscitate you, and then kill you again.
Hatchet: Can’t wait. Sounds fun.
In what I assumed was a peace offering, Hatchet sent me another adorable puppy photo. I forgave him. Barely.
Tires squealed as I pulled out of the parking lot. My pulse hadn’t settled from the stress of my job, and my adrenaline spiked when I noticed the luxury SUV with dark-tinted windows trailing close behind me.
My brows furrowed as I watched it in the rearview mirror. That was the kind of vehicle Luca would drive. Sleek. Flashy. Overcompensating.
My gut twisted. I rolled through a stop sign, telling myself I was being ridiculous and paranoid—but the driver didn’t hesitate, gliding right after me.
I switched lanes, cutting down a side street. The SUV followed, pulling back just enough to look casual on the less-busy road.
My fingers fumbled over my phone until I found Hatchet’s name. He answered on the second ring.
“Too late if you don’t want pizza,” he drawled. “Already ordered.”
“I think I’m being followed.”
His tone shifted in an instant. “Where are you?”
I rattled off the cross streets.
“Archer lives over there. Stay on the line. I’m texting him now to see if he’s home.”
I accelerated, watching as the driver carefully matched my speed. “They’re definitely following me.” My knuckles tightened around the wheel.
“He’ll be with you in a minute. Stay on with me.”
The pavement stretched ahead, opening into a quieter country road. For a heartbeat, I imagined Luca behind the wheel, that smug half-smile as he ran my truck into a ditch.
I heard the roar first. A bike cut sharply between my car and the SUV. I let out a shaky laugh. “Archer’s here. And he’s not wearing a fucking helmet.”
“He’ll follow you back. You can lecture him about motorcycle safety later.”
The driver lingered for a second, then veered off into the opposite lane, passing both of us.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll see you in a few.”
“Stay on with me,” Hatchet rasped. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“I know. Just humor me.”
I arrived at the clubhouse with my motorcycle escort to find a group of Mavericks outside. Hatchet held the wiggling puppy in his arms, and Merrick, Thane, and Coast stood beside him, looking like they were ready to go to war.
I parked the truck and killed the engine, my pulse still elevated.
I closed my eyes and sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel and steeling myself for the army of protective men who’d waited for me.
Before I could reach for the handle, Hatchet was already there, swinging the door open.
I rolled my eyes. “I can manage a door, thanks.” I stretched my arms out, already softening at the sight of floppy ears and a wagging tail. “Now, give me that puppy.”
Hatchet handed her over. The little thing immediately launched into licks and tiny whimpers.
“Did you get a look at them?” Thane asked, voice low and gravel-edged.
I shook my head. “Tinted windows.”
Archer flicked open his phone. “Got the plate. Texted it to Linc already. He’s on it.”
“Thanks,” Merrick gruffed before returning his eyes to me. “One of us will follow you to and from work for a while, just to be sure.”
I raised a brow. “Seriously? I’ll just start carrying again. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You’ll carry a gun, and you get a bodyguard,” Hatchet insisted. “I’ll take you to the range tonight to make sure you’re sharp.”
I scoffed. “I’m probably a better shot than you. Remember? Reaper’s the one who trained me because Merrick said I was ‘difficult.’”
Hatchet grinned. “I have no doubt—that you’re a great shot and you’re difficult.”
My brother appraised me once more, making sure I was OK. “Kenna’ll have dinner done in half an hour. I’ll see you at the house.”
I kissed the puppy on her cute snout, and she nipped at my nose. “Can’t come tonight. Once the pizza is here, Hatchet and I are going to fight over what to name this cutie.”
Right on cue, a beat-up car pulled in. My stomach growled at the smell of melted cheese and pepperoni. Hatchet handed the driver a wad of cash, and we headed inside.
The jukebox thundered a classic rock track across the clubhouse lounge. Bones and Don nodded at me from the bar. I waved at Fuse, Bayou, Dixon, and a man I didn’t recognize from across the room, where they played pool.
“Hey, prospect!” Hatchet bellowed as we climbed the stairs. “Grab a cold six-pack and bring it up to my room.” He glanced back at me, one brow raised. “You want anything else, doll?”
I shot him a sharp glare. “Call me ‘doll’ again, and I’ll rearrange your jaw. What’s wrong with eating at the bar?”
“Because all her toys are in my room. And she needs to be crated while we eat.”
“Crated?” I echoed. “She’s a puppy, not an inmate.”
“All the dog books say to crate them during meals.”
I blinked. “Dog books? Wait—you can read?”
He snorted. “I’m not just a dumb biker.”
Hatchet pushed his door open, and I stopped short. Fifteen—maybe twenty—stuffed squeaky toys blanketed the floor in the small studio he called home.
“Buy her a few toys, did you?” I asked dryly.
The pup squirmed in my arms until I set her down. I watched as she charged a pink stuffed pig with reckless joy, oblivious to her unsteady gait as she wobbled on three paws.
Hatchet laughed, setting the pizza box on the small table by the window. “Only the best for my girl.”
The prospect trailed behind us, a bucket of ice clinking around cold bottles of beer.
I smiled at him as he set it on the counter. “Thanks,” I said, taking one and cracking it open. “You’re new. What’s your name?”
“I go by Rev.”
“How’d you end up with these guys?”
“Met Hatchet at a street race.”
My eyes flicked to Hatchet’s. “Street race? Because you haven’t crashed enough bikes already?”
“Get out of here before you get me in more trouble,” Hatchet ordered.
Rev chuckled. “Don’t worry, babe. We’re safe. Mostly.”
Hatchet glared at Rev as he closed the door. His gaze shifted to me. “For the record, I wasn’t there to race. I was watching. And before you ask, Rev wears a helmet.”
He grabbed a silicone mat, slathered it with peanut butter, and gave a sharp whistle.
The pup’s ears perked immediately. She tottered over, tail wagging hard enough to throw her off balance.
Her tiny nose twitched as she scented the snack.
Hatchet tossed the mat into the crate, and she trotted inside without argument. He clasped the door behind her.
“Poor baby,” I said, loading pizza onto a paper plate.
“She likes her crate. It’s her safe space.”
I looked at him skeptically, but the pup settled on a torn blanket. “So, what are your name ideas? Real ones. Not fucking Wobbles.”
“Hear me out: Pirate.”
“What? No.”
“Come on. We could get her a little peg leg,” he said with a grin.
“Absolutely not. How about Luna?”
Hatchet furrowed his brow. “Like Looney Tunes? I don’t think so.”
“No, like the moon. Luna is ‘moon’ in Latin.”
He considered the suggestion for a moment and sipped his beer. “How about Red?”
“We’re not naming her after a fucking color. Armadillo?”
Hatchet scoffed. “What’s with your obsession with fucking armadillos?”
“What? They’re the official state mammal.”
“Nerd,” he teased.
The argument spiraled playfully, one veto after another, until the pizza box was nearly empty. Hatchet cracked the crate open, and the pup bounded out, tripping over her three remaining paws. I absently tossed her a piece of rogue pepperoni from the counter.
“Don’t feed her table scraps,” Hatchet snapped, more exasperated than I’d ever heard.
“It’s just a snack,” I insisted. The pup stared at me with hopeful eyes.
His jaw tightened. “You’re teaching her to beg.”
“Look at that face,” I cooed. “How can you say ‘no’ to that?”
A low growl rumbled from his chest. “You’re going to create a monster. We have to be consistent, so she learns how to be a good dog.”
I smirked up at him. “You’re unexpectedly strict. Like an overprotective dog dad. It’s kind of hot.”
Hatchet crossed his arms, his muscles flexing under the ink. “Someone has to make the rules,” he shot back, pretending he hadn’t heard the second half of my comment.
“Someone has to break them,” I countered, stepping closer as I grinned. “And that someone will be me.”
Hatchet shook his head. “I think I finally get why Merrick swore you gave him gray hair as a teenager,” he muttered.
I scoffed. “I was a perfectly well-behaved teenager.”
“Right. So that wasn’t you who stole a fifth of Goldschl?ger from the clubhouse and got plastered on your sixteenth birthday?”
I grimaced at the memory of spicy cinnamon burning my throat and nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do. I was there. The smell is still burned into my nostrils. Linc was a prospect then. Poor bastard had to clean your puke out of Merrick’s truck. I swear his floorboards sparkled with gold for years.”
“I probably should apologize for that.”
“To Linc or Merrick?”
“Just Linc,” I said with a grin. “Merrick deserves every gray hair I gave him.”
The pup grabbed a stuffed monkey and gave it a violent shake, its arms and legs flopping wildly.
“She’s a little pistol.”
“Australian Cattle Dogs are like that,” Hatchet replied. “Smart, stubborn, loyal as hell. Protective, too.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Read that in one of your dog-parenting books?”
He smirked, unbothered. “Yeah, I did. These dogs are tough as hell. Total chaos gremlins.”
“There’s a good name for her.”
“Chaos Gremlin?” Hatchet stroked his short beard as he considered it.
“Maybe just Chaos for short. We can call her by her full name, Chaos Gremlin Morris-Perry, when she’s bad.”
“She gets both our last names?” Hatchet asked, a note of surprise in his tone.
“Of course. We have split custody.”
“Who gets Christmas?”
“I’m pretty sure we’re both spending Christmas with Merrick and Kenna for the rest of eternity,” I cracked.
“You’re not wrong.” He kicked a squeaky toy aside with his boot. “So, how was work today?”
I grimaced. “Sucked balls.”
One of his brows lifted in amusement as he waited for me to explain.
“I’ve got this kid who needs an asthma med,” I complained, leaning back against the counter. “Insurance denied it because they decided her case is ‘mild.’” I made air quotes. “She’s wheezing so hard she can’t sleep—but sure, let’s call that mild.”
Hatchet frowned. “Insurance companies can do that?”
“Yep. I go to school for fucking ever to become a doctor, and some office bitch gets to look at a piece of paper and decide whether or not I can treat my patient with the medication they need.”
“That does suck balls.”
I shrugged. “Just part of the job, I guess. At least I get to come home to this cutie now. Little Miss Chaos.” I snuggled the pup.
Hatchet snickered. “Little Miss Chaos would be a good nickname for you, too.”