Dixie
"You promised it wouldn't hurt,” the little girl said.
The little girl frowned. "I don't like differences."
"What flavor sucker would you like?" she asked.
The girl's eyes lit up. "Grape."
"Excellent choice,” Dixie said. As the child skipped back toward her mother, Dixie watched them leave with the familiar ache she always felt.
Children deserved normal lives—not fear, trauma, or the things she'd seen over the last six months.
The recovery center had become a refuge for survivors rescued after the Black Veil Syndicate fell.
Some came in with broken bones, while others came carrying wounds no doctor could see.
Dixie knew those were always the hardest to heal.
"You're doing it again." She looked up to find Dr. Mason Reynolds leaning against the exam room door.
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Thinking too much,” Mason said.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
He snorted. "You get that wrinkle right here." He tapped between his own eyebrows. "It means you're trying to save the whole world."
"I'd settle for just saving one person today. The world can wait until tomorrow after I’ve had about six hours of sleep,” she teased.
He smiled. "You sound like Doc." The words warmed her heart because nobody could compare to Doc Mercer.
The clinic existed because of him. Every doctor here volunteered because of the example he'd left behind.
Dixie had been fresh out of nursing school when she met him.
He'd taught her something she'd never forgotten.
"You can't erase someone's past, sweetheart, but you can make sure it isn't their future.
" She'd lived by those words ever since.
The clinic phone rang, and Mason answered it. His easy smile vanished almost instantly. "What happened?" He listened to the person at the other end of the call. "When?" There was another pause. "We'll be ready." He hung up slowly.
Dixie's stomach tightened. "What is it?"
"The Royal Bastards’ clubhouse,” he breathed.
"What about it?" she asked.
"There was an explosion,” he said.
Her pulse spiked. "Anyone hurt?"
"I don't know.” He was already grabbing the emergency trauma bags. "They're bringing casualties here, so I guess we’re about to find out."
Within fifteen minutes, the parking lot looked like organized chaos.
Motorcycles roared in one after another, and she knew that the Royal Bastards had arrived.
She even recognized some of the members.
A few of them were bleeding, and some were carrying injured brothers. Most of them looked downright furious.
Dixie helped wheel a prospect inside while another nurse took over triage. "Two gunshot wounds!" someone shouted.
"Chest trauma!" another yelled.
"I need another IV!" a doctor ordered. The emergency room exploded into motion. She'd seen disasters before, but this felt different. It felt personal because the guys down at the clubhouse were like family around the Recovery Center.
She was checking a biker's blood pressure when the front doors burst open again and a man staggered inside under his own power.
He was tall, had broad shoulders, and dressed entirely in black.
Blood soaked one sleeve of his leather jacket, but not all of it looked like his.
He ignored everyone in the waiting room as his eyes scanned every exit automatically, like he expected death to walk through the front door at any second.
"Dixie." One of the nurses pointed at the man. "That one."
She grabbed a pair of gloves. "I'm on it." The stranger was already trying to leave. "You need stitches."
"I'm fine,” he insisted.
"No, you're bleeding,” she argued.
"It'll stop.” She stepped directly into his path, and he stopped so suddenly she almost walked into him. His eyes were unlike any she'd ever seen—not cold, but empty, like someone had taken every good thing out of him years ago and forgotten to put anything back.
"I'm Dixie,” she said. He didn't answer.
"I don't actually care what your name is.
" One of his eyebrows raised when she said that.
"But if you're bleeding on my clean floor, you're officially my problem.
" For the first time since he walked in, something almost resembling amusement flickered across his face.
"It'll wash out of your floor, I’m sure,” he grumbled.
"Can you just humor me?” she asked.
He looked down at the blood staining the polished tile. "I said I'm fine."
"And I said you're my problem." The room around them buzzed with controlled panic, but neither of them seemed to notice.
He sighed. "You always this stubborn?"
"Only on weekdays,” she said.
"It's Saturday," he reminded.
"So today's especially bad." The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but more like he'd remembered what one looked like—but just barely.
"Sit." She pointed toward an empty treatment room.
"No,” he growled.
She blinked at him, not sure why he was being so stubborn. "No?"
"I don't like rooms with one door,” he admitted. The answer came so quickly, so automatically, that she knew it hadn't been a joke. It had been about survival. She looked at him differently—not as another biker or another patient, but as someone who'd spent years expecting to die.
Without another word, she opened the back door leading to the ambulance bay. "There."
He looked surprised. "Two exits." He studied her for several long seconds and then, without argument, he walked inside the room and sat on the edge of the exam table while she cleaned dried blood from his forearm. The wound was deep, and she guessed that it was from a knife and not a bullet.
“You need stitches,” she said.
"I’m fine. I've had worse,” he admitted.
She looked him over, noticing various scars. "I'm sure you have." She threaded the needle. "So—” She smiled. "You're one of those."
"One of what?" he asked.
"The quiet, moody ones," she teased.
"They live longer,” he said.
"Not if they keep refusing medical treatment." He didn't answer, and she started stitching his wound. He never flinched—not once. Most men cursed, and some squeezed the table. Others turned pale, but he simply watched her work with the same unreadable expression.
"You've done this before,” he said. He looked down at the neat line of stitches. "You have good hands."
The compliment caught her off guard. "So do you,” she said, not really paying attention to the words coming out of her mouth. His eyes lifted, and she nodded toward his calloused fingers. “I’m guessing that you’re a mechanic."
"No,” he breathed.
"Are you in construction?" she asked.
"No." He wasn’t really giving her much to go on.
"Are you in the military?" she asked.
He paused and shook his head. "No."
"Liar,” she challenged. That almost earned another smile—almost.
"You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
"I like knowing who I'm stitching back together."
"Why?" he asked.
"What if you're a serial killer?" she asked.
He looked genuinely thoughtful. "What would you do if I was?"
"I'd probably finish your stitches first." That finally did it. A small laugh escaped him—low and rough, like he hadn't used it in years.
"You have a nice laugh,” she said.
His expression changed immediately. "You don't know me."
"No." She tied off the final stitch. "But I'd like to." Silence settled between them as she reached for a bandage. "Now—" She smiled. "Tell me your name." He stared at her long enough that she figured he wouldn't answer.
"Vandal,” he breathed.
She smiled at him. "That's, um, unusual."
"It isn't the name I was born with,” he admitted.
"No?" she asked.
"No."
She started wrapping his arm. "So why Vandal?"
His eyes drifted toward the window. "Because I break everything I touch." The words weren't dramatic or self-pitying. They were simply accepting, as though he'd believed them for a very long time.
Dixie finished securing the bandage before meeting his eyes. "I don't believe that."
"You should,” he said, “because it’s the truth.”
"I've spent my career putting broken people back together.
" She smiled gently. "You don't strike me as someone who breaks things.
" He looked genuinely confused. "I think—” She handed him a clean T-shirt from the donation cabinet.
"That you strike me as someone who's been broken.
" For just a heartbeat, the walls around him cracked.
Pain flashed across his face so quickly most people would've missed it, but Dixie didn't. Before either of them could speak again, the clinic doors burst open, and RoadKill stormed inside.
"There you are!" His gaze landed on Vandal. "They're back." Every trace of warmth disappeared from Vandal's face, and his eyes became cold and dangerous. He stood in one smooth motion, without another word, and headed for the door.
Dixie watched him leave, feeling strangely unsettled. She didn't know his story. She didn't know why trouble seemed to follow him. She only knew one thing—when he looked at her, for one brief moment, he'd looked like a man who desperately wanted someone to prove him wrong.
Universal Link-> https://books2read.com/u/m0jpoJ
What is being released next from K.L. Ramsey? You won’t want to miss Peak’s Code (Grave Prowlers Book 1), coming in August 2026!