Finally, my mom’s excitement starts to wind down after she’s told me literally every single detail she can think of. “Well,” she eventually sighs, her tone shifting. “So, what’s new with you, Delaney?”
She sounds so resigned I almost laugh. Neither one of my parents has approved of a single decision I’ve made since I switched my major in college from English to social work. They tried everything they could think of to try to get me to change my mind, including my father threatening to cut off my college funding. (He eventually backed down on that, probably reasoning that a daughter who was a college dropout was an even worse look for him than a daughter who was majoring in something so pedestrian.)
After graduation, my parents leaned on me hard to channel the social work degree into working for one of the prestigious nonprofits in Louisville — that is, one of the organizations where young socialites could spend time working for a socially-acceptable “cause” while looking for their future husbands.
But by that time, I had been away from home long enough to know that the very last thing in the world I wanted to do with my life was follow in the footsteps of my parents.
Not their socialite lifestyle. And especially not their marriage.
My mother, for all her surface haughtiness and impeccable pedigree in tony Louisville society, is in actuality one of the most miserable people I’ve ever met. And the strange thing is, I’m not even sure she realizes it. Underneath the shiny surface of being Senator Rodney Hart’s lovely wife, the fact is that she lives under the thumb of a bully who scrutinizes and criticizes her every thought, word, and deed. And always has.
And somehow, my mother thinks it should be my life’s aspiration to be just like her.
When I got this job in Ironwood, it caused a family scandal so large, you would have thought I’d revealed I was addicted to crack.
The fact that I’ve kept this job? And that it’s become clear to my parents this isn’t just some youthful rebellion?
Well, let’s just say that one of the advantages is that they hardly ever talk about me anymore in their social circles.
It’s sort of a relief being a pariah, to be honest. There’s a lot less pressure. When I go home to visit, they’re a lot less likely to parade me around in all the hot spots of Louisville. I’m an embarrassment to them. And I’ll continue to be, until I reform myself, realize the error of my ways, and come crawling back into the fold.
So even though most daughters in my situation might tell their mothers all about what happened at work today -- that I met a little girl and a mom, and I’m worried about them — I find myself swallowing back the words.
“Oh, you know,” I chirp instead. “Same old, same old.”
“Yes, well,” Mom replies drily. “You know I just don’t understand why you insist on doing a job like that, Delaney. It’s certainly not like you have to work. And the pay can’t be all that much after all. It’s just incomprehensible to me.”
I roll my eyes as I stand up from the stoop and slip my key into the lock of my front door. This conversation happens in one form or another practically every time I talk to my mother. Mom’s attitude toward social work is basically, These things happen to other people, it’s not our issue.
Whereas I know otherwise, from experience. The rich have the same problems as everyone else. They just have enough money to pretend like they don’t.
“Okay, Mom,” I mutter, entering my house and tossing my purse on a chair. “Look, I’m just on my way somewhere, so I’m gonna have to let you go. Okay? Talk soon.”
Mom huffs again, but doesn’t put up much of an argument. After all, the point of this conversation was never to actually talk to me.
“Alright, darling. I assume we’ll see you next month for your father’s birthday?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say through gritted teeth.
The phone goes dead. I shake my head and sigh.
At least my mom only calls a couple of times a month.
Moving into my bedroom, I change out of my work clothes and put on a loose T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Slipping my feet into a favorite pair of flip-flops, I go into the kitchen and try to figure out something quick to make for dinner. I settle on an omelet with ham and cheddar, which I eat sitting on the couch.
Out of curiosity, I grab my phone from the cushion where I’ve tossed it and open up Instagram. A few seconds later, I’m staring at a picture of Lindsay’s engagement ring, in close-up, adorning a carefully manicured hand.
#engaged #mrsharris #whyyesthatismyring #junewedding
My sister Lindsay. The modern socialite/influencer. The daughter who is following in her mother’s footsteps.
I’m happy for her. Sort of.
But God, I’m glad I’m not her.
I spend the next couple of hours binge-watching bad TV shows, feeling exhausted and drained by work and by the conversation with my mother. Usually, watching Brooklyn-Nine-Nine is silly and funny enough to take my mind off the day, but tonight it’s not working.
As the evening wears on, I find my thoughts drifting away from little Paisley, away from my sister. And toward the gruff biker I met in Paisley’s hospital room.
He’s hot. But scary.
He’s hot, all right. Embarrassingly so. Especially because now that I’m home alone, with nothing but the memory of the way his eyes slid over my body, I find myself wondering again what his touch would feel like.
I bet his hands would be rough.
I bet the calluses would make me tremble as they traveled over my skin.
I bet sex with him would be rough, and raw, and…
Amazing.
As my eyes continue to stare at the screen, my mind is now a million miles away. With the hot biker, peeling off my clothes. Sliding me underneath him. Pushing himself inside me. My skin tingles. Between my legs, heat pools, my panties soaking wet. My nipples grow taut, crying out for his touch.
Before I know it, I’ve turned off the TV and gone into my bedroom. I push off my yoga pants, peel off my top, and slip beneath the covers.
And there, in the dark, my fingers find my hot, waiting sex. Barely a minute later, I’m coming, shuddering through my orgasm and whispering the name of a man I don’t even know.
Rourke.
5
Rourke
The next day, I’m at the hospital before nine, with the excuse of visiting Bear again.
When I get up to the floor where his room is, Paisley’s door is closed. I stand in the hall for a second, listening, but it’s pretty quiet inside. That’s probably a good thing, unless they’ve moved her to a different room.
I find Bear still living up to his name. It wouldn’t take a genius to predict a guy like him would be a bad patient. Of course, I’d probably be the same way in his situation. He’s still mad as hell about being cooped up in this place. From the looks of him, he’s feeling a lot better this morning — but that just gives him more energy to bitch and moan about everything.
“I’m fine,” he’s barking at the nurse who’s hovering around him, trying to adjust his bed. I recognize her as the same one from yesterday — the one who was tryin’ to get that jackass out of Paisley’s room. She looks up as I come in, and raises her eyebrows briefly in recognition.
“Your friend here doesn’t seem to be enjoying his stay with us,” she tells me.
I laugh. “Yeah, I coulda predicted that. Bear, why don’t you lay off the nurse? She’s just tryin’ to do her job.”
“I don’t need her to do her job. I need her to leave me the hell alone.”
“The sooner you get better, the sooner you can get out of here,” I counter. “She’s trying to help you get better.” I snicker. “I’m pretty sure she probably wants you outta here as much as you want you outta here.”
“You got that right,” she mutters under her breath.
The nurse, who’s got a name tag that reads Katie, continues to bustle around, looking at monitors and shit. I figure I’ll do my part,
so I try to keep Bear occupied with conversation. Pretty soon, she leaves, and I settle into one of the crappy chairs sitting over by the window.
“Axel ever stop by last night?” I ask.
“Yep.” Bear nods. “He was here for a while. There was a pretty steady stream of brothers for most of the day.” He snorts, then winces a little. “Barely had a moment to myself. I don’t know why you fuckers think you need to babysit me here.”
“Most of ‘em probably were hopin’ to see you on your death bed,” I joke. “Now that they know you’ll probably recover, I imagine they’re so disappointed they won’t be back.”
“Har, har.”
Heavy steps resound in the hallway. A second later, Axel walks in, followed by Mal, our Sergeant at Arms, and Dante, our Enforcer.
“Ah, geez,” Bear groans. “Here we go again.”
“Bear seems to be less than appreciative of our company,” I explain.
“Oh yeah?” Mal grins. “Good. Nothing makes me happier than pissin’ off Bear. Speakin’ of which, we brought you something.”
“Yeah?” Bear sneers. “What’s that?”
With a smirk, Mal steps outside for a second. When he comes back, he’s carrying a floral arrangement of white daisies and pink carnations in a blue container. Stuck into the arrangement is a balloon on a stick that says “Feel better soon!” and a little stuffed bear hanging onto the stick.
I start laughing so fuckin’ hard I think they’re gonna have to hospitalize me.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Bear mutters. “I gotta get the hell outta here.”
My brothers keep up a pretty good pace of harassing Bear out of his bad mood. I take the opportunity to slip out and see if I can check in on Paisley, but when I go out into the hallway, her door’s still closed. Shrugging, I figure I’ll go take a walk downstairs and grab myself a smoke.
I stay outside for a while, enjoying the fresh air in between cigarettes. Jesus, I hate hospitals. I suppose most people do. The smells get to me, and the cold, impersonal feel of them. All the people inside, living their own personal dramas. So much sickness, and death, and worry.
I could never understand why someone would choose to work in a place like that. I have a harder time than most being cooped up inside. I need my freedom, and the outdoors, and the open road. Spending all day in a giant, fluorescent-lit box seems like my own personal version of hell. The only way I can handle bein’ inside this place is because I ain’t a patient. I can leave any time I want.
As I smoke, my mind goes back to Laney the social worker, who I imagine is inside somewhere. I wonder where she comes from originally. She sure as shit didn’t grow up around here. No way a chick that hot would have been off my radar.
It occurs to me again how much she doesn’t look like any kind of social worker I’ve ever seen. The way she walks into a room, it’s like she owns the place. She doesn’t seem scared of anything, or anyone. That’s the kind of confidence that comes from money. From never thinking about what your place is in the world. Never worrying where your next meal is coming from. Never worrying whether your mom and dad can make rent.
I roll around the question of Laney in my head some more while I finish my second smoke. I’m not in the mood to go back up to Bear’s room yet, but there’s nothing to see out here except some sad-ass potted shrubs and a parking lot. I go back inside and take a walk around the first floor of the hospital, just to kill some time before heading back upstairs. I pass by the gift shop where Mal must have got Bear’s potted plant with the balloon and the stuffed bear. Further down is a cafeteria, which smells exactly like you’d expect a hospital cafeteria to smell. There’s a coffee shop, too, which is good to know in case I ever want something stronger than piss water.
I reach the end of that hallway, backtrack to the entrance, and then start down the other hall to the right. I make it about halfway down to the end, when I see a familiar figure fiddling with the knob on a locked door about twenty feet in front of me.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” I bite out at Mickey when he’s close enough to notice me walking toward him. His expression contorts in anger. I notice with satisfaction that the entire left side of his face is bruised a dark purple.
“I’m visiting my girlfriend’s kid,” he snarls. “You ain’t got nothin’ to say about it, either.” He pauses, then puffs up his gym rat pecs. “I could call the cops on you, man. Get your ass thrown in jail for hittin’ me yesterday.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me, you piece of shit? You’ve got shithole thug written all over your face. I bet you got a list of stupid-ass petty crimes a mile long.” I lift my chin at the ugly-ass scruff of facial hair he’s sporting. “That prison pussy would probably come to good use in county. You ever been anybody’s bitch, junior?”
For a second I think he’s gonna launch himself at me. Which I would fuckin’ love. His hands curl into fists, his body posture shifting like he’s getting ready to charge, but then he seems to think better of it.
“Fuck you, asshole,” he hisses.
“Great comeback, dipshit.”
Mickey gives me the double-barrel middle finger and brushes past me, just narrowly avoiding knocking into me with his shoulder.
I bust out laughing again and head toward the first floor nurses’ station about fifteen feet down the hallway.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I say to a slim redheaded nurse sitting behind the desk. She’s typing on a computer, and when she looks up at me she does a double-take.
“Um, yes, what is it?” she asks, a little breathlessly.
I turn and glance down the hall at Dipshit, who’s just disappearing out the front door. “What are the rules for who can and can’t visit a patient here? Especially a little kid?”
The nurse frowns a little, looking confused. “As long as the parent is okay with the person visiting the child, we have no restrictions,” she half shrugs. “Why?”
“No reason,” I growl, turning away. “Thanks.”
I take the stairs up to the second floor, and head toward Paisley’s room, pissed. That fuckin’ sleazebag should not be around this kid, I’m sure of it.
And I’m gonna do something about it. One way or another.
I’m just about to knock on the door to Paisley’s room when I hear the clicking of high heels on the vinyl floor. I look toward the sound. Laney, the hot social worker chick, is just rounding the corner, her head bent toward a clipboard she’s holding.
“Hey!” I yell, turning on my heel. “I need to talk to you.”
She looks up, startled. When she sees me storming down the hall, instead of looking afraid or intimidated, she just lowers the clipboard and squares her stance. She tosses her head just slightly, sending her cascade of dark hair over one shoulder.
“Can I help you?” she asks mildly.
She’s a cool one, this social worker. She’s got this classy ice-queen thing going on. This you aren’t good enough for me attitude that half makes me mad, and half turns me on.
She’s wearing glasses today. Hot librarian horn-rimmed glasses.
Makes me want to get a library card. And fuck her in the stacks.
My cock springs to attention before I even realize it’s happening.
Fuck. Pull your shit together, Rourke.
“Why the fuck did I just see that kid’s mom’s boyfriend in here just now?” I demand, trying to ignore the rush of blood to my cock. “Isn’t anybody watching out for her?”
Laney’s gaze flickers, and she draws in a breath. “I’m sorry, but the hospital can’t guard every patient staying here,” she says, sounding a little impatient.
“That’s bullshit. The second you saw me in Paisley’s room yesterday, you tried to get me out of there.”
“That’s not the same,” she protests. “You have no connection to her. You were a total stranger, and we hadn’t yet located the mother. And quite frankly,” she adds, tossing a glance at my cut and tattoos, �
��between him and you, you look quite a bit more dangerous on the face of it.”
She’s looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read. On the one hand, she’s clearly trying to pull rank on me. On the other hand, her green eyes are dilated as hell right now. And her breathing is speeding up. I can tell because her tits are rising and falling faster under that pale pink blouse she’s wearing, distracting the shit out of me.
Well, well, well. Miss stuck-up social worker is hot for me.
I suppress a grin.
“Yeah. I’m dangerous,” I agree with a smirk. “But not to a kid, for fuck’s sake. That guy, though… he’s bad news. You can’t tell me you don’t see that!”
“Are you suggesting that I should judge people based on appearances?” she smirks back, cocking her head at me.
“No, on his actions,” I counter. “Are you forgetting I got that guy out of here yesterday? Paisley didn’t want him here. She told me.”
She blinks up at me, surprised. “She said that?”
I nod. “As good as. She said she didn’t like him. She was scared as shit of him. You didn’t see the way she reacted — pulling her legs up in front of her, like she was trying to protect herself. She was pretty happy I got rid of him.” I shake my head. “Fuck. You tried to get me away from that kid, when I was protecting her, but you let that asshole come and go as he pleases.”
She looks troubled, uncertain. “He is her mother’s boyfriend,” she murmurs, frowning. “She’s authorized him to be here. And there’s no reason to think the little girl is in any immediate danger from him while she’s here in the hospital.”
“You’re full of shit,” I scoff. “You can’t think it’s good for her to be around him?”
To my satisfaction, my words finally seem to shake this chick out of her self-assured, holier-than-thou act.
“No,” she admits, looking down. “I don’t.” She hesitates. “To be honest, that’s part of the reason we’re keeping her for a few days. Not that she doesn’t need care, but… Well, let’s just say we’re using an abundance of caution.”
Iron Will: Lords of Carnage: Ironwood MC Page 4