by Deja Voss
“I hope you’re happy, Sloan,” she shouts. I can smell the gin on her breath from ten feet away. “Arthur is a good man.”
I shake my head and squeeze Olive’s hand.
“Well he’s all yours,” I hiss at her. “I’m sure you can write him letters in prison.”
“You’re a bitch,” she taunts.
“That all you got?” Olive gets right in her face.
“Come on, girls,” Officer Brighton says as he approaches this scuffle about to happen. “Let’s get out of here.”
He grabs Olive and I by the shoulder and escorts us from the courtroom and into the lobby.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem. Your family sure knows how to make a scene.”
“No, Scott, I mean thank you for everything.”
Maybe it was a self-interested move, maybe he was looking for a promotion or something, but this man saved me from Arthur, and honestly, saved me from myself. From the day he first pulled me over and warned me, to the way he was by my side in the hospital, helping to set up my arrest so it would leave as little impact as possible on my life ahead, he was truly the catalyst for getting me out of such a bad situation.
“You did so good, Sloan. You were really brave. I should be thanking you. I know you saw some of Arthur’s evil up close and personal.”
“I had no idea how bad it really was until this trial, Scott. How many people he hurt. It was a real eye-opener. I’m glad he won’t be hurting anyone else.”
“Are you a hundred percent sure you don’t want to look into some sort of protection program? You barely made it out of the courtroom without getting mauled by a pack of crazies.”
“And that’s just my family,” I laugh. “I swear, it’s going to be alright. I’m not afraid.”
“Yeah, and I’m never letting her out of my sight again,” Olive says. I roll my eyes at her. I think her guilt about this whole situation is worse than the physical pain I went through. She’s my only true friend in the world and I’m causing her hurt just by existing.
“You ready to come get Bender?” he asks me, staring at the marble floor nervously.
Over the last few months, he’s taken care of my dog for me. Every day, his wife has been texting me pictures of their kids playing with him, dressing him up in tutus and snuggling with him on the couch.
“I can,” I say, but I know what the right thing is to do at this point, “but I don’t want to do that to your kids. They have a lot more love to give him than I do right now. If he’s a problem, I will happily take him back.”
He lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you. They’re so attached to that crazy mutt it’s unreal.”
“You have to let me come visit him sometime, though.”
“Absolutely.”
We stand there in silence for a moment, staring at our feet.
“So what now, Sloan?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I guess business as usual. I have a couple years left in my fellowship at the hospital, barring any sort of incident like the one we just went through, and that’s that.”
“Well, good luck to you. If you ever need anything, you have my card. Bye, Olive. You make sure you look after her.” He shakes our hands and walks away and she frowns.
“It’s a damn shame he’s married. I would totally let him cuff me and stuff me, if you know what I’m saying.”
“I’m sure you would,” I laugh. We leave the courthouse, the smell of spring drifting through the air. It smells like change, like new beginnings and fresh starts.
“You ready to go to the shop?” she asks. “I’ll text Mark right now.”
The scar on my arm had finally flattened and healed enough that it was time to cover it up. One more step further away from my past. I’d been debating for months now what I wanted to do to the red bumpy brand on my bicep that reminded me of Arthur every time I looked in the mirror. It might just be a random second degree burn to the untrained eye, but to me it was a tattoo that read “fucking nark” in Arthur and my father’s handwriting.
A fun kind of anxiousness flutters in my stomach. I’m so confused. I haven’t looked forward to anything in so long that I’d forgotten how it feels.
“Sounds good.” She puts her Jeep in drive and I brush my fingers over my skin. “Thank you, Ollie. You are seriously the best.”
Gavin
“SHIT,” I mutter, looking up at the clock on the wall for the first time in hours. I’ve been balls-deep in paperwork trying to get things back on track at the Bucktail Saloon after years of shady, at best, bookkeeping. Trying to go completely legit is a pain in the ass. I can see why everyone in the club has put it off for so long.
“What’s wrong, boy?” Pookie shouts from across the bar. “Did you finally realize you’re wasting your time with all that nonsense?”
“No, I forgot to pick Goob up from the school bus.”
“He’s sixteen years old, Gavin. He can walk. You gotta stop babying that kid.”
Before I can pull my phone out to let him know I’m on my way, he comes stumbling through the doors of the bar, his left eye black and his fist dripping blood.
“Dude, what happened?” I scowl. It’s never-ending with this kid. Between the fights, the drugs, and the constant issues in the classroom, it’s a wonder they haven’t kicked him out for good yet.
“Well, you don’t have to be worried about picking me up from school anymore,” he says. “I’m fucking done with that place.”
Ever since I brought him back to the mountain, taking him away from my junkie mother and her sick child predator boyfriend, he’s had a hell of a time adjusting. I know a lot of it isn’t his fault. There’s nobody up there his age for him to hang around with and his role models are, well…
“Atta boy,” Pookie says, puffing on a fat cigar. He looks like Santa Claus’ dirty twin biker brother, his white beard permanently nicotine stained. “You can go to the school of hard knocks like the rest of us.” His belly jiggles as he laughs.
“No, Pookie. This isn’t 1940 whatever the fuck year you went to school. You don’t just stop going. There’s truancy laws and stuff,” I bark. “If I did it, so can you.”
“I’m sure Dad won’t care. Ya’ll can homeschool me.” Goob shrugs, walking behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the shelf.
“Please tell me I’m having a stroke or something? What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nobody else seems to mind.”
“Well I mind. This place is my livelihood and I don’t let underage kids drink here. The end. I don’t care who the fuck you think you are.”
He picks up a rocks glass from the adjoining shelf and slams it down on the bar.
“I swear to God, Goob, don’t make me come over there.”
He smiles at me in defiance. He still has braces on his teeth and freckles on his face, and as badly as I want him to be a grown man so I can deal with him the way I do with the rest of the crew, I know he’s just a child; a child who has never had a fighting chance.
“That’s enough,” Pookie says. “Get over here so I can fix your face, son. You hungry? How about I make us a pizza?”
And that’s how the last five years have been.
I don’t know if he’s supposed to be my child or my brother. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be the one laying down the law or if I’m just supposed to help him out of jams. Either way, I know I’m doing a terrible job.
I go back in the office and open up my desk drawer, thumbing through the stacks of brochures I’ve been collecting over the year.
I’m pissed at myself that I’m even considering this. I’m pissed that I’m ready to abandon him all over again when I was the one who came barnstorming in to “save him” and bring him back here to be with his family.
Unfortunately, I don’t think his family can undo the mess my mother made of him. He needs therapy. He needs discipline. He needs rules, a schedule, and to not be around men who think it’s per
fectly ok for him to have an after-school whiskey.
He needs to go away to school if he wants a fighting chance to be anything but a scumbag like us. I start dialing numbers.
“This is Moses Boden,” I say. They’ll never know the difference. Hell, my dad probably won’t even notice. “I need to talk to someone about your residential program for my son.” My heart is broken, but for some reason, this broad on the other end of the line is giving me peace, making me think there’s nothing wrong with the choice I’m about to make. I’m not giving up on him, I’m giving him a way out of this life before it kills him.
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
Sloan
“I s this today’s pizza?” I flip open the greasy white box sitting on the breakroom countertop. Who am I kidding? I don’t care how old it is. It’s going in my mouth.
“I worry about you, Sloan,” Carol, the ER nurse says, rolling her eyes at me as she thumbs through a magazine. Her bleached blonde hair is pulled up in a tight bun and years of a tanning bed addiction has her constantly orange and a little bit shriveled, but the look fits her abrasive and feisty personality to a T. “When are you going to find yourself a nice man to take you out to dinner or something so you can stop scavenging for scraps? Don’t you know how to cook?”
Sure, I can cook, but that requires money, and right now, I’m not exactly blessed in that department. Living in such a small town, the only residency and fellowship available locally for my specialty is an unpaid one, and although in the past that wasn’t a problem, I’m definitely starting to feel the pinch now.
If anyone at the hospital knew of my current living situation, they’d probably be floored. As happy as I am to have Arthur behind bars and out of my life, the trial left me with a whole lot of nothing.
No family to fall back on.
No job.
No savings.
Just piles of student loans and a fistful of credit cards that are borderline maxed out. I don’t have anything fun to show for it except a shitty one-bedroom apartment and a car that’s on its last leg.
A side job really isn’t an option when you’re in a training program as intensive as I am in right now, although I moonlight a couple times a month at a local clinic so I can keep the debt collectors at arm’s length.
At least I have my freedom. My freedom, and nine more months until I’m finished with this fellowship and take my boards and then I can officially call myself a trauma surgeon.
Nine more months of hauling ass, kissing ass, and doing everything I can to prove to my mentors that I’m the best and most competent surgeon they’ve ever worked with. Thanks to the giant hiccough that was Arthur’s trial, which not only resulted in missing way too much work but also tarnished my reputation in the process, I have to work twice as hard as everyone else to do it, but that’s ok. I have nothing else going on in my life but complete dedication to this program.
I grab a huge slice of pizza from the box and inhale it in three bites.
“I don’t know if I’m impressed or disgusted,” Carol wheezes as she laughs. I’ve worked side by side with Carol for most of my residency and fellowship, and if I know anything about her, it’s that the woman loves her menthol cigs. I can’t blame her. To hack it in the Dixon Emergency room as long as she has, you almost need a vice. For now, mine is questionable breakroom leftovers. I start on my second slice.
“What about Dr. Turner?” she asks, tapping her hot orange fingernails off the table. “I bet he’d take you out for a pizza and slip you the old pepperoni stick, too, if you know what I’m saying?”
“Carol, seriously?” I laugh. Dating colleagues is definitely against hospital policy. I’m sure whatever grotesque hand gesture she’s making right now is as well. “You better hope nobody sees you doing that or you’re gonna end up in HR faster than I can eat this.”
There’s really nothing wrong with Doctor Turner. He’s a perfectly normal, perfectly good-looking, perfectly stable guy who’s great at what he does. Any woman would be lucky to have a man like him.
But I’m ruined.
Men like Dr. Turner aren’t the kind you just hook up with and never talk to again, and in my current situation, that’s about the only thing that appeals to me. I’m not ready for love. I’m not even ready for a second date.
I’m too busy.
I’m too broken.
The second I forget who I am or where I came from, somebody manages to dig up my mug shot photo and pin it on the office bulletin board. I hear the whispers and the snide under-the-breath comments. They’ve died down significantly in the last five years, but I’m afraid I’ll never get out from under that dark cloud.
Nice guys aren’t really my wheelhouse.
“You didn’t tell me there were cupcakes, Carol!” I whine, digging around in the big pink bakery box.
“Those have been there for like a week. I’m surprised they haven’t hit your radar yet. How in the world do you stay so thin?”
They are so stale, but I can’t resist the chocolatey frosted goodness they probably once were.
“Good genes?” I shrug. Or being chronically broke and too exhausted at night to boil water to make ramen.
Dr. Peterman pokes his head around the breakroom door.
“I’m so glad you’re in here, Dr. Sullivan,” he says. “We have one incoming. Are you ready to scrub up?”
“Sure thing, Doctor!” If anything excites me more than free food, it’s the opportunity to put my skills to use in the operating room. “What are we looking at?”
“Motorcycle accident. Nineteen-year-old male. Passerby found him in a ditch off of I-80. ETA about twenty minutes.”
It’s my time to shine. I wing the cupcake into the trash can and try to get myself centered. Surgery is so much easier when you look at it from a logical standpoint instead of a human standpoint—putting the pieces of a puzzle back together just like they’re supposed to be. I wave goodbye to Carol and make my way down the cold sterile hall. I pop in my headphones and put on my pump-up playlist. It’s time for us to go to work.
CHAPTER 2
Gavin
I groan like an old man as I push myself up off the floor. I’ve been laying down hardwood all day, trying to get one step closer to finishing this old A-frame farmhouse, and it’s putting a serious beating on my back. Caked in sawdust and dripping with sweat, I barely notice it’s damn near dark already.
“Beer me, brother,” I say to Heat, wiping the sweat from my brow. The old man is beyond the point of being able to help me in most of the construction, but as long as he keeps me hydrated, I have no problem keeping him around. Plus, I know it’s making him happy to see my grandfather’s home restored back to its original glory.
“It’s looking good, Gav,” he says. “Your grandpa would be real proud of you. I wish he was here to see this place. It reminds me of when me and your pops were just young bucks.”
The farmhouse out here in the middle of the woods was where the Mountain Misfits MC all began. My grandfather, Ike Boden, the founding father, would host the meetings over his big oak dining room table. United by the love of motorcycles and the desire to live off the grid, self-sustained, up here in the mountains, these wild outlaws had created a legacy run on moonshine and motor oil.
“Lotsa memories between these walls, that’s for sure.” I smile. I remember when I was barely in elementary school, my grandpa used to let me sit on his lap while he conducted meetings. I had no idea what these men were talking about, but I knew how much my grandfather loved them, and it made me love them too. I grew up obsessed with guns, beards, whiskey, and bikes. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of that legacy, long before I understood what it actually entailed.
“Lotsa baby batter spilled all over these floors, too, you know,” he chuckles. Heat has been like a second father to me my whole life. As club chaplain, he is always good for some sage advice, and as a dirty old pervert, he’s always good for a jizz joke.
“That’s
why I ripped them all out. I don’t want to think about anything that comes out of your body, Heat. No offense.”
He lets out a low rumble of a laugh and shrugs.
“When are you going to settle down and find yourself a nice little flower to pollenate anyway, Gav?” he asks. “There are plenty of dirty birdies floating around the club who would love to have your babies and you know it.”
“I’m not trying to get serious with a club whore, dude.” There’s nothing inherently wrong with the ladies who hang around the house looking to become an old lady, but the thought of sharing my life with a woman who’s been shared by all my brothers isn’t exactly appealing to me.
“Don’t be hating on the whores, Gavin. My mother was a whore, and so was yours, and look how good we turned out.”
“Single and living in my father’s basement?”
“It’s the club’s basement, but point taken.”
I take a long draw from my beer, polishing off the can, crushing it and tossing it across the room into the trash can. I grab my hammer and get back to the task at hand.
I don’t want to tell anyone, but my grandfather is only a small part of this renovation and why I’ve been working nonstop to get this house in shape. There is a woman. She’s gorgeous and smart and driven. She’s everything I’m not, but I’m going to do everything I can to show her I will do whatever it takes to be better.
I’ve been dumping all my time and energy into fixing this place up, building the business at the Bucktail Saloon, and putting a little more space in between myself and the shadier side of the Mountain Misfits MC ever since I met her.
It might be unrealistic.
I might be setting myself up for disaster.
I let her slip through my fingers once.
But the day that she comes back into my life, the day that I can finally wrap my arms around her soft, curvy body, I’m going to make sure that I’m the best possible man I can be.
I pound another nail into the floorboard as I hear the low rumble of a bike pulling up the gravel driveway.