by Deja Voss
“Brooks,” Heat says confidently. The man knows his motorcycles.
Sure enough, Brooks is standing in the doorway, and he looks mad as hell.
“You seen Goob today?” he asks.
“No, man, why?” My nineteen-year-old brother is no longer my responsibility. I’ve done everything in my power to try and help him out over the years, but he’s always been more interested in being a pawn for my dad. I couldn’t do anything about that.
“I don’t know. We went on a run for the old man today and he split on me.”
“Did he have anything on him?” I hate asking, but his track record wasn’t exactly pristine.
“I got the cash, so probably just the usual.” The usual bag of smack. He’ll be back as soon as the buzz wears off and he realizes he needs some cash.
“Well then, I’m sure we’ll see him soon. You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
I hand him the hammer and a couple of nails.
“I’ll get you one.”
I might feel bad about the old geezer, Heat, helping me around the house, but Brooks is a young buck like myself. We were both born into the Mountain Misfits MC and grew up side by side. He’s always been more of a brother to me than any of my real brothers. We are more about the mission than the money, more about the freedom than the fame.
He tucks his long blond hair back in a bandana as he rolls his eyes at me and gets to pounding.
“I walked right into that trap.”
“You know I’d do the same for you,” I tell him.
“Yeah right. The only banging you’d do on my floor is with my girlfriend while I was asleep in the bed right next to you.”
“That was a long time ago. And that was NOT your girlfriend. That broad was everybody’s girlfriend.”
“Are we talking about Becky Clit Ring again?” Heat chimes in.
“No, no. Lucy,” I say.
“Oh yeah. I love Lucy. And Lucy loves cock.”
“She was a very nice girl,” Brooks says. “Just misunderstood.”
“That’s because she always had a dick in her mouth,” Heat says, and laughs.
“Now that you mention it,” Brooks says, “I feel like maybe that was why we got along so well.”
CHAPTER 3
Sloan
A s soon as they wheel this kid in on the stretcher, my heart starts pounding.
I know those tats. I’ve had that emblem burned in my mind ever since the night I laid eyes on Gavin. The big black skull. The Mountain Misfits MC. From his collarbone to his stomach, he wears it like billboard.
He’s already under, and with good reason. I can tell by just looking at the way his leg is contorted that we’re going to have some major work to do here to get him back into any sort of functioning condition.
“Did he have a helmet on?” I whisper to Dr. Peterman. This kid has some road rash on his face, but other than that, there’s no visible trauma to his head.
“No idea. Either way, he’s a lucky guy.”
He’s an extremely lucky guy. He’s in the hands of one of the best trauma surgeons in the state, Dr. Peterman, and as his long-term trainee, I know his process in and out. The two of us are a dream team, we operate like a well-oiled machine.
Laying there, he looks like a young boy, but I guess he is a teenager after all. I often forget how old I am, and these days, more and more people look young to me. His body is so lanky. He’s extremely tall, but all skin and bone, and the track marks on his arm stick out like a sore thumb on his pale white skin. His face is sprinkled with freckles and he has long curly blond eyelashes. He looks so peaceful laying there, in spite of his tattered condition.
We go to work setting bones, stretching his torn muscles and pinning them into holes and sewing everything up as proficiently as possible. The few hours it takes us to finish up is nothing compared to the months of rehab this poor guy is going to need before he can get back on a bike again.
They take him into recovery to sleep off his anesthesia, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone’s tracked down his family and contacted them yet. He’s just a teenager; surely there’s someone out there looking for him.
“Nice work today, Sloan,” Dr. Peterman says to me. His reassurance feels so good to me, and I know that when it comes down to me officially graduating, he’ll be a huge part in making sure I end up with my dream job here at the hospital. “I think you can handle the rehabilitation plan for this one if you want to get started on it. I’ll be back in a little bit to check your work.”
This was the first time he’d ever suggested such a thing. Normally, we worked together on projects like this. I’m so excited about the opportunity that I almost forget about the patient himself. Who he is. What that could possibly mean for me.
I shut myself in the office with a huge cup of coffee and try to focus on the task at hand.
It’s not happening.
There’s only one thing weighing on my mind.
That giant stamp tattooed across Hank Boden’s chest. One I’ve seen before, if only for a short moment of my life.
That one-night stand with a tall dark bearded mountain man that actually never happened. The one that I play over and over again in my brain, imagining what actually might’ve happened if I let my guard down and let myself have a wild night of casual sex with a biker that I hardly knew. My lady parts tingle just thinking about it.
Gavin, sexy Mountain Misfit, is the stuff that wet dreams are made of, and until now, I’ve been able to keep him right where he belongs with a little help from my best friend, Olive—as far away from me as possible. Only in my dreams.
Even just the idea of him right now is messing with my productivity. I have a stack of paperwork spread out on the desk and I’m just picturing him storming through the hospital door, staring me down with those dark eyes, and dragging me into the janitor closet. I don’t know what it is about him. He definitely doesn’t seem nice.
He seems like my type.
The exact opposite of nice. The big bad wolf not even dressed in sheep’s clothing, but in leather and tight denim.
That’s why I’ve sworn him off, at least until I am done with school and gainfully employed. Head down, nose clean.
I take a big swig of my coffee, burning my tongue recklessly.
That’s how I’m acting right now. Recklessly. I need to get back into that productivity zone.
I pull up a chart on the computer and start making a case file for him. I’m surprised he’s not in the system at all. Based on that fact, I’m fairly certain any effort I make on his rehab plan is probably going in the trash, but I need to show Dr. Peterman that I’m capable of doing this on my own.
I can’t picture this kid doing physical therapy, but he’s going to need it if he wants his leg to function normally ever again.
I hate thinking about the fact that he’s being pumped full of painkillers right now, given the obvious signs of drug use, but again, I doubt anything I do or say is going to solve that problem.
I distance myself from any assumptions and just get lost in the work.
Follow the protocol, Sloan, I keep reminding myself. I’m so close to the finish line.
I’m having a hard time focusing. I can’t stop worrying about who this kid is and if anyone even knows that he’s missing. The Mountain Misfits are known to be fairly reclusive, keeping to themselves high up on the mountain. My best friend, Olive, works for them at the Bucktail Saloon, though, and I’m sure she could probably send out a message for me. I pull out my phone to text her.
Sloan: You working?
Olive: Yes, but I can leave if you want to chill!!!!!
Sloan: We have Hank Boden here.
Sloan: Motorcycle accident. He’s in recovery.
Olive: Shit!!!
Sloan: Can you contact his family?
Olive: I’m here with his dad. I will send him. Text me the info. Thank u.
Sloan: No problem.
Olive: Can u hide his shit?
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Sloan: What?
Olive: Never mind. Forget I said that.
Olive: You know that’s Gavin’s brother?
My heart damn near stops. It’s gross and I feel like a horrible person, yet overly excited at the same time. I don’t ever want to see someone get severely injured, but I’m going to get to see that sexy stranger again. Who knows? Maybe things have fizzled in the months since I met him, but the stirring in my core tells me otherwise.
Sloan: Oh no! Well tell him Hank is going to be ok. He’s pretty banged up, that’s all. I’ll tell him all about it when he gets here.
She sends me a couple angry face emojis.
Sloan: Just doing my job.
Olive: And I’m just doing mine!!!!!
Captain Cock Block, queen of keeping me out of trouble. What is a girl supposed to do, though? Sometimes work and pleasure get mixed up. I’m going to do my best to keep my cool.
Dr. Peterman is going to be back any minute now. I toss my phone in my pocket and turn to the screen in front of me.
“Tibial fracture rehab protocol:” I type. “Phase I – in-house care.”
I begin typing up the first week of Hank’s recovery, which will mostly be strict bed rest. It’s fairly boring: figuring out which specialists need to see the patient at what time and what goals need to be met to get him back to full recovery, but my coffee is finally cool enough to chug down, and I zip through my work effortlessly.
Gavin
I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s Olive, my manager at the Bucktail Saloon. She normally doesn’t need my help unless there’s an emergency. I step outside into the fresh mountain air.
“What’s up, girl?”
“Hey…” she says somberly. “Goob wrecked. He’s ok; please don’t panic. Your dad is on his way to the hospital now, but I thought I should let you know.”
“Oh shit. How’d you find out?” We don’t really do conventional medicine up here. We have a “guy,” Patch, who’s been taking care of us for years. He can dig a bullet out of a body like the best of ’em. I would be surprised if Goob was even in the system at this point. Who knows when the last time was he saw a doctor down there?
“I have my sources.”
She has A source at the hospital. And I know exactly who it is. The chick who has been just out of my reach for all these months, the woman that Olive has been doing everything in her power to keep me away from because she thinks I’ll be a bad influence on her.
I probably won’t be a good influence on her, I mean, I’m halfway hard just thinking about her perky little tits and tight ass in a pair of scrubs, but I’ve been really making an effort lately to clean my act up so she doesn’t think I’m a complete degenerate. No more sticking my dick in dirty birdies or blowing rails of coke ’til all hours of the night with the boys. The only thing I’ve been banging is floorboards since the day I met Sloan.
“You still there?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll head down now.”
I’m not happy that my brother is in the hospital, obviously no one wants to see their kin hurt, but everyone said it was only a matter of time before we found him dead or in a ditch. The kid has had a rough life, and I thought I could help him, but all I did was make him worse. Meaner, badder, more reckless. Maybe this will be the nudge he needs to slow down.
“Stay away from Sloan!” she says, knowing exactly where my mind is. Olive is 5’2 and cute as hell, with tight blonde curls and a perfect pout, but when she’s being serious, she kind of scares me. “If you get her in trouble YOU’RE going to need a trauma surgeon.”
“She’s a grown woman, Ollie.”
“And your brother just got out of surgery,” she taunts.
“I know. Can you stop lecturing me so I can get down there before my dad does something ridiculous? He’s the one you need to worry about.” He’s probably got the place turned upside down by now. Anytime that man sets foot in a building that isn’t a bar, he turns into a feral dog, snarling, snapping, and pissing everywhere. “I’ll keep you posted on Goob.”
“Hey,” I yell to the guys. “We gotta go. Goob wrecked.”
“Oh shit. He ok? The cops got him?” Heat asks.
“He’s in the hospital.”
They rush out the door and I lock up behind them.
The three of us mount our bikes. The clubhouse is only a few minutes away, thanks to the trails my grandfather and his brothers cut through the side of the mountain.
Pacing around outside the house is the president of one of our allied clubs, The Sabers. He’s a short dark man whose bite is way worse than his bark. I’m more than happy to have him on our team. I’ve seen the kind of things that happen to his enemies.
“Where’s your old man?” he asks as soon as he spots me. He looks pissed. Telling him what’s going on downtown could be a big mistake. There’s no need to let anyone on the outside in on the fact that things aren’t operating business as usual today.
“He’s busy.”
“I really don’t care. We need to have a sit-down.”
By the empty black glare of his eyes and the dark wrinkled frown on his face, I can tell it’s not going to be a friendly meet and greet. I’m on a mission, though, and I don’t have time to track down my troublemaking father.
“Brooks, you wanna handle this for me, brother? Why don’t you see if Esther wants to show Mr. Jaso around the place while we try and find Moses.”
My sister has a way of dealing with angry men that none of us other Misfits are capable of. I don’t ask many questions; I just know it’s her way of helping out the club. It’s been that way for years.
“Esther, eh?” His beady little eyes light up. “I could use a little religion in my life.”
Brooks shoots me a look that could kill. I don’t know what to tell him aside from the fact that Esther is a grown woman and she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“I’m outta here,” I tell him. “I’ll keep you guys posted.”
I straddle my blacked-out Indian Chief Dark Horse, hit the throttle, and start the engine, the sound of pure bliss and freedom under most circumstances. I usually enjoy the ride down the side of the mountain, connecting with nature all the way, but today I’m just in a hurry; in a hurry to make sure Goob’s alright, and if I’m lucky, maybe catch a glimpse of this girl who’s been messing with my head since the day I met her.
CHAPTER 4
Sloan
I can’t believe after all the effort Olive has made to keep me out of any of this motorcycle club shit, that she would even suggest this.
I’m pretty sure the orders aren’t coming directly from her mouth, but regardless, she asked me to do something that could seriously put my career in jeopardy.
And yet, here I am doing it—rooting around in Hank’s pants pockets, his leather cut, anything that I find laying in this locker in his room. I’m sure the police have already been through what they need at the scene of the accident, but here I am, double-checking just in case.
Just by the feel of it, I know exactly what this bag in his pants pocket is before I can even see it. I’ve seen thousands of them in my day. I used to call them “tuition bags.” I tried to laugh about it at the time, but the truth was, this thing I’m holding in my hand is the worst thing in the world to me. I don’t blame Hank. I blame whoever got him hooked on it to begin with, and whoever is sleazy enough to keep selling it to him.
I slip it into my pocket, looking over my shoulder the whole time. I have every right to be in the room with him, as it’s my job to oversee his recovery from the accident, but I’m sure if anyone caught me digging around in here, they’d have no problem running straight to the board of directors. I don’t know exactly how many “strikes” I have against me, as we never really openly discussed my arrest or the trial, but I’m sure this would be the one that gets me officially tossed out of the program.
I walk over to his side, double-checking the monitors beeping away next to him.
&nb
sp; “Hank Boden, what’s your deal?” I whisper, watching his eyelids flutter a little as he lays there in the hospital bed. He’s still in the recovery room, still coming down off of anesthesia, and I wish I could keep him that way a little longer. He’s in for a long and painful rehab as soon as he wakes up.
Part of me is hanging around because I don’t want him to have to be alone when he awakens, just in case nobody makes it in time. He’s definitely going to be frightened, in pain, and probably really confused. Although I know that being a proficient surgeon is critical to my success at this career, I sometimes have a soft spot for my patients. I hate to see human suffering. I want to help heal the world.
Of course there’s more to my attention to Hank than just that.
There’s a small part of me hoping Gavin will be the one to walk through those doors.
I watch his vitals on the monitor as his chest drops down and fills up, his breathing becoming less shallow as each moment passes.
“Where the fuck is my son?” a voice booms through the hallway. I look out the window blinds and see an older man charging down the corridor, peeking in windows and knocking on doors. He looks vaguely familiar to me, but the lines on his face and the gray in his beard are not who I was hoping for; not who I wanted to deal with at all. Carol is doing her best to keep up with him but her nicotine habit is getting the best of her lung power.
“Sir, you need to calm down. I’ll take you to him, but you have to be respectful of the other patients,” she yells.
“Buzz off, blondie,” he barks. When his eyes catch mine, I am instantly filled with fear. His leather cut tells me everything I need to know. The president of the Mountain Misfits sneers at me before barnstorming the room.
“I need discharge papers now,” he says in a low deep snarl. It takes everything in me not to laugh. Of all the ridiculous suggestions I’ve heard in my life, me discharging a patient who is currently anesthetized has to be one of the craziest.
“Sir, that’s simply not possible,” I say. “He’s not even awake yet.” My voice is wavering, but I need to stand my ground. In any other setting, I’d probably be frightened by a man like this, but this hospital is my home. This is my turf, and I’m not going to let some delusional man stroll in and boss me around.