“Get the hell out of here,” he barked, glaring until the door shut, and then turned and nodded at the Prospect. “You too.”
Without another word, the kid dragged Dolce’s prone form out into the hallway, the bathroom door swinging shut behind them. In one swift step, Bronson shut and locked it, giving it a punch for good measure. Rowan had risen to her feet and was splashing tap water over her face, staring stonily down at the sink. Bronson leaned against the door and looked at her, unsure what to say and unaware that he was mimicking what Dolce had done.
At length, he cleared his throat. “You’re too damn beautiful for your own good.”
“What, so I asked for it?” She flashed angry eyes at him, but then raised a shaky hand to her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Of course not.” Bronson rubbed a hand soothingly on her back. “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault, for bringing you into this.”
Rowan sighed, leaning tiredly against the solid support of Bronson’s body behind her. “No,” she murmured, “I’m the one who came here looking for criminals. I guess I’m just not as tough as I thought. What if I can’t do this, Bronson? What if I can’t keep up with you and your…family?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Bronson said, kissing her hair. “I’m tough.”
Rowan laughed, maneuvering her body in his arms until her face was pressed longingly into the plane of his broad, hairless chest. “Don’t leave me alone too long,” she murmured. “Look what happens.”
Bronson’s pulse quickened. Her hands were pressed against his abs, the curve of her breasts and hips clinging heavily to his adrenaline-soaked muscles. “I won’t,” he said, realizing it was a promise. “I don’t want to. I want to be with you. Rowan, you’re my woman, right? I want to know. I want to hear you say it.”
She blinked up at him, frowning. He had just fought for her, rescued her, proven to her that he cared. How could she show him what that meant to her? Her fingers wound into his hair, her hips twisted and pushed against his.
“You have any doubts about that Ramsey?” She took a step back and raised herself to sit on the sink. With a sly smile, she beckoned to him with an outstretched finger. Simultaneously, she reached out her legs and wrapped them around his thighs, drawing him in closer. “I don’t know what sex usually means to you, but you’re the only man I’ve had.” He was standing between her legs, the heat of her crotch reaching him through their jeans. “You’re the only man I want.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing softly against his face. “I’m with you. You said I’m your old lady. I mean, I’m not that old, so, does that mean I’m the only woman you want? I’m the one you’ll protect, stay with?”
“Yeah,” Bronson whispered. His lips touched hers and lingered, not yet a kiss, but throbbing closeness. The cracking dryness of his skin bordered her lush wetness. Intimacy. Blurring lines of being. “You are.”
Tears leaked out of Rowan’s eyes as strong emotion crashed through her mind. She had gone from attack to sanctuary in less than a minute and felt dizzy, spinning. A strong sense of belonging linked her with Bronson, while the drifting discomfort of being an outsider in the club kept her spirit at sea. Exhaustion, desire, fear, and gratitude pulled at her from all directions, and she fought to bury her confusion in the sloppy, hungry kiss that she gave Bronson.
“I need you,” she whispered. “I need you, Bronson.”
Their tongues rolled over each other, familiar and desperate, the very roots of their beings yearning to get closer. Closer.
Rowan’s legs enveloped Bronson’s hips in a binding vice-like hold. Bronson had wrestled and boxed for most of his life, destroying some of the most famous grapplers in mixed martial arts, but in this moment he felt utterly powerless to break free from Rowan’s touch. Even if he had wanted to pull back, his body had a mind of its own and surged nearer and nearer to hers, seeking union and oblivion and release. With a moan, he rocked up and in, letting her silky flesh enfold him.
Bronson’s hands searched for gaps in Rowan’s shorts, urging higher toward the delicate skin of her inner thighs. The probing pressure of his fingers made her wet and warm, and she responded by kissing him deeply, urgently. He lifted her hips off the sink, but her legs kept their clasp and held her up tight against him even as he fumbled with the zipper of her shorts. Getting her out of them was awkward and had them both laughing softly; she was reluctant to disentangle her legs from their stranglehold around her man and Bronson was eager to get access to her pussy.
After a brief struggle of wills, a compromise was reached. Bronson leaned Rowan’s heaving body against the sink again and coaxed her shorts and thong down off her ankles. Once the landing pad was clear he ricocheted his hips back to position up close and personal as quickly as possible, rubbing his pelvis along her welcoming flesh and groaning in pleasure.
Rowan wasn’t satisfied to tease and pushed him away, reaching greedily for his fly. It had been a rough evening and she was not messing around. She needed Bronson inside her, needed the comfort of his possession, and had no patience for foreplay. His rock-hard cock was out in her hand in seconds, and he tripped in surprise, his jeans still caught around his knees. She led him back to her, arching her hips, and guided his naked cock as he thrust in to her wet pussy.
The moment their bodies locked, Rowan tossed her head back and gasped. Bronson traced his fingers along the extended line of her throat, following with his lips. He launched his shaft into her pulsing sex and thrust in a steady, firm rhythm, laying his claim on her and relishing the feel of her palms pressed against his chest.
In the bathroom mirror he could see their reflection; her slender back, her hair in disarray, her naked hips curving wide over the sink to open to him, his broad shoulders and arms sheltering her. He smiled at himself and turned her chin a little so she could see them too. She laughed.
“Look at you,” he said. “Look at that junk. You’re gorgeous. I love fucking you.”
Perched on the high top of the sink, Rowan’s angle was intense and, when he pounded into her, the friction hot. He could feel her interior walls shuddering and throbbing against his dick, wet and firm. They surged together, moaning, straining. The build to heaven was fast and furious.
“Bronson,” she whispered in between shuddering breaths, her arms clutching him hard. “I’m falling for you.”
“Baby,” he replied, “I’m down and out.”
“Oh God,” she moaned, caught in the wheels of a long orgasm as the momentum pulled her under. Her limbs convulsed restlessly, every nerve on fire, the white heat pulsing from the pleasure center between her legs. Her teeth felt like they were burning, her whole body shuddering. “I love you Bronson!”
He barely heard her, driven by his need to join in the explosion. He boned her deeper, harder, faster. They trembled together as one, their fuses sparking each other, until the fireworks went off in Bronson’s body.
“Yes, baby, uh, God!” Bronson pulled Rowan up off the sink and slammed her against the wall, letting his body seize up in surrender. She ground her necessaries into him, extending the ride. His weight embraced her, enveloped her as she enveloped him, and with a groan he came, shaking in ecstasy. “Fuck, Rowan, yes!”
He slumped against the wall with Rowan, panting, and let his cock slide out. He pulled up his pants as the thundering of his heartbeat cooled and pressed Rowan into his arms.
“It’s not always like this,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “It’s not always this upside-down with the club. I’ll make it better for you. I promise.”
If there was anything Rowan had learned about life so far, it was that it always got worse before it got better. She sighed and fished her clothes up from where they had fallen. When she was dressed she straightened, suddenly weary.
“Take me home.”
Home. Where was that?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An offhand glance at that tyrant clock over the nursing station confirmed that i
t was that most magical time of day: shift change time. Day to evening was always a mass exodus of tired, cranky personnel to the nearest exit, and therefore a convenient backdrop for shenanigans. Terry Russo knew from careful calculation that she would have exactly seven minutes to do what she had to do, seven minutes before the fresh night people rose up from the locker room like summoned ghouls and started straightening up the laces that had loosened throughout the afternoon.
“Well I’m off,” sighed Terry with a sweet smile at her supervisor, Denise. “Keep it together tonight, ladies. Don’t be too jealous of my hot date. Someone’s out there for you too.”
“That’s right, you’re going to the fight! Eww,” Rhonda shuddered, shuffling through a stack of files for a patient’s information. “You’re such a good fiancé, I don’t think I could sit through it even for a diamond. So violent!”
Terry laughed and squiggled her name on the clipboard timesheet, shaking her head yet again at the bizarre, random inefficiencies of certain administrative policies of Desert Springs Hospital. Why a clipboard timesheet? For God’s sake, it was the twenty-first century.
“Well, love makes you do crazy things,” she chuckled, winking at Rhonda and unclipping her nametag. “Besides, a couple guys pummeling each other with a referee to intervene has to be way prettier than some of the stuff we see in the ER.”
“True story sister. Well, enjoy! I’m going home to my own hot date: my cat and Netflix.”
With a round of polite laughter, the RNs scuttled away like revolving dodos on a cuckoo clock, leaving Terry alone with her window of opportunity. There was silence on the floor, only the far-off beeping of monitors echoing from patients’ rooms. Terry calmly turned and opened drawer one of the crash cart, humming complacently as her fingertips drummed over the sodium bicarbonate and sodium chloride solutions until she came to the one dissonant package.
“One of these things is not like another thing,” Terry sang under her breath, pocketing the powder suspension a friend in pharmacy had secretly tucked away for her earlier. With a subtle gesture she unburied the nasogastric tube she had planted in a disheveled corner of the station, stashing it in her purse. Satisfied, she put on her sweater and marched casually down a flight of stairs, past the cafeteria, and out through admissions.
“Bye Jessica,” she waved at the receptionist, and was Scott-free. She pulled out her cell and shot off a text to her fiancé: “Got it. Coming.”
Her man was right: you really could get away with anything if you acted with confidence and calm; it was all in the way you carried yourself. He had proved it the day they met, when she'd found him snooping around outside of visiting hours. What should have been a scolding had quickly turned into a dinner date. Now, he had groomed her for an important task.
“Be casual,” he had said. “Just go about your business as if it’s what you do every day. No one’s gonna mess you up if act like you belong.” That’s was his secret: confidence. Everything about his polished appearance exuded power. That intangible ease and charm had been the first thing to sweep her off her feet and out of her senses, more so than the expensive gifts and the glamorous Las Vegas nights. He’d certainly changed her expectations in life. Now here she was, stealing from the hospital for him.
Love makes you do crazy things.
Igniting her engine and pulling her silver Audi A4 onto East Flamingo Road, Terry laughed to herself for most of the ten-minute drive. “Bunch of jamooks!” She giggled, imitating one of her fiancé's favorite expressions and the silly frown that usually accompanied it.
He’d be pleased with her tonight. He’d sworn he’d reward her generously as soon as they were alone, and she shivered in anticipation. It was always nice to be on his good side—he could be so loving when he wanted to be.
Despite the afternoon traffic it was only a hop skip and a jump until Terry turned from East Tropicana Ave onto South Las Vegas Boulevard and pointed herself at the shimmering façade of Mandalay Bay. When she finally presented herself to the concierge, she was greeted warmly and escorted to a waiting elevator that went directly to the boss’ apartment on the top floor. He had one in all of his casinos, but this might be Terry’s least favorite: it was cold and modern, the boxy lines and beige coloring of the furnishings reminding her of the hospital.
One of his bodyguards opened the door for her, nodding the concierge escort away and ushering Terry through the high-ceilinged entryway until she came to the living room. She felt important, with such attention. And there he was waiting for her, those warm chocolate eyes sparking with intelligence and secrets. Terry practically skipped over to him.
“Joey!” She curled her body into him, kissing him desperately, turned on by the knowledge that he had really needed her help today.
“Hi gorgeous.” Joey Auditore allowed his hands one pass over her supple back before pushing his demonstrative lady friend back a step. “Business first baby, then pleasure. You remember Ramsey, I think? He’s got a big fight tonight.”
Recalling the task at hand, Terry turned to survey her patient. She remembered the wide hairless chest, the bulging muscles, and the intricate tattoos illustrating his skin from all the UFC posters but hadn’t realized the last time they’d met at a dinner table just how gigantic he was in person. He was strapped to a chair this time; his handsome face was screwed up in pain and his eyes flashing with anger. Four enforcers stood in a semi-circle around him, their sweat and breathlessness indicating a recent struggle.
Joey gave Terry a pat on the ass and lowered himself into a crisp leather chair, facing his defiant guest. “Let’s get going kids, the clock is ticking. Fight time is in an hour and a half.” He watched as Terry began to remove her goods from her purse and set up, his teeth showing in a smirk of victory. “Ramsey had a beef with our strategy for the night, as he had some trouble grasping that his reign as champion should be at an end so soon. That’s what happens when you piss off King Kang, Ramsey.”
Bronson’s eyes lit up. He recognized that name, and the puzzle pieces snapped together. So, that metro-sexual asshole john had ratted them out. Well, it was too late for retribution now. If Joey knew about the Ruiners’ soliciting and robbing johns in his casinos, then the game was a bust. And he probably also knew about Rowan. Not good. In a burst of resentment, Bronson surged against the duct tape restraints that bound him and his chair lurched forward a few inches, creaking angrily. The display brought another punch to the back of his head from one of Joey’s goons. Bronson saw stars and groaned.
“Easy!” shouted Joey. “Stick above the hairline, we can’t show any bumps. We want him pretty for the cameras.” With an effort, Joey resumed his cool façade. “Ramsey, you are a fucking idiot. My brother and I showed you mercy, took you from dirty cage fights and gave you a name. Why’d you have to go and shit where you eat? I don’t understand you bikers, this death wish you all seem to have. You can’t ride in a car, you gotta donate your organs on a god damn steel bicycle. What’s the point? I don’t get this self-destruction bullshit. Bringing your street friends into our casinos…not smart, guy. Almost like you wanted to make us angry. Is that what you wanted? Well, you got it. You and your club are done. You will go on tonight and fight, only, you’ll be mezza morta from the first bell. No chances Ramsey. You are out of chances. You lose! Game fucking over.”
Joey stood and lit a cigarette, turning his back and looking out the window. The desert sun was just setting behind the distant mountains, changing the steaming gold of the strip to a hazy purple. It was the witching hour, when the law-abiding citizens went home and the fun started. “Here’s how it’s going down,” said Joey, dragging his cig. “You will wrap up your contract with my family tonight, and the ceasefire with the Ruiners MC is over. See, we’re betting against you now. You gotta lose tonight whether you like it or not. Then you won’t have been a total disappointment. We make our money back, a bunch of bikers become road-kill, and no one will be able to prove it was anything but natural causes. My friend in
the medical profession has seen to that. Miss Nurse, the meds if you please. Might as well tell us what it’s gonna do, I don’t like surprises.”
Terry’s latex gloves were on and everything was in place. She picked up the NG tube, unsure who she should address as she worked. Finally, she picked an enforcer and locked eyes. “He needs to tilt his head forward, chin to chest, if you can help please.”
Bronson could do little to stop them, and experienced a terrifying moment. What were they going to do to him? He clamped his mouth shut, determined not to give Joey the satisfaction of any comment. Powerful arms cinched his head in an unshakeable grip from behind, and there was no way to use his restrained body to thrash loose.
Terry quietly measured the tube along his nose, ear and chest, then marked a spot with tape and dipped the end of the tube in some KY jelly. Bronson eyed her coolly. “So this is an NG tube,” she said, her nursing protocol taking over, as if she were in the midst of a normal routine. “It’s going through the nose to the stomach. I’ll pump in about 60 grams of sodium polystyrene sulfonate. Since this usually treats potassium poisoning or calcium deficiency and he’s normal right now, this will throw his electrolytes into imbalance, drain his bloodstream of potassium and cause hypokalemia.”
There was a pregnant pause as Terry wrapped the end of the tube around her finger, curling it, before stepping toward Bronson.
“Don’t she sound smart?” Joey took a long luscious drag of his cigarette and chuckled to himself. “Basically, Ramsey, that means you’ll be hot mess dot com. You’ll be twitchy, your muscles will go weak and your heart—that’s a muscle—just might give out. Oh well. At least there will be no trace of any drugs in your piss test or autopsy.”
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