by K. L. Savage
“Rachel—”
“Don’t Rachel me,” she clips, aiming the gun in the middle of his forehead. “The abuse ends today.” She turns her head, closes her eyes, and pulls the trigger one last time.
Seven bullets for seven years.
She tosses the gun aside and somehow manages to find the strength to stand. She runs to me, barely able to breathe. She unties my wrists from the bed posts and gently pulls up my pants.
I groan in relief. My arms tingle back to life, and a fresh ooze of blood flows out of my shoulder. I can’t flip to my back. Everything hurts. “Mom?” I rasp, and she lays down on her side next to me, her small blue eyes swimming with regret.
She kisses my forehead and pushes my sweaty hair out of my face. “I’m so sorry. My baby, oh, my sweet boy.” Mom wraps her hand around the back of my neck and buries my face in her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. It’s over. He will never hurt you again.” She leans back and stares at the significance of my injuries. “God, we need to get you to a doctor.”
A fresh wave of fear has me trembling. “No, no doctors, Mom, please. No more doctors.” And like the weak boy I am, I let all of the pain break free. “I can’t. No more, please, no more.”
“Shh, sweetie, shh.” She holds me close. “Not all doctors are bad, but I can call in a favor. I know people who can take care of this.” She’s careful as she touches me. “Did he… Did he… Oh god! He did, didn’t he?” She sits up and presses a hand against her stomach. “He touched you. I can’t believe I didn’t trust my instincts. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Mom, he didn’t.” My teeth chatter as I reach for her, shock taking over my frail body. Every move is like another cut against my skin. “It’s okay. I never wanted you to know.” I swallow, licking the salt off my lips. “He said he’d hurt you if you ever found out.”
She stands from the bed and reaches into her back pocket, and then kneels on the ground to stare at me. “You better not ever do that again. You don’t protect me. I protect you. You hear me? Do you understand?” A soft kiss lands on my sweaty forehead. I close my eyes, and for the first time in years I feel safe.
“I’m so tired,” I answer.
“Rest, baby. I’m calling friends to come help us. I’ve represented them in court a few times.”
“Sounds illegal,” I try to joke, but the sad attempt to laugh has my wounds stretching.
Mom runs her fingers through my hair as she places the phone against her ear, and it nearly has me falling into unconsciousness. The longer my back goes without being treated, the more the fire slithering across it comes to life.
“It is, but I’m a criminal defense attorney. A lot of what I do isn’t legal. Plus, you’re my son. I’d call the Devil himself if I could,” she reassures and sits on the edge of the bed. “Rusty, I’m calling in that favor. I need you to come to my house. Bring your doctor please. My son has been hurt, and I have a body for you to take care of. She glances down at her wrist to look at her watch. “Thirty minutes?” she cuts her eyes to me. “We can make it. Please, just hurry, Rusty. Thank you.” That’s all that’s said as she hangs up the phone and tosses it on the floor next to my father’s dead body.
“Just hang on, sweetie. Help is coming, okay?”
Her words drift further away as my eyes grow heavy. I try to stay awake as long as I can, but it’s so difficult not to lose consciousness. I’m not sure how long I lay there, but I feel the vibrations of a stampede entering the house. That’s how heavy they are.
A low whistle fills the room. “Damn, Rachel, what the fuck happened?”
“This bastard has been abusing my son. I caught him. I killed him. I need the body taken care of. My son needs medical care as well. Please, I’ll forever be in the Demon’s Fury Philadelphia Chapter’s debt.”
“Sugar, we’re in your debt after what you did for Gambler. Doc! Come tend to the kid. Relax, Rachel, we got it from here.” An older guy with a long silver beard and a bald head yells for someone named Doc. I don’t know if it’s the blurriness in my vision or my mind making things up, but the way this biker guy is looking at my mom makes me uneasy.
The bed dips beside me, and I manage to turn my head to get a look at the guy who’s going to clean me up. He has a shaved head, tattoos up and down his arms. He has a ring through his nose, and his lip pierced. “You,” I gasp, “don’t look like a doctor.” My eyes fall to his black leather vest that says ‘Doc’ on the left side.
He smirks, but his eyes remain soft as he takes in my injuries. “I get that a lot,” he says. “Looks like your old man did a number on ya, kid.”
“He always did.”
“I’m going to knock you out so I can deal with all of these. I feel like you’ve been in enough pain, don’t you?”
“Sounds nice,” I slur then wince when I remember my ass. “I don’t trust doctors, but if my mom trusts you, I do. There are wounds on my ass too.”
I expect him to laugh, but his jaw is tight in anger, and he nods. “I gathered from the blood on your shorts. I assumed it was…”
“Almost. Mom came in and saved the day.”
Doc inserts a needle in my arm, and my eyes grow heavier and heavier. “She’s good at that. Your ma is a badass. Relax, kid, you’re in good hands.”
“Rachel, come here. We need to talk.” The gravel voice has me glancing up where a tall man is putting his arm around my mom’s shoulders.
The man, Rusty if I remember correctly, opens my dad’s briefcase. My mom turns her chin over her shoulder, staring at me with concern.
“What the hell is that, Rusty?” my mom tries to whisper, but she’s never been good at lowering her voice when she’s mad. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a cut—”
“—I know what a goddamn cut is, Rusty. Why is it in my husband’s briefcase?”
The medicine Doc gave me starts to hit and everything around me blurs, goes into focus, and then blurs again.
“Your husband worked for the Ruthless Kings Atlantic City Chapter; it seems.”
“That worthless piece of shit,” my mom sneers and reaches for the gun Rusty has holstered on his hip, but he stops her by grabbing her shoulders.
“He’s already dead, Rachel.”
“Like I give a damn, Rusty. I want to kill him a hundred times,” she starts to cry and Rusty pulls her into a hug, rubbing his hands up and down her back.
What? My dad? Working for a biker club? I must be dreaming already. This medicine is strong and working wonders.
Mom presses her finger against Rusty’s chest after she pulls away and sniffles. “You better—”
“Mom?” I slur and reach out my hand for her to take.
She spins around quickly, drops to her knees, and takes my hand in hers. “Everything is okay, rest, baby. We are good. I’m going to take care of everything.” She presses a kiss against my forehead, and I can’t fight the medicine for much longer.
I’m not sure if I believe in good anymore.
I think the only aspects that exist are wrong. Not right, not good, not bad, but… wrong. And it’s how people choose how wrong they want to be. There isn’t a good path or a path less traveled. When people say that, it’s a way to cover up the selfishness that controls them.
There are choices.
Bad and worse.
My mom has made a bad choice to be friendly with this group of guys, but my dad made a worse choice in hurting me. Now, who knows what my mom has to do in order to return the favor. They don’t seem like the kind of men who accept freshly baked cookies as a payback.
I’ve never felt more confused in my life, but I know one thing. The only love that exists is a mother’s love. It’s the only one powerful enough to change an outcome, to protect a soul. My mother’s love is a shield, and today, she saved my life.
She’s a knight in shining stilettos.
What other love is that fierce?
None.
Everyone else’s can go straight to hell.
Present Day
I’m putting tilapia skin dressings on Moretti to give this experimental treatment a try. I have to do everything to make sure his injuries are slim to none. I’m not trying to have a mafia boss wake up and order my throat slit because I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure he looks his best.
There’s a ton of research that says the properties in fish skin are a very effective and efficient way to reduce the burn scars and help them heal quicker.
“It smells like pussy down here,” Bullseye says as he climbs down the stairs.
I stop what I’m doing and sigh in annoyance. I hate it when people come down here when they know I’m busy. I’m wearing a mask, gloves, gown, and face shield and while yes, it smells like fish, saying it smells like the space between a woman’s legs is rude. “I don’t know what pussy you’ve been around that smells like this, but if it does, as your doctor, I suggest you stay away from it.” Not that Bullseye would. The guy loves to have sex with the cut-sluts, sometimes making it a threesome, foursome, even.
And today must be his STD screening that he takes every three months. He might have sex with everything that walks, but at least he’s responsible.
“Oh, shit, Doc! What are you doing to Moretti? That’s nasty.” Bullseye runs toward the side of the hospital bed and peers down, watching me place a piece of silver scaled skin across Moretti’s neck. “It reeks, Doc.” He waves his hand in front of his nose, and another huff of annoyance leaves my lips. I straighten my back and give him a look that tells him to shut up.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“I don’t know if this will work. It’s been months, and his body has already healed so much. The scars can’t get much better, but I’m not going to give up.”
“I like that about you, Doc. You’re a good guy.”
There’s that fucking word again. Good. I hate that word. It’s nothing but pretentious and fake. No one is good. There isn’t anything someone decides to do that doesn’t involve selfish gain. Want to feel good about yourself? Donate, volunteer, be a doctor, save a life. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a doctor. At least, I know they are in good hands, but good?
No.
I’m selfish. I love that I’m the one who saves their life. Me. Being a doctor is a feel-good drug, and it’s filled with selfishness.
“I’m doing what I have to do,” I say, not liking the compliment. I don’t know what to do with them. They make me uncomfortable. My own scars start to itch, and the phantom drag of my dad’s scalpel has each old wound burning again. A sharp inhale escapes me, and I freeze, letting the tilapia skin dangle from the tip of the tweezers as my body works through the past.
“Doc, you okay?” Bullseye asks, wrapping his bear paw of a hand around my wrist.
The sudden, unexpected touch has me jerking back and dropping the fish skin on the floor. I’m not mad, but I’m embarrassed. Everyone in this club has their skeletons, and mine haven’t come to the surface yet. I don’t plan on letting them out either. They will stay locked inside of me for the rest of my life.
“I’m fine, sorry. What can I help you with, Bullseye?” I say with a quick clearing of my throat. I take another skin from the sterilized tray and gently lay it over the other side of Moretti’s neck.
“I have an appointment, Doc. It’s a bit personal this time.”
As if having to examine his junk isn’t personal enough, but it isn’t like Bullseye to lead with this. He isn’t a personal kind of guy. He does things that others consider personal, but he has his emotional button turned off. Nothing is personal to him. I pinch my brows together in concern, lay the tweezers in the sterilized tray, and take a step back from Moretti.
I haven’t voiced this out loud, but there is no medical concern as to why he hasn’t woken up. His brain scans are perfect. His body is healed to the point where I’m just trying new experiments to help with his appearance. In my medical opinion—I do not think Moretti will ever wake up again. I’m going to have to talk to Reaper about setting up a meeting with Moretti’s brother to discuss pulling the plug. His organs are still good, and Moretti can save a lot of lives. All I know is it has been a year, and there has been no change.
Honestly, a different doctor would have called it quits a long time ago.
“Sure, Bullseye. Come on, step into my office and tell me what’s on your mind. We can get started on your physical.” I undress from the PPE and turn toward my office just as my cell phone rings on the desk. I hurry behind the desk to make sure it isn’t a blood bank telling me my pick-up is ready. It’s my Mom.
I never ignore my mom.
“Bullseye, give me a second, okay? It’s my mom.”
“Sure, yeah, go ahead. I understand.” He sits down and rubs his palms down his thigh. He seems nervous. He’s sweating. “I can come back later,” he mouths when I place the phone against my ear.
My head gives a slight shake. “Hey, Mom. Everything okay? I’m with a patient.”
“Eric, sweetie, this won’t take long. Can you come over later for dinner?”
That’s weird. Our dinners are always on Sundays. It’s Wednesday. Something has happened. I lean forward and press my elbows on the desk. “Mom, what’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
Bullseye cocks his head and smooths a hand over his mouth, worried from hearing the stress in my voice.
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, sweetie. Just come to the house, okay?”
“Mom, I don’t like this. Please, I’m going to be riddled with anxiety until you tell me.”
“It isn’t something to be discussed over the phone. Come over for dinner and bring wine. Okay?”
I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there at six.”
“Good. Now, tell me you love me.”
I snort and roll my eyes. She has done this shit since I was a kid whenever we are on the phone. Growing up, it was the perfect way to embarrass me in front of my friends. Now I don’t care. I’m not afraid to admit I’m a momma’s boy through and through. She’s the only person who’s been there for me through everything. She’s killed for me. She killed the man she thought was the love of her life. Telling her I love her is the least I can do.
“You know I love you, Mom.”
Bullseye grins and sends me a wink.
I flick him off.
“I love you too. Bring the good stuff, sweetie.”
“You got it. I’ll see you later.” I laugh and hang up the phone, then school my face when Bullseye and I meet eyes.
“What?” I snap, slamming my phone a bit harder on the table than necessary when I see Bullseye smiling at me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I forgot how close you were with your mom. It’s cute. A lot of the guys don’t have parents, and if they do, they don’t talk to them. How’s your mom doing? Is she good?”
I rub a hand through my hair when I think about her invite for dinner. I’m thirty-years-old, and she hasn’t been with anyone since Dad. If that isn’t it, then it’s bad news. I’ll be honest, when it comes to Mom, I don’t deal with bad news well.
“I’ll find out tonight. Thanks for asking.” I slap my hand against the desk and give him a grin. “Now, what can I do for you, Bullseye?” I stand up and open the medicine cabinet, getting the necessary items for a physical. Everything I need is in my office, including an exam table. “You know the drill,” I tell him.
And in typical Bullseye fashion, he yanks off his shirt and pants until he’s in nothing but his birthday suit. Usually people strip down to their underwear.
But Bullseye doesn’t wear underwear, so when he strips, I get to see the entire man. Surprisingly, Bullseye doesn’t have a single tattoo, but he does have a Jacob’s Ladder on his cock, and every time I see the damn thing, mine shrivels inside me. His nipples are pierced along with the space between his ass and his sack.
Yeah, I didn’t ask to see that, but I did a prostate
check, and I was shocked, to say the least.
He lays down, and I do my best not to be bothered by complete nudity. I am a doctor after all, but I think what bothers me about Bullseye is how impersonal he is to being naked. I hate being naked. I hate my scars. I don’t even let women wrap their arms around me while we fuck. Usually, I put them face down ass up so the chance of them touching me is slim to none. I panic. I hate… touch. I don’t mind being the one doing the touching. I don’t even mind hugs when the arms are around my neck.
But my back is a hard fucking limit.
The first thing I do, is examine his chest. Breast cancer is a serious disease for men too. It is more common in women, but it can happen in men as well. I do tiny circular motions around each peck with the pads of my fingers, making sure I don’t feel any lumps.
“It’s weird every time you do this. I feel like you’re feeling me up. At least buy me a drink, Doc,” Bullseye chuckles at his own joke.
“You’re not my type, sorry,” I joke in return. “Okay, your chest is good.” I take out my stethoscope and place the cold metal against his chest without warming it up.
He hisses like he does every time. “Doc! It’s cold.”
“You throw darts at people for a living. You can handle it,” I grumble, listening to the steady beat of his heart. These guys are the toughest men I know, but absolute bitches when it comes to certain things.
Like Tongue loves knives and anything sharp.
He hates the blood pressure cuff. I have to give him an anti-anxiety pill so he can relax or his blood pressure would be through the roof.
Also, don’t let Tool fool you. He hates needles even though the bastard is covered head to toe in tattoos.
“Your heart is good.” I lay the stethoscope on the exam table and grab a stress ball, then a blue rubber band, and tie it around his arm to get the vein nice and plump.
“I’ve been eating my Cheerios every morning to help lower my cholesterol.”