by C. L. Riley
It’s probably better he’s not lounging on my lap. I need to stay focussed on the highway. It’s a long way to the Southern Oregon Coast, and I’m only stopping to relieve my bladder.
My goal is to stack up the miles between me and my assailant as quickly as possible. If things go as planned, he won’t realize I’m gone until I don’t show up for work, and I trust my well-placed note will deflect any initial suspicions. Though after everything I’ve been through, I know better than to expect the best. It’s safer to plan for the worst and be happy when it doesn’t come to pass.
Turning up the volume, I try to focus on the music and not to worry about Dr. Martin or my mystery patient.
I make it through one song before I’m speculating on my patient-to-be.
Without doubt, he’s a biker.
He’ll probably be all smelly and sweaty, covered in tattoos of naked women and skulls. His hair will be long and white with a matching ratty beard that boasts a few braids and only halfway hides his massive beer belly.
The image makes me laugh. Talk about stereotyping.
From what I can remember, the guys with Demon weren’t bad looking. Not that I was checking them out. I was too afraid and too focussed on saving Skip.
“Scrooge, any thoughts on my new patient?” He blinks up at me before closing his eyes, making me wish I had a human companion to keep me company on such a long drive.
The wave of adrenaline I’ve been riding since this morning has been depleted, and I’m becoming more fatigued by the second. With no possibility of a two-way conversation, it’s time to switch to my Crude Element playlist.
Shag Steal’s voice always has a stimulating effect, and Crude Element’s energy level has been compared to crack cocaine without the negative side effects. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done more than drink, smoke marijuana, and consume copious amounts of caffeine.
Speaking of caffeine, I need more—soon. In the meantime, I gulp down what’s left of my cold latte and increase the car’s speed. The faster I get to Seal’s Cove the better I’ll feel.
“Scrooge, we’re on an adventure, aren’t we?” I say for my benefit, well aware my bravado is a half-hearted attempt to defy the overwhelming sense of unease that increases with every mile, along with my exhaustion and loneliness.
This time he doesn’t bother opening either eye. Instead his tail flicks with obvious annoyance. It’s the only sign he heard me and confirmation he could care less.
My response is to belt out the lyrics with Shag and his band. If I can’t sleep, the cat doesn’t get to either.
I’m tempted to say: How do you like that, Scrooge?
I steal a peek at my feline friend and find he’s sound asleep, despite my off key rendition of my favorite band’s biggest hit. At least one of us is enjoying a reprieve from this unfamiliar reality.
I wish it was me.
Rowdy
February 13, 2016
Seal’s Cove, Oregon
“No. I don’t have any food. Go on! Get out of here!” I stomp my foot, sending a spiral of agony from my hip to my knee that nearly sends me sprawling. I grip one of the porch pillars and ride out what I imagine a dull knife carving into my bone might feel like.
A white ball of fur with four legs and a fluffy squirrel tail leaps off the porch, bypassing the steps and providing a distraction from my misery. It lands with enviable grace and dashes into the nearby shrubbery.
I’m not a fan of felines.
After an unpleasant run in with a spiteful, stray tomcat, any fondness I might have held on to was effectively eliminated. As a kid, an infected scratch, courtesy of that big tom, left a lasting and negative impression.
Ask me now about cats, and I will say, without hesitation, they scratch, bite, and make too much noise, and if those aren’t reasons enough to dislike them, there’s always the litter box and its ammonia-laced odor.
I’ll admit this particular cat is pretty fucking cute, but even if I liked cats, I can’t have one. My allergies wouldn’t appreciate it.
Fur-face, the temporary title I’ve assigned my stray stalker, came attached to the house and was waiting on the front steps when I moved in. The blasted beast won’t leave in spite of my ongoing efforts to scare it off.
I’ve only been in the beach house for two days, thanks to club issues that kept Demon occupied in Eugene and allowed me to stay at the rehab facility for almost a month longer than we planned for. In addition to my frustration with the stray, I’m already missing my familiar room and the delicious food delivered by the center’s friendly staff.
Last night’s canned chilli reminded me just how much I despise cooking. Before my injuries, one of the club girls or Chef, the club’s cook, took care of my meals.
I hope the nurse who is supposed to save me from myself cooks better than I do. It won’t take much talent for her to surpass my mastery of the microwave or my open-a-can and plop-it-in-the-pan culinary skills.
Considering Fur-face kept me awake, yowling outside my window all night, I spent considerable time thinking about the mystery woman—Trina Templeton. I wondered about a lot more than her cooking abilities.
Demon assured me she would be capable of maintaining confidentiality and also mentioned she’s in a position where she needs club protection, which makes the situation pretty much ideal for all involved. He didn’t provide many details, insisting it would be best if she shared her history with me personally.
All I know for certain is she helped Skip with a medical emergency during a run last year, and she’s a nurse who specializes in TBI treatment. I have no doubt Demon did his homework before hiring her.
Despite her credentials, the idea of a woman in my personal space after so long without has me feeling conflicted.
Before the explosion at Rex’s, I had been planning to claim Olympia as my ol’ lady; and prior to our very brief affair, I’d always had a parade of club girls, dancers, and other random women in and out of my life and my bed.
Since surviving the blast and learning of Olympia and Boone’s reunion, I’ve been without any female companionship.
Trying to regain my physical strength while dealing with a busted brain, has taken all my time and energy. Not to mention, running the club with Demon, even behind the scenes, takes its toll, a fact I’m reminded of daily. Dealing with constant headaches, memory loss, and blurry vision isn’t helping my confidence either.
I’m torn between wanting my new caregiver to be sweet and sexy versus frumpy and bossy.
In the past, there would be no question: sweet and sexy. And I’d consider it my duty to seduce her. Now I’m not sure I’m ready for any female temptation. Hell, I’m not sure I still have the same seduction skills.
More importantly, I can’t allow any distraction to keep me from my goals.
If I don’t get my ass back on my bike soon, I’ll go crazy. I think having a female friend at this juncture would be better than a lover. So, to make things simpler, I’m hoping for frumpy and bossy.
Why am I thinking about lovers anyway?
Shaking off the thought, I turn away from my ocean view and leave the porch behind. The minute I shut the door, a loud meow breaks the silence. Fur-face is already back, scratching to get in. Ignoring the cat’s complaints, I limp to the kitchen, desperate for caffeine.
According to Demon’s last text, I’ve got about an hour before Trina arrives, enough time to down my morning dose of caffeine and shower. At least he bought me one of those fancy coffee contraptions and a variety of the premeasured cups I can pop in the machine for an instant java fix.
In reality, I’m the one who paid the bill, and not just for the Keurig.
My remodeled beach house, the leather furniture, and fully equipped workout room for my physical therapy, pool included, are all courtesy of my own wealth. There is no way I’d pull money from club funds for this luxury, and I turned down the recent offers from Boone and Bones to help.
With my diverse investments, I’m set for
life. Freedom from financial worry is one thing I’m grateful for, and as strange as it sounds, managing my money is the sole task I feel competent performing, even with my brain power not at full capacity.
Speaking of money...it’s time to bunker down and check the morning financial markets.
I’m not finished with my first cup of coffee or my market review when the sound of tires grinding over gravel interrupts my new routine.
Since the accident, I’ve been on someone else’s time, but the last two days I’ve been the one prioritizing my life for a change. I can’t help but wonder if my caregiver will want me on a schedule specific to her plans.
I won’t have to wait long to find out, because I’m damn sure that’s who is here, early.
Fur-face’s yowls increase, and I swear what sounds like another cat answers the call.
Fuck. A second stray? Just my luck.
It appears my lack of luck isn’t limited to the feline invaders either. Demon was supposed to be here to introduce Ms. Templeton, but it looks like I am on my own.
Not eager to make nice with a stranger, I wait for the first knock before leaving my mug on the breakfast bar. My knees are killing me, but I ignore my cane, forcing my feet to move without support. My bad hand throbs and I make a fist before shaking it out and reaching for the doorknob.
When I open the door, Fur-face barrels in, followed by a massive black cat that reminds me of a panther.
I’m too busy bellowing at the intruders to welcome the woman who allowed them entry.
“Stop shouting at Scrooge,” she snaps. “And that is no way to talk to your pet.”
“My pet? That white cloud of fluff is a stray that thinks she lives here. Now she’s bringing her friends in. This isn’t fucking animal shelter. And who the hell is Scrooge?”
Please don’t tell me it’s the miniature panther. And since when did Fur-face become a she?
My cat-loving caregiver gives me a long, hard look, and I take the opportunity to size her up as well. This is definitely not how I expected our initial meeting to start off.
First thing I notice is the wild mess of dark waves that flow past her shoulders. Her face is void of any makeup, drawing my attention to her blue eyes. Their light shade is a shocking contrast with her bronzed skin and ebony hair. Half hidden behind square-framed glasses, her eyes are so arresting it is hard to look away. When I finally do, her lips, pursed in disapproval, catch my attention. Full and heart shaped, her mouth is made for kissing...more like devouring.
Unable to stop my appraisal, my gaze drops lower.
My caregiver is drowning in a mammoth-sized sweatshirt and a pair of loose fitting scrub bottoms that completely cloak her body’s dimensions.
From what I see, she’s about 5”4, far shorter than what I’m normally attracted to. Other than her height, she’s done an excellent job camouflaging herself. I couldn’t comment one way or the other on her figure. With what she’s wearing, any conclusion I might make would be a poor guess.
“Mr. Richards, my cat, the black one, isn’t going anywhere without me.”
“I’m not Mr...” I stop myself, not bothering to correct her. If Demon used Boone’s and Bones’ last name, there’s a reason. Besides, we need to deal with the cat issue before anything else is discussed. “I don’t like cats. I’m allergic to them.”
“No problem. I won’t bother unpacking. Scrooge is all the family I have. I’m not giving him up for an animal hating stranger.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
Once again, I find myself searching for evidence of what’s hidden beneath the baggy clothing.
This time, she catches on and narrows her eyes.
Where the hell are you, Demon?
I need him to help diffuse this situation, because I can’t figure out what the hell I’m doing here, facing off with the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met.
I run the largest chapter of the most feared outlaw MC in the nation. I’m a millionaire twenty times over, and that’s just my available assets. I used to have women begging to suck my dick and was known for shooting a load no one could swallow; a feat that has, to this day, not been achieved by even the most seasoned club whore.
In addition to all the female attention, I had an army of loyal soldiers at my disposal, brothers who backed me day and night.
Now look at me.
What does this woman see, I wonder? A guy riddled with defects and deficiencies.
Shit.
After all the crazy things I’ve done, maybe I am the man no one wants, especially now that I’m half-crippled.
Making things even worse, I’ve fucked up too many times to count. People have died because of me and my decisions...lots of people. My added physical flaws have only decreased my value, making me a hardship, a burden even.
Toss in the unpredictable side effects, resulting from my brain injury, and you get a real fucking mess of man. Damaged goods.
Demon’s bike roars up the street, putting a stop to my scathing, mental self-talk and saving my soon-to-be-fired caregiver from a much deserved tongue-lashing, and not the type of tongue-lashing she’d enjoy.
For the first time since regaining consciousness, clear back in October, my cock twitches and starts to stiffen at the image of delivering a pussy-clenching tongue-lashing to the woman bold enough to keep her blue-eyed gaze locked with mine.
No fucking way. Not going to happen.
She can take her wanna-be-panther and hit the road.
I’m not providing protection or pussy pleasures for someone like her. It’s likely she deserves whatever it is she’s running from. She probably pissed off the wrong person with her “I’m better than you” attitude.
A vision of Olympia’s brutalized body takes advantage of the break in our dialogue to intrude, reminding me I’m a champion for women. But damn if Trina Templeton doesn’t make me want to dish out a swift spanking.
Before I can reply, another unwanted idea bullies its way to the forefront. Maybe, just maybe, it is Trina’s brand of fiery spunk I need to get me back on top.
I’ll give her an hour to convince me. What more do I have to lose?
At this point, I’m prepared to try almost anything that will help me deal with the objectionable changes in my personality. Learning to cope with my mental challenges will no doubt set the stage for overcoming my lingering physical limitations.
I can always build an outdoor kennel for the damn cats and swallow some pills to stop my eyes from itching.
That should shut her up.
Trina
Oh...hell no!
This can’t be the “respected” Mr. Richards Demon was referring to. Anyone who cusses out a cat isn’t reputable in my book.
The way he looks down his nose at me doesn’t help my opinion of him either. But worse than his superior attitude is the way he’s trying to undress me with his eyes.
Creep.
At least my gut doesn’t recognize him as an evil predator, just a hot-blooded male curious about what I’m hiding under my baggy attire.
Though, in all honesty, I can’t be sure what kind of guy he is after misjudging Dr. Martin so horribly. I no longer trust my instincts, which makes everything that much harder when it comes to men and their motives.
Mr. Richards is for certain not the grisly, old, beer-bellied biker I imagined. He’s younger than I expected, maybe around forty, and very attractive.
In spite of his injuries, which I don’t have details on yet, he’s in good shape. He does have tattoos, but they aren’t skulls and naked bimbos. From what I can see, his arms tell a story and the artwork is impeccable, giving me a reason to stare.
He clears his throat, and my gaze returns to his face.
For some reason, I can’t speak.
His smirk makes me think of a cocky asshole who knows he can have any woman he wants, but I’m pretty sure it’s his eyes that are rendering me speechless. It is like he can see through my tough exterior to my soul, and I don’t like it.
Our uncomfortable assessment of each other is cut short by the sound of a motorcycle coming up the unpaved drive. Please be Demon!
I force my attention away from my potential patient to the house’s layout and furnishings.
The place screams money...lots of it, and after my long drive, the couch looks lonely for a tired, aching, sat-in-the-car-too-long butt.
I smile at the vision of a lonesome sofa and hurry to collapse on the chocolate leather without bothering to ask my host for permission. The cushions are far softer than I imagined, and my body melts.
Scrooge chooses that moment to reappear and leaps onto my lap, daring anyone to complain.
The look of astonishment on Mr. Richard’s face makes me giggle. I can’t help myself. I’m too damn tired and have dealt with too much insanity to do anything but laugh.
“By all means, have a seat,” he says with a hint of humor. “Scrooge, that’s his name, right?”
Not sure what he’s getting at, I nod and scratch behind the kitty in question’s ears.
He continues, addressing the cat, “Scrooge, no shedding, shitting, and no clawing the furniture.”
I start to speak, but the front door swings opens, hitting the door stop with a thud.
Demon saunters in, his gaze travels between us, resting on Scrooge. “Uh, boss,” he addresses Mr. Richards, his accent thicker than I remember. “I didn’t know about the cat.”
A sudden flood of guilt overrides the need to defend my pet, and I rush to explain, “If I’d known Mr. Richards was allergic, I wouldn’t have wasted your time or mine coming here.”
“Enough Mr. Richards. Call me, Rowdy. Please. As for my allergies, they’re mild, and I can get some meds to help. As long as Scrooge doesn’t crap on the carpet or claw my furniture, we’ll be fine.”
“What about the white kitten?” I know I’m pressing my luck, but I’d hate to see the cute little cat shoved back outside. Scrooge could use a friend, especially if I’m going to be working long hours.
Demon lifts a questioning brow at Rowdy.
