Changing Lanes (Satan's Sinners MC #5)

by Colbie Kay

  Deuce double-crossed not only the Cobras, but us as well, and we won’t let that shit slide. Now we have to find the old Vice President of the Cobras and take him out, along with his little fuckin’ minions that call themselves The Four Kings. “We think it would be best to put someone in undercover to try and get in good with them. It has to be someone that Deuce has never seen so he doesn’t suspect anything.” We all look around the room, knowing Deuce has seen most of us. Especially me doing the fights at the Cobras’ clubhouse.

  Our newest prospect, Tink, chimes in, “I’ll do it.” Not only is he our newest prospect, but the youngest; my guess would be he’s no older than twenty. He’s been growing his hair for a while and now it’s down past his shoulders, so it covers half his face most of the time, like he’s hiding. He’s definitely not the biggest in muscle, but his over six-foot height makes up for it. Tink’s eyes are almost black, matching the clothes he wears most of the time.

  “You sure about that, prospect? It could turn sour real quick, then what’re you gonna do?” Gunner questions with a raised brow. I’m not sure sending a new prospect in would be a good idea because if he’s gonna do this, then he needs no fear going in. We don’t really know how he will react when put in a tough situation.

  “I’ll do what I gotta do for the club,” Tink responds without hesitation. All of us patched members look at one another, thinking the exact same thing: He’s got heart, but is it such a good idea sending him in by himself?

  Hanger addresses our concern. “Alright, but I don’t want you in there by yourself. I’ll call Bones and see if he has one of his guys to spare.” Bones is the President of our Tulsa, Oklahoma chapter. Hanger continues, “Let’s take a vote. All in favor of Tink goin’ undercover.” All of us patched members vote unanimously, so the “Ayes” sound out around the room. Hanger bangs the gavel on the table. “Alright, unanimous vote. You’re goin’ in, Tink. I want you heading out tomorrow, as long as we have someone else with you. Onto the next...”

  Writer’s phone starts ringing loudly and his eyes cut to Hanger, giving him a silent apology.

  Writer keeps his phone on because Ever is due to have the baby any moment now. If any of the women were close to delivering, none of the guys would go without their phones, so they can’t expect him to. “Shug, what’s up, everything alright?” Writer questions into his cell. It’s pretty fuckin’ awesome that he can hear now and got clean. It was fuckin’ awful watching him detox; he’s one of our own, and there wasn’t shit we could do to help him. We just had to wait, let the drugs run through his system, and hope that he would overcome the addiction. “Why, what’s wrong?” he asks, then is up on his feet in the next second. “I gotta get to the store, something’s wrong,” Writer tells us. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the rest of us are on our feet as well, following him out the door.

  When I see where we’re headed, and it’s not Ever’s store, I change my destination. I’m not fuckin’ stupid; my brothers are headed to the hospital. It’s about time for her to pop that kid out, and Sierra Greene’s the doctor. I’m not taking a chance in hell of seeing her for the first time in all these months.

  Pulling into the parking lot of Stilettos, I see Dancer’s Hummer is already parked. I unlock the front door—the door is to be locked at all times if she is here by herself before opening—and walk into the lit club. The atmosphere is different when it’s empty, it’s quiet.

  “Hey, Hacker.” Dancer glances up at me from her task of making sure all the chairs are positioned correctly around the tables.

  “Hey.” I begin helping her.

  “Have you thought any more about getting a manager for the dancers? We haven’t talked about it for a while.”

  “Yeah, I put an ad in the newspaper.”

  Dancer busts out laughing. “The newspaper? Who looks in the paper for jobs anymore? It’s all about social media.”

  “Do I look like a fucker that uses that social media bullshit?” I cock my brow.

  “True, but these women are getting outta control, Hacker. More fights, bringing drugs in here, and some are having sex in the VIP room. This whole place will get shut down if the cops get involved.” She moves to the next table.

  “The cops ain’t comin’ here. All we can do is keep firing the ones causing problems; there’s always new dancers.”

  “Well, I hope you find someone from your ad.” She smirks, and I mimic her.

  “Shut it, Dancer. Let’s finish getting ready to open.”

  Chapter 9

  I can’t put it off any longer; it’s time I start looking for another job. I promised Mark that no matter what everything would be okay and I would take care of it all. The weight on my shoulders is heavy because I’m failing, failing at every promise I made him.

  One ad in the newspaper stands out; it’s for an office manager position at the gentleman’s club Stilettos. A thought starts running through my mind: I’m older, but I have a nice body, I think. I need money and I need it now, so maybe I could dance there?

  Oh, my God, am I really considering this? Could I really degrade myself like that? Could I really show my body for money? I don’t know if I could actually go through with it, but I have to try. The ad says four pm to two am, so I’m assuming they open at four. I look at my clock on the living room wall. It’s three pm now; that gives me an hour to get ready.

  I rummage through my bedroom closet, finding an old black trench coat, a pair of black heels, and a long-sleeved white dress shirt Stephen left behind. I don’t know why I kept it in here for the last four years, but it’ll come in handy now. I lay those on the bed, go through my underwear drawer, and find a black thong. I rush through my shower, but I make sure to shave every part of me, because, really, who would want to see a hairy stripper? I laugh for even imagining myself as that.

  After I dry off and have the items on that I picked out, I blow-dry my red hair and curl it with my curling iron. I have never worn much makeup and today is no different. I put on the minimal amount, check myself in the mirror, and decide I am ready to go.

  Pulling into the packed lot, my nerves begin to get the best of me, butterflies swarming in my belly. Am I really about to do this? Sighing, I open my door and step out. I make sure my trench coat is closed and tightly tied, then run a trembling hand down my long red curls. My legs are shaking in the black heels I have on, but I get them moving towards the front door. The glass is tinted black, so you can’t see inside. I grip the handle, let out a deep breath, and open it.

  The music is blaring a rock song, and everywhere there are men and some women sitting in red velvet chairs. Their eyes are fixed on the woman dancing on stage in only a thong. The club is dimly lit but casts a glow around her, making her the center of attention. Customers stand at the edges of the stage, waiting to give her money.

  “Can I help you?” A woman’s voice pulls me away from watching.

  “I’m here for a job.” I have to look down because she is inches shorter than me, especially in these heels. Her long dark hair flows down her shoulders; that, combined with her porcelain skin and yellow eyes, makes her look almost like a doll. She has a unique look, but she is stunning all the same.

  “Follow me.” She smiles and turns. With bated breath, I follow behind her. “I’m Dancer, the lead bartender.”

  I yell over the loud music, “Nice to meet you, Dancer. I’m Sierra.”

  She knocks on a closed door and when he tells her to come in, I know I need to leave. But…my situation is keeping me here and I’m not going to let him bulldoze me again. I’m not scared of Hacker anymore.

  “Someone is here looking for a job,” I hear her tell him.

  “The manager job?” he questions back.

  “I don’t know. I’ll send her in.” She pops her head back out. “Go on in.”

  My heart is nearly ready to st
op because I can see his reaction now, but that’s not going to stop me.

  I step inside, and his eyes grow to the size of saucers. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I hear the door shut behind me, but my green eyes stay glued to Hacker. I will not show him weakness. I will not show him fear. He can’t scare me anymore, I chant to myself.

  “I’m here for a job.” I hold steady.

  “What the fuck is this? You finally listen and stay the fuck away from the compound and now you find a new way to torment me?” He slams his fist on the desk and runs his hand over his hair.

  “No, I didn’t even know you were a part of this club. I saw the ad in the paper and thought I’d give it a shot. I need the money.” I fidget with the tie of my coat.

  “No. The job’s been filled. You can leave.” He messes with some papers on his desk.

  “I’m not here for the manager job. I’m here to be a stripper.”

  His brow cocks. “A dancer? What the fuck does a doctor need money for?”

  “That’s none of your business.” I square my shoulders. “So, what do I have to do to become a dancer here?”

  “Get the fuck out of here.” He laughs without humor. “You’re not dancing in my club.”

  “I’m not leaving!” I stand my ground, tall and proud. He’s not going to push me out without giving me a chance.

  He gets an evil glint in his eyes. “Fine.” He turns a song on with his phone, scooting his chair away from his desk and off to the side. “Give me a lap dance.”

  “What?!” Now my eyes are the ones about to pop out of my head.

  “You wanna dance here. Show me what you can do.” That smirk on his face is not a good one.

  Shaking my head frantically, I respond, “I’m not dancing for you.”

  “Then you ain’t working here; all the dancers audition. I don’t hire just anyone.” He begins to move his chair back behind his desk.

  I stand stock-still. He can’t be serious. He’s gone crazy if he thinks I’m getting that close to him. “Wait, are you serious?” He stops, and my brows pull down. My nerves are back and so are the butterflies in my belly.

  “Very.” His eyes start at my heels and move up until they connect with mine. “Get over here and show me what you can do, or you gonna keep standin’ there like a scared little girl? ‘Cause I’ll tell ya’, Red, nobody likes a tease.” His smirk increases to almost a full grin, brimming with malice.

  I remove my trench coat, leaving myself in only the long-sleeved white dress shirt, my black thong panties, and black heels. Slowly I begin to move to the beat of the song. My hips sway seductively; I begin moving closer and closer to Hacker. Lowering myself to the ground, I kneel before him, place my hands on his thighs, and start to move them up his covered chest.

  He quickly grabs my wrist, twisting it enough that I stop all movement; it’s not painful, but it’s not a comfortable feeling, either. He stands from the chair; it falls back against the wall. “Did you honestly think I would let you dance on me? Touch me?” He starts pulling me up by my wrist. Once I’m standing, he drops my wrist and roughly grabs the nape of my neck, spins me, and starts walking us out of his office. I grab his hand to try and remove it, but his hold tightens.

  We stand next to the bar, and one glance in my peripherals shows me Dancer’s brows are knitted; she’s watching. He has me face the stage. “You see the way she’s moving?” I do. I see the curves of her smooth body swaying side to side, inviting the men closer; she moves flawlessly around the stage. “Her eyes are enticing her audience; they’re all here for her.” He moves my head in the direction of tables. “You see all these horny men?” I do. I see the way they watch her with hungry eyes. He turns me to face the stage once again. “Do you see the art in her dancing, the way her body forms around the pole, the strength she has?” I do. I see the beauty. There is nothing degrading about this; it’s beautiful. He turns me to look at him. “You came in my club wanting a way to make quick cash. These women are experienced dancers. If you want quick cash with no experience, I suggest the shithole down the road. Now get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.” He releases me with a shove, walks back to his office, and slams the door shut.

  Long gone are the nerves; in their place are anger, humiliation, and embarrassment. I glance at Dancer one more time; her eyes are wide with shock and her mouth gapes open. Tears start to well up in my eyes because I’m angry. He will not get away with treating me like that. Not ever again!

  I storm to his office, don’t bother knocking, and push the door so I can step through. It flings open hard enough it hits the wall and slams shut behind me.

  “What the fuck…”

  “Shut up!” I stomp towards him. Pulling my arm back, I form my fist and swing, connecting with his eye.

  “Shit!” His hand flies up to cover it.

  “I’ve had enough of your shit!” I punch him again, hitting the bridge of his nose. Damn it, that hurt! I shake my hand and watch the blood start to pour from his nostrils. Good, I hope it’s broken!

  “Goddamn it! That’s enough!” He tries to stand, but I put my heel right in between his legs and start applying pressure.

  “Not nearly enough for what you have put me through. You ever…” I lean closer, putting more pressure on my foot. “Put your hands on me again and I will shoot your dick off. Understood?” I use his word.

  “Move your fuckin’ foot!” He pinches his nose, trying to stop the bleeding.

  “That’s not an answer,” I taunt.

  “Fine! You should have stayed the hell out of my life!” he yells.

  “You think that night didn’t affect me? You blame me, and it wasn’t my fault!” I point to myself. “I’ve had to live with it, too, not just you!”

  “It was your fault!” he screams at me. A tear trickles down his cheek, followed by another.

  “No, it wasn’t.” My shoulders sag. I remove my foot and place it back on the ground. “I did everything I could.” With that, I grab my trench coat and walk out of his office, out of the club, feeling even more defeated than when I walked in. The whole drive home, I’m lost in the memory.

  That night.

  The heartbreak.

  The realization.

  The first time I broke.

  Twenty-four hours; that’s how long I’ve been on at the hospital. One cup of coffee after another—I swear it’s my hundredth cup—but after that many hours, even caffeine stops helping to keep you awake. I’ve had ten minutes of catnaps here and there, but that is nowhere near enough sleep to keep me going for much longer.

  “Doctor Greene, we need you in emergency room one,” I’m called over the intercom. Taking a deep breath, I throw my Styrofoam cup in the trash as I rush out of the doctor’s lounge.

  The ice storm that blew through Wichita and most of Sedgwick County has kept us busy. The emergency room has been nonstop from car accidents.

  I open the curtain for emergency room one. “What do we have?” I quickly stride over to the patient. He’s just a boy; he’s unconscious, has a severe head wound, blood is coated in his hair, and several slashes are down his face and covering his body.

  “Paramedics said he was found on the side of the road, along with his mother. She was pronounced dead at the scene. Father is being checked out in room three.” I pull my penlight out of my pocket and check his pupils; there’s dilation, one sign of head trauma. His vitals are unstable; oxygen and heart rate are low. “Scissors.” I hold my hand out for the head nurse to place them into my palm.

  I cut his shirt open; there is visible bruising. “He’s bleeding internally. We need to get him into the OR right now.” The nurse rushes over to the phone and calls the OR; I hear her pleading with them.

  The monitor starts buzzing loudly. “Code blue! Code blue!” I shout into the room. Th
e nurse hangs up, rushing to get the supplies for me to intubate. Quick, but precise, I get the tube inserted. “I’m in!”

  She starts chest compressions while I watch the monitor; no response. She does another round, but nothing. We switch places and I perform round after round, until I am breathless. “You have to come back! Come on, come back to me!” I plead frantically.

  “Get the paddles!” I yell behind me. She sets up the machine, and I hop down, put gel on the paddles and rub them together, before placing the paddles on his chest. “All clear.” I shock him with 200 joules. “Don’t you dare make me call this! Your father needs you!” I tell the lifeless boy.

  The machine says asystole. “Move to 250 joules.” I repeat the process. Still nothing. “300,” I shout at the nurse.

  “Doctor Greene, it’s been twenty minutes. He’s gone,” the nurse says, voicing aloud what I already know, but I’m not willing to give up yet.

  My eyes cut to her. “300 now! I’m not giving up yet.” I turn my attention back to the boy. “You have to come back!” I plead with him as I shock his chest with 300 joules. I look at the monitor, praying for the slightest movement, but nothing. I try one more time and I know it’s over. He’s gone; this young boy that had his whole life ahead of him will never have the chance to grow up.

  My head hangs to my chest. “I’m calling it. I’ll check on the father and deliver the news when I know he is stable.” Tears roll down my cheeks; this boy no older than twelve died under my hands. This isn’t what I wanted when I started as an ER doctor. I wanted to save lives, not watch young children die.

  I walk out of the room and go into the bathroom, letting the tears fall and desperately rethinking my career choice.