by Lilly Atlas
He stared at her for a moment, through a narrowed gaze. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found, because he nodded and walked toward her. “You working tomorrow?” he asked when he was only a few inches away.
Amanda swallowed and fought to remain still. He was so close, his breath wafted across her face and a tingle of discomfort skirted up her spine. Whether it was an intimidation tactic or an excuse to just be near her, she couldn’t figure out. Either way, the invasion of her personal space was unwelcome, but she refused to back away like a scared kitten. “Yes, it’s my Sunday on. I’ll be the one to evaluate him.”
“Good. You’re the most qualified to work with this type of patient.”
The compliment was surprising given the strain of their past few interactions. Thank God she didn’t have to see him every day. Maybe the compliment was his manly way of issuing an apology. Which she’d accept. She’d never go out with him again socially, that was for darn sure, but they could have a successful professional working relationship.
“Thank you, Doctor. Have a good evening.” Even when they’d been dating, she’d never referred to him as John at the hospital.
He nodded and left the room, slipping right into the room next door. Tough job, being medical director of the ICU. Not one she envied, seeing as how she’d be out of there by five and John probably had hours to go before he could take off for the evening.
She lingered for a few more minutes, taking in the outrageous sight of the injured man. What kind of life did someone have to live to put themselves in the position to receive such a brutal beating and multiple gunshot wounds? Was it a random act of senseless violence, or did this man live a dangerous existence?
No matter. Those weren’t questions she needed to have answered in order to treat the man. Her gaze landed on his distorted face. What had he looked like before this tragedy? Was he an attractive man?
She shook off the uncharacteristic thoughts and wandered into the hallway. Just another patient in a long line of them. No one to become personally interested in, and his looks had nothing to do with her job. She’d be out of there in a few minutes and it was always wise to leave the patients’ sad stories at work. Burnout was just around the corner for those who brought each trying case home with them.
An hour later, Amanda opened the door to the lake house she shared with her best friend, Katherine. “Honey! I’m home!” she called out their usual joke as she locked the door.
“How was your day, dear?” Kat yelled from the kitchen.
Amanda snickered. They’d been friends since the first day of kindergarten and had moved in together about six months ago. The silly married couple routine had become their standard post-work greeting and never failed to amuse them both.
“It was fine.” Amanda toed off her shoes, stripped off her scrub top, and dropped it on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the three second-floor bedrooms. Clad in a tank top, her scrub pants, and socks, she padded to the kitchen.
“Any run-ins with Dr. Douche?” Kat had christened him with the moniker after hearing all about his outbursts.
Amanda laughed. “Actually, yes, and he was fairly nice if you can believe it. Even gave me a compliment.”
“Well, look at that. Maybe whatever large object was shoved up his ass these past few months finally came out.”
“Ha, let’s hope. What’s all this?” Amanda waved her hand over the piles of newspaper clippings, printed articles and file folders littering their kitchen table.
Kat’s hazel eyes sparkled with excitement. “This is it, Mandy. My big break. For real this time.”
Amanda had to glance away from Kat’s radiant face. Every six months or so, Kat discovered it, the big story that was going to catapult her from her obscenely early spot on a small-time local morning news show to world renowned investigative journalist. Each it lasted a few weeks, until Kat either realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew and the project was more dangerous than she’d realized, the story was broken by someone else, or it just fizzled out.
Whatever this new scheme was, it would undoubtedly end the same, but Amanda never voiced that opinion. Bringing Kat back to reality wasn’t her job as the best friend. Despite her skepticism, her role was to smile, ask for details, and encourage Kat in her dreams. Then be there with wine, chocolate, and tissues when it all blew up in her overly ambitious friend’s face. Kat had a few solid ideas recently, but really wanted to break a story that would shock people, so she tended to run with the more grandiose thoughts. “Let me get myself a glass of wine and you can tell me all about it.”
After she poured a healthy glass of merlot, she dropped to the one chair that wasn’t piled high with papers. “Okay, girl, lay it on me.”
Kat squealed and pulled a pen out of the giant messy bun piled high on her head. Her hair was a fiery auburn color that looked fantastic with her creamy complexion. If Kat had her choice, and enough money, she’d dye it a different color each week and branch into more exotic purples and blues, but being that she had a job in the public eye, she kept the changes to every few months and more mainstream hair colors.
“Outlaw motorcycle clubs,” Kat said holding up a newspaper from a town a few hours away with picture of some seriously tough looking dudes standing next to a line of motorcycles.
“Outlaw motorcycle clubs? What does that even mean? Are we talking Sons of Anarchy type of thing?” Amanda took a sip of her wine and leaned back in her chair. If she didn’t have to work tomorrow, she’d make it a few glasses and really unwind. But as it was, patient care with a hangover was not a fun experience.
Kat nodded. “Kinda, but not the romanticized made-for-TV version with hot sexy men and fake blood. I’m talking real-life gun smuggling, drug trafficking, prostitute pimping, woman abusing assholes who never manage to be brought to justice because they are slippery as eels and have half the police force taking bribes. I’m talking really bad men who—hey, don’t give me that look!”
“What look?”
Kat rose from the table and braced her hands on her hips, the newspaper she still held crinkling against her oversized T-shirt. “That disapproving parent look.”
Amanda couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing, earning a deep scowl from Kat. “I’m pretty sure I’m about as far from being a parent as one can get considering it doesn’t look like I have any chance of getting laid ever again.”
Kat snatched Amanda’s wineglass off the table and stole a giant sip. “Don’t be so damned dramatic. You’ll find another man. And do not change the subject, missy. I’m asking you to not look at me like you want to give me a scolding. Like you think I’m crazy.”
She was a little crazy, but Amanda would never admit it out loud. “I’m just concerned for you, Kat. What are you going to do? Take down some dangerous gang that the police can’t even control? Make all their illegal secrets public?”
“First off, it’s club, not gang. Apparently, they can be a bit sensitive about being called a gang.”
“Potato, pototo. Don’t play the semantics game with me and think I’m too stupid to realize you’re trying to distract me. This sounds like it could get really dangerous, Kat. What are you going to do? Dress as some biker chick and infiltrate a dangerous biker gang with your notebook and tape recorder?”
Kat scowled.
“Club, sorry, biker club.”
A sheepish smile crossed Kat’s face. That’s exactly what she’d been planning. Jesus. Amanda drained the last of her glass. Her ovaries may be drying up, but with Kat around, she did feel like a parent more often than not.
“Look, Mandy, I’m not stupid. I’m not just gonna waltz in there uninformed and vulnerable. I’m planning on doing extensive research and setting myself up for success as well as ensuring my safety. And, no, Mom, I don’t have it all planned out yet, but there’s no rush. Hell, if it takes me two years of preparation, I’m willing to put the time in.”
Amanda opened her mouth but Kat shook her head and h
eld up a hand.
“I can’t do this forever, Mandy. How much longer can I work on a crappy, small-time news show that airs at four in the morning with approximately three viewers before I feel like a complete failure? I’ll wither away. Lose my fire. This isn’t what I want for my life.” Tears filled her eyes.
Oh, hell. After being through this so many times, Amanda had learned there was no talking Kat down from one of her wild hairs. She had to learn the hard way. Each and every time. Hopefully this wouldn’t be the time that broke her.
She had to admit, the idea had merit. Sons of Anarchy, while maybe a romanticized version, brought the idea of motorcycle clubs into the public. People most likely would be interested in a story about a real-life MC. She just hoped it wouldn’t come at the expense of Kat’s safety.
With a sigh, Amanda rose and hugged her friend. “Sorry, hon. I don’t mean to poop all over your idea. I just want you to be safe. You’re my soul sister. I’d be lost without you, girl.”
Kat sniffed and returned the embrace. “It will all work out, Mandy. You’ll see. I’ll make you proud, sister. Besides, how bad can they really be if the police and Feds can’t get a single thing to hold over their heads?”
With a final squeeze, Amanda drew back. Hopefully Kat never found out the answer to that question.
Chapter Three
The room smelled like antiseptic and something else…depression, if that had an odor. Like it held the fears and desperation of all its prior occupants.
An annoying and repetitive bleep sounding from a screen somewhere above his head had him wanting to hurl the damn thing through a window. It was connected to one the many tubes or wires flowing from his body like he was in some kind of Sci-Fi movie. One of his legs was propped on a stack of pillows and his left arm rested in a sling. Either he was in a hospital, or he’d been kidnapped by aliens and was now their human test subject.
Hospital seemed the most likely answer. Fuck. He hated hospitals. Hated being laid up. Hated being weak. And he sure as hell felt weak now. Weak and fatigued, like he could sleep for the next month. How many people had died in this hospital room? In this very bed? Probably a fair number. He shuddered.
This wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in this room. Snippets of perky nurses, poking and prodding, and pain, lots of pain, ran through his mind like a broken movie reel. But it was all hazy. Pieces of a large puzzle that didn’t seem to connect in any logical way.
Pain still existed, but sat mostly in the background of his mind. A dull aching in his leg, head, face, side, and arm. The strangest sensation came from his throat. It was sore and felt like some kind of tube or something was shoved in his windpipe. Snake opened and closed his lips a few times, ran his bone-dry tongue over the roof of his mouth and tried to speak. No words came out, but his mouth was empty. No tube there.
He turned his head and a pulling sensation in his neck had him lifting a hand to his throat. There it was. A tube coming from the front of his neck, but it was short and didn’t seem to be connected to anything. Jesus. He was a fuckin’ mess.
“Well, what a difference a day makes.”
A tiny woman stood in the open doorway, a bright smile on her face. Her statement implied that she’d seen him before, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember her being in his room. Not that she was overly memorable. Dressed in baggy scrubs and short white lab coat with her caramel-colored hair in a high ponytail, she looked like every other hospital employee who’d been in and out of his room.
She strode into the room with all the confidence of someone who owned the place. “I’m Amanda from the Physical Therapy department. And you are Mr. Gould, correct?”
Gould? The name did not ring a bell. Why the hell would she think his name was Gould?
He tried to ask her, but again, no words came out. Just as he was about to shake his head, she spoke again.
“Nick Gould?”
Right.
Nick Gould. Nick was correct, though it had been nearly two decades since anyone referred to him by that name. But Gould? It came to him as he stared at the physical therapist. At least he’d had the wherewithal to avoid his real name when they’d asked. He didn’t have a clue which hospital he was in and until the events that led him to be in such a sorry fucking state became clear, a pseudonym was the smart move.
He nodded.
“Okay if I call you Nick? Or would you prefer Mr. Gould?”
Snake. Call me Snake.
The name and the position as president of the Grimm Brothers Motorcycle Club came with a healthy dose of respect and fear. But if he didn’t trust his actual last name, there was no way in hell he’d use his club name until he was certain it was safe.
He tried to say Nick was fine, but once again, no sound. With a frown, he just nodded.
“Okay, Nick, I’m here because it’s time to try to get you up and moving a bit. You’ve been laying here, flat on your back for about three weeks.”
Three weeks? Holy shit. Had anyone from the club been by? Was anyone from the No Prisoners staking out the hospital, waiting for a chance to finish him off? The last thing he remembered before the stark white walls of his hospital room was Jester’s giant fists slamming into his face over and over. Not that he could blame the man. He’d have done the same if someone threatened what was his.
“You likely won’t remember anything from those weeks. At first, you were intubated and sedated, then the docs put in a tracheostomy tube.”
He raised an eyebrow. Intubated? Tracheostomy? He wasn’t any kind of idiot, but hospital speak didn’t exactly roll off his tongue.
The girl chuckled. “Sorry. I tend to forget to use laymen’s terms. Hazard of working in a hospital for the past six years. Anyway, from what I’ve read in your chart, you had extensive swelling and damage to your airway from the, uh, well, from the assault and injuries to your face. Your breathing was severely compromised to the point where you needed a tube through your mouth and down your throat to allow air to pass to your lungs. That’s only sustainable for so long, so after about ten days that was switched over to a trach. The physicians cut a hole in your throat and passed the tube that way. You’ve been on steroids the past few weeks as well to decrease the swelling. Just this morning you were fully weaned off the ventilator, which is the machine that was breathing for you, and you are doing remarkably well with just a little bit of oxygen.”
Christ, that was a lot to take in. Three weeks of lying in a hospital bed beyond vulnerable? Shit, Snake hadn’t been vulnerable to anything since he was a teenager. It didn’t sit well.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. I’m sure I won’t be the only one to fill you in, so don’t feel like you need to remember all the details right now. Anyway, the tube in your throat is why you can’t speak at the moment. If you continue to breathe well on your own, a speech therapist will come by and put what we call a speaking valve over the end of the trach. It allows you to speak through the tube and start managing your air through your mouth and nose again. Then it will be fully capped off and eventually removed entirely. You’ll be surprised how fast the hole closes up once the tube is removed. For now, there should be…” She looked around the room then zeroed in on the rolling bedside table. “Ah, yep that’s what I was looking for.”
With a triumphant grin, she held up a notebook sized dry erase board and a black marker. “Have you used this yet?”
He nodded. Events of the day were starting to come back to him. The woman who’d been in earlier asking for his name, he’d used it to let her know he was Nick Gould. At least he had some way to communicate. First order of business was to find out if he was in the hospital closest to home. If so, he needed out and fast before his enemies found him. He reached for the white board and she handed it over without hesitation.
Where am I? Hopefully she’d be able to read his chicken scratch.
As he wrote, she moved next to the head of his bed and read over his shoulder. The faint scent of something…flowery�
��fuck if he knew what kind of flower—wafted from her direction. It was kind of nice. Feminine. Big contrast to the scent of booze, cigarettes, and weed he was used to from club whores. With her standing so close, he was able to get a better look at her. She was beautiful, with a makeup-free face full of smooth skin, pretty brown eyes, and soft lips. There was a freshness about her that he had no experience with and he found himself strangely drawn to it. Shit, he must have hit his head pretty damn hard.
She furrowed her brow as she read. “In the hospital.”
Thank you, Madame Obvious. With a roll of his eyes, he scribbled some more. Name?
“Name? Oh, name of the hospital? It’s Lake View Community Hospital.” She stared at him like she couldn’t figure out why he was asking. Like maybe she was concerned for his brain function.
State?
“You don’t know the state? Um…” The look in her eye morphed from puzzlement to genuine concern.
Christ, now she was going to think the injury to his brain was worse than it actually was.
“We’re in Idaho.”
Idaho? What the fuck? Idaho had to be a good ten plus hours from Arizona. How the fuck had he gotten to Idaho? Try as he might, nothing came to him. He had to find out. So much was on the line. His life, his club, the lives of his brothers.
Who brought me here? he wrote on the board.
She—what was her name? Oh yeah, Amanda—remained next to his head, reading over his shoulder as he scrawled on the board, but he could sense her growing desire to end the chit chat and get on with her reason for being there. He didn’t give a fuck about her plans. They’d get to her agenda as soon as he made some sense out of this clusterfuck.
