Doc T (Macha MC Book 1)

by Skye McNeil

  Doc T

  A Macha MC Novel

  Skye McNeil

  Doc T © 2020 by Skye McNeil

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Doc T is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: BookSmith Design

  Ebook: ISBN: 978-1-922359-15-5

  Paperback: ISBN: 978-1-922359-16-2

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Tad

  2. Doc

  3. Isa

  4. Doc

  5. Isa

  6. Doc

  7. Isa

  8. Doc

  9. Isa

  10. Doc

  11. Isa

  12. Doc

  13. Doc

  14. Isa

  15. Isa

  16. Doc

  17. Doc

  18. Isa

  19. Doc

  20. Isa

  21. Doc

  22. Isa

  23. Doc

  24. Isa

  25. Doc

  26. Isa

  27. Doc

  28. Isa

  29. Isa

  30. Isa

  31. Doc

  32. Isa

  33. Doc

  34. Doc

  35. Isa

  36. Doc

  37. Isa

  38. Doc

  39. Isa

  40. Doc

  41. Isa

  42. Isa

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Skye McNeil

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  For my uncle Greg who showed me the world of Harley Davidson.

  *P.S. There are more Twinkies in the shop*

  Prologue

  “This isn’t what I wanted for her.”

  Lorcan O’Brien—Reaper to his club—heard the blood pumping in his ears. It was only drowned out by the angry shouts on the other end of the international phone call. Gaelic words flowed easily in the background, and gunshots rang true. His fists ached to join in on the action on the other side of the world, but he couldn’t. His duty was in Colorado.

  “Phantom, send her to the Swiss Alps instead. Her mother has family there.”

  “Don’t you think I considered that first?” Malcom Kerry sighed, the weary sound unusual for the lively Irishman. Though it had been nearly two years since they last crossed paths, Reaper knew Phantom to be upbeat. “I need you to keep her safe. Please, Reaper. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t at my wits end. I can’t lose another woman I love to the MC.”

  Even without seeing the other man, Reaper knew the desperation on his brother’s face. They’d been through hell and back for the women in their lives. The only difference was Reaper’s old lady stayed. Phantom’s didn’t.

  “All right.” He glanced out the window, the Rocky Mountains in the distance. “Does she know who you are?”

  Phantom let out a strangled laugh. “Not yet. But her mother is dying, so I suspect she’ll tell her soon.”

  Reaper inhaled sharply. Losing any woman was tragic, but the mother to his child was another story. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Phantom coughed and cleared his throat. “My daughter will soon be on her way here. I can’t put her in the crosshairs. The Twelve Brothers want blood because I won’t let them into our territory. Now that I’m president, they’ll try for my blood first. She’s an easy target in Ireland.”

  “We won’t let that happen. When she shows up on your doorstep, send her to me immediately.”

  “Thank you, brother. You have a new life debt owed.”

  He chuckled. “Be sure to use the old passes through the mountains. The Twelve won’t look there for an escape.”

  The two presidents signed off without another word. It was still odd to him to call Phantom the president of their founding Macha location in Northern Ireland. But everyone had to retire someday, and his older brother, Grady O’Brien—aka Grenade—decided to step down before his retirement was caused by a bullet.

  Walking across the dimly lit bridge between the two sets of stairs in the lodge, Reaper held in a chuckle at the carnage below. His men earned an alcohol-fueled night after raking in an obscene amount from their business ventures in Snowshoe over the last week.

  He leaned his forearms on the railing, his smile fading. They’d soon be hiding a woman until the danger passed. Any one of his men could handle the job, but he couldn’t choose one just then. He spotted Brewer and Rubble. Either would do the assignment without question.

  He shook his head. He needed new men in the MC. The prospects wouldn’t do. This was Phantom’s daughter, after all. Reaper needed a man he trusted. He needed to live up to his name and draw in fresh blood for Macha.

  A new sunrise slowly spread rays of orange across the valley, an idea formulating simultaneously.

  “Since when do you rise before the sun?” a voice groggy with sleep asked.

  Glancing to his right, Reaper couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over his sun-kissed face.

  “Since Phantom needs our help.” He looped an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll tell you all about it, but first, I need to call my nephew. It’s time he officially joined the family business.”

  1

  Tad

  “O’Brien, you finish those reports yet?”

  Looking up from his computer screen, Tad O’Brien met the chief’s face in the doorway. After coming off a double shift where blood wasn’t the only body fluid he battled to save lives, he wasn’t in the mood to chat with his micromanaging boss. Plus, losing a motorist on the last call made him edgy. He hated losing, especially when he did every damn thing right. But he was no match for a head-on collision. No one was.

  “On the last one, boss.” He saw a slight nod, then lowered his eyes to the screen again. Another ten minutes and he’d be out of this place for three whole days. It sounded like nirvana after the last month. A break in winter was in the air in Iowa, and that meant more people being dumbasses on the roads. Iowa was finicky no matter what season, but the melting snow combined with early storms caused more accidents than he cared to keep track of. That was what the DOT was for anyhow. He just cleaned up the messes. It was what he did best.

  He saved the reports and sent them to his boss before shutting down his computer. After being a paramedic for five years, he was ready for more. Should’ve finished that doctorate. He waved at the next crew on shift, then walked out the back door.

  Taking care of his family came first. When he found out his mother had breast cancer, he’d quit his last year of medical school to return to Iowa. His mom needed him, and even though she died after a year of his constant nursing, he couldn’t face Stanford again.

  Walking through the parking lot, he picked up his pace when he saw the motorcycle waiting for him. Everyone joked about motorcycles being donor-cycles—even him—but he’d grown up around bikes
and couldn’t get them out of his blood. And the chicks around here dig them. He buckled his helmet and grinned at the engine’s deep rumble. No, he’d never give up his motorcycle. His dad would turn over in his grave if he did.

  Gliding toward the street, he waved at the fire truck turning into the drive. He’d see them soon enough. They all liked to hang out at a bar down the street after shift. He couldn’t think of a better start to his time off.

  Inhaling the scent of fresh snow and asphalt, Tad opened up the engine. His pulse thrummed in his neck, the adrenaline never losing its hold over him. Life in Iowa wasn’t perfect, but it’d do.

  It was on his second shot of whiskey that Tad’s phone buzzed on the pool table. Eyeing it, he shrugged and took aim. The cue ball bounced off the side and hit the eight ball before it sank into the pocket. “That’s game, boys.”

  The two other men grumbled and handed over their cash. He stuffed his earnings in his back pocket and noticed his phone still alight with a call. Narrowing his eyes, Tad recognized the Colorado area code. This can’t be good.

  Taking a swig of beer, he grimaced at the lukewarm liquid. Dropping a tip in the jar on the bar, he nodded. “I’m out. See you next week.” He waved at his coworkers from the fire station and grabbed his leather jacket before stepping outside.

  A chill left over from winter snuck across his black T-shirt, sending goose bumps up his tattooed arms. His mom never liked his ink, so he usually kept it hidden. Since her death, he showed off the fully inked sleeves as much as possible and had even added a few to his canvas.

  His phone vibrated in his back pocket, and this time he answered. “This is O’Brien.”

  “You sound just like your old man.”

  Tad assumed who the caller was based on the area code, but the gravelly voice with a hint of an Irish accent confirmed it. “Lorcan.”

  He swallowed as memories flooded him. His uncle Lorcan hadn’t gone by that name in more years than Tad was alive. “Or should I call you Reaper?”

  “Until you’re in Macha, Lorcan is fine.”

  Tad leaned against his bike. Over the years, he’d sent his uncle tidbits of information about the gangs and MCs in the Midwest. It wasn’t much, but his father would be proud of him for staying part of the family business. “I don’t have anything new for you, sorry.”

  “No worries. I’m actually calling to bring you back to Macha.”

  Straddling his black motorcycle, Tad watched the traffic light change. “Is that so?”

  His father warned him this would happen. “You’re Irish and the son of the MC. They’ll call you one day,” his old man said a week before succumbing to a gunshot wound. Plus, his uncle’s MC name, Reaper, wasn’t given because of the souls he took from this world but the ones he brought into the Macha fold. Reaper was famous among other MCs for how easily he could convince a man to join.

  “You heard right, boyo. Your blood is as Irish as Macha. You can’t deny your upbringing anymore. You’ve been as much of a prospect from Iowa as the boys here. It’s time. I think you’ve known this.”

  Tilting his head, Tad stared at the starry sky. His father perished wearing the Macha cut, and now he was being summoned to the same club. As a kid, it’d been his dream: ride bikes and flirt with pretty ladies. As he grew, it didn’t sound like the better side of life. He always suspected his interactions with Macha would come to fruition.

  “I’m not my old man, Uncle. I have nothing to offer the club.”

  “Sure you do. Saving dumbasses. That’s what I want you for here. The brothers need you. Macha needs you.”

  He’d heard the same thing said to his father. Every time, the old man went, too. A part of Tad wanted to tell his uncle off, but another part craved to be a patch member of the organization his father loved more than his own son. His unofficial prospect status would become official the moment he stepped foot on Colorado soil.

  “Why now?”

  His uncle sighed heavily. “We recently lost our doctor and need a new one. You’re the best, or so you brag whenever given the chance.”

  He shook his head. “You have plenty of men who could learn. Get one of them—”

  “They’re not my blood. You are, Tad.” The biker cursed under his breath. “You provided the information about Del Rossi, which gave us time to protect Colorado from mafia infiltration. We need you.”

  His uncle wasn’t wrong. He’d gladly given over intel about the Italy-born mob. Along the way, he’d made a few friends, but playing a double role gave him something to look forward to each new day. That lone thought tipped the scales.

  “You have nothing holding you to Iowa anymore. Your mum is gone. Your family is Macha. It always has been.”

  Thinking back to his childhood, Tad couldn’t deny his uncle’s words. Before his parents split, he’d spent nearly every day at the clubhouse in Snowshoe, Colorado. He’d learned more about women and bikes in those thirteen years than any other kid his age. The rules of the club formed him into the man he was today. He followed the MC laws even though he wasn’t a member. Macha was in his blood.

  “I can’t end up like my old man. The club destroyed my family. I won’t let it destroy me too.”

  “You’ve much to learn, nephew, but if you wash out before you patch, I’ll let you out, no questions, no threats.”

  Tad wasn’t sure if he could trust him but had no other choice. The day had finally come. When Macha calls, you answer.

  “Check your email. Your flight leaves in the morning.”

  Ending the call, Tad clenched his jaw. In the back of his mind, he knew it’d happen one day. He always had that tingling feeling that he would become a Macha member. His mother begged him to stay away while his father urged him to patch. Both were dead, so it didn’t matter what he did now.

  After feeding Macha intel over the last five years, it was time to return to his roots. He’d make better decisions compared to his father’s. He was sure of it.

  Turning on his motorcycle, he stuffed his phone in a pocket and headed the two blocks home. Lorcan was right. He didn’t have a life here. At least not one he would miss. But I won’t end up like my old man. When I find the woman I love, I’ll protect her instead of sending her away.

  Doc

  Six Months Later

  The bright June sun pierced Doc O’Brien’s eyelids. He winced, cursing the unshaded window. Rolling over, his arm landed on a warm body. Popping open his eyes, he smirked. Two bodies, to be exact. He withdrew his arm and the blondes cuddled close to each other. His cock tempted him to stay put and wake up the club nymphs for another round, but his parched throat won out.

  He slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His black leather cut sat on the dresser, the freshly added patch summoning pride from the depths of his belly. They’d celebrated his patching into Macha the night before, and he couldn’t wait to start in on the day.

  Doc yanked on a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt before donning the cut and slipping from the room. He pushed back his blond hair to the left side of his head and walked into the communal bathroom. No one greeted him, and when he caught sight of the time on the clock above the sinks, he realized why. It wasn’t yet nine, and after partying all night, it’d be miraculous if anyone woke before noon.

  He relieved his bladder, difficult with a hard-on but not impossible. He’d find release with a nymph or two later. Now he had to find a cure for the drumming in his skull and dry throat.

  He staggered to the kitchen. Beer bottles were strewn everywhere, a few prospects passed out on the cool floor. He stepped over them and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Only after chugging the whole thing did he feel remotely better. He snagged three more bottles and moved toward the back room. It was dark, quiet, and empty. Just what his hungover ass needed.

  Slouching onto the couch, Doc flipped on the television and rolled his eyes at the porn from the last user. Dumbass prospects. He found a history channel and let the commentary fill the spa
ce.

  Life in Macha wasn’t what he expected. It’s better.

  The first few months sucked being a prospect, but he’d earned his place. The late winter storm helped secure his role as Doc in Macha MC. The horrific motorcycle accident on the mountain path was caused by black ice. He’d been at the tail end of the pileup and remained unscathed. Using his paramedic background, he managed to save Boulder from losing an arm and patch the members up before the ambulance arrived. Then and there, he knew his prospect days were numbered.

  “Basking in the glory of brotherhood?” a voice teased behind him.

  Doc turned his head and spotted Hawk. The shirtless man looked as sober as him, which wasn’t saying much. “More like trying not to barf on the couch.”

  Hawk lit a cigarette and inhaled. “I know the feeling.”

  He sat next to Doc and rested his head on the back of the couch. Cigarette smoke swirled around them. Despite knowing the effects of smoking, Doc didn’t condemn his new brother. They all had vices. Hawk’s was cigs. Doc’s was women—nymphs more specifically.

  “How’s it feel to wear the patch, Doc?”

  “Better than being a prospect.”