Rebel Rising: A Rebel Storm MC Romance

by Tahlia Gold

  I resist the urge to step behind her, grab her hips. She has great hips. I say, “I’m not sure they could make a less sexy hospital uniform if they tried.” The truth is she looks hot as hell.

  Jess blushes. God she’s so cute when she does that. Some things don’t ever change. She would always blush when I kissed her back in high school, when I told her she was beautiful. She’s the only girl I’ve ever told she was beautiful. I’ve been with lots of beautiful women, but she’s the only one I cared enough about to tell.

  I want to hold her. “When do you get off?” I ask.

  She looks at me. I can tell by her eyes that she’s thinking about how to answer. She’s considering it.

  Road Dawg interrupts her thought process though. “Oh my god, I’m so happy.” He pulls a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig. He starts singing a song about a sailor and a girl. When he’s in an especially good mood, this is his go-to song. I can’t help but laugh. He’s swaying back and forth, singing loud enough to wake the dead.

  Jess is holding back a grin. She’s amused, but it seems like she’s trying to maintain some level of professionalism.

  Road Dawg holds the flask out to me. I look at Jess and give her a what-can-I-do look before I put my arm around his shoulder and take a swig off his flask while we both sing the song about a love-swept sailor who’s smitten for the prettiest girl in the port.

  Now Jess is laughing. I didn’t know how much I missed that laugh until this moment. Seeing her happy makes me happy. I say, “Come on, sing with us.”

  She laughs again, shaking her head. “No way.”

  Road Dawg takes another swig but half the whiskey misses his mouth and dribbles down his chin. “Sing with us Doc!”

  I put my arm around her shoulder and gently try to walk her over to Road Dawg.

  She resists, but not much. “No, I don’t know the words.”

  “I don’t know the words either,” I say. “The thing is, they’re different every time he sings it.” I bring her over to him, now with one arm around Road Dawg and the other around her. We all three start swaying back and forth with Road Dawg leading the song. She does her best to follow along. It feels right having her next to me.

  A lady comes in the room. It’s the doctor from the last time I was here. Jess’ boss I think. Jess doesn’t see her because she’s busy watching Road Dawg, trying to pick up the song.

  The doctor says, “What is going on in here?”

  Jess looks up, pulls away from me. Her face is turning red again. But not in a good way. “I—” she starts to say.

  The doctor cuts her off. “This is a hospital, not a bar. There’s sick people in here that are trying to rest.”

  The bitch is staring hard at Jess and Jess is looking at the ground. She does that a lot I’ve noticed.

  The doctor looks at Road Dawg who is unfazed by the whole situation. It’s debatable whether or not he even realizes what’s going on. He takes another drink off the flask.

  “There’s no drinking allowed in here.” Her voice is shrill. She snatches the flask from him, then turns to Jess. “This is exactly what I was talking about. I can’t even believe this.”

  Jess gives me a look. I know that look; it’s not a good one. She walks out of the room without saying anything.

  Goddammit.

  7

  Jess

  What a slow day. I’m sitting at the computer, reviewing my patients’ charts, waiting for the time to tick away. If I’m being honest, I’m also ignoring something. The text message from Dylan that is searing a hole in my pocket.

  After a while I can’t take it anymore. I give in and look at it once more.

  Dylan: Sorry about the other day. I hope you didn’t get in trouble. Can I make it up to you?

  He sent it a couple hours ago and I haven’t responded. I don’t know what to say, or if I should even respond at all. After the debacle from last week I’m thinking I should just steer clear of him. Put my head down. Finish residency without pissing Webber off even more and get this over with so I can start my actual career and begin paying down the loan I took out to pay for school. Two-hundred thousand is a crap-ton of debt to be in.

  On the other hand, Dylan is the first man in longer than I’d care to openly admit to anyone that’s made me think about how much I want to get laid. And there’s no denying the feeling. He’s sexy as hell. I just wish it didn’t come attached to someone with so much baggage.

  And then there’s Webber. She made it crystal clear what she thinks about him.

  Who cares what she thinks though. My personal life is my business. Maybe she has a point about professionalism in the workplace but she doesn’t tell me who to associate with.

  But is Dylan someone I want to associate with? Sure, he’s sexy and I can only imagine how good he is in bed. But he’s also more than likely a criminal. That’s not fair though is it? What the hell do I really know about his life now? Just that he’s in a motorcycle club. Well, a motorcycle gang. I’ve heard stories about the Hell’s Angels. But there have to be other clubs that aren’t criminals, right? What’s his called? Rebel Storm, I think.

  And even if he were on the wrong side of the law occasionally, what do I care? It’s not like I’m going to start dating him. Correction. I’m absolutely not going to start dating him. If I do anything it’s going to be a one-nighter type of deal. Never mind that I’ve never had a one-night stand in my life. I’ll try anything once though. Hit it and quit it. Isn’t that what they say?

  God, I think too much sometimes.

  Screw it.

  I type out a message. My finger hovers over the send button. I can feel my heart rate increasing. A physical reaction to a perceived risk causes my body to release adrenaline so that I’m better equipped to deal with it. Yay biology. I’m such a nerd.

  I take a breath then hit send.

  Me: How can you make it up to me?

  Before I have a chance to put my phone away, his response comes back.

  Dylan: I’m sure I can come up with something.

  What the hell am I doing? The answer is I have no idea. I honestly can’t remember the last time I genuinely flirted with a guy.

  Me: I’m mad you. You got me in trouble.

  Dylan: Trouble follows me. What can I say? I’m guessing you want some more trouble or else you wouldn’t be texting me.

  Me: You wish.

  Dylan: I don’t wish. I make things happen. Wishing is for suckers. Who was that lady anyway? Your boss?

  Me: Webber? Yeah, she’s the director of the ER.

  Dylan: No offense but she seems like a bitch.

  I laugh then cover my mouth and look around like a school girl writing notes in class to make sure nobody is paying attention to me.

  Me: I’m not going to disagree with that assessment.

  Dylan: Lol. What are you doing? Are you busy?

  Me: I’m at work.

  Dylan: When do you get off? We’re having a little party over here at the clubhouse. Nothing big. Why don’t you come over?

  I look at the clock. I’m off in thirty minutes. But do I want to go over there? Just thinking about it is making me wet. So the answer is obviously yes, I want to go over there. But the real question, the money question: is it a good idea?

  And that I’m not so sure of.

  Me: I get off in 30 minutes.

  Dylan: Cool. So come over then.

  The thought of him wrapping those tattooed arms around me is making me all warm. But still, sex shouldn’t drive your decisions. Or should it? Our species has survived for hundreds of thousands of years off that concept.

  Me: I’ll think about it.

  Dylan: You think too much. I’ll see you when you get here. Let me know when you’re on the way and I’ll text you the address.

  Me: I said I’ll think about!

  Dylan: You’re coming. 100%

  Me: How do you know?

  Dylan: With me, the girls always come.

  I roll my eyes but
I can’t help the grin spreading over my face.

  “What are you smiling about?” Madison says.

  “Nothing.” I put my phone away and I feel my face starting to turn red. It’s something I’ve never been able to avoid.

  She raises her eyebrows. “Nothing? I see. It looks like nothing.”

  I pretend to be interested in a patient record on the computer screen in front of me.

  “You’re not going to tell me?” she says.

  I can’t resist though; I have to tell her.

  “I was just texting with a certain motorcycle enthusiast.”

  “Shut up! What did he say?”

  “He wants me to come over to his club house. They’re having a party.”

  “Damn it,” she says.

  “What?”

  “I just started my shift. I would totally go to that. Does he have any friends that are as hot as him?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve only met… Road Dawg? I think that was his name. Anyway, I don’t know if I’m even going.”

  “What? You have to go. Oh my god. If you don’t go, I will be so mad at you. When do you get off?”

  “At eight.”

  She looks at the clock on my computer screen. “That’s in thirty minutes. Come on, you have to go.”

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “Jess. Listen, I’m your friend so I hope I can tell you stuff and you won’t get mad at me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your whole life is this hospital. That’s not healthy. You need to get out more. And I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re thinking ‘I do get out. I go to the library all the time.’”

  She’s right. I am thinking that.

  “But the library doesn’t count. You are going to this damn party and you’re going to make out with that sexy motorcycle man. Maybe even have sex with him. But at the very least you need to go over there. You don’t have to make him your boyfriend but you need to get some down time.”

  I shrug.

  “No. Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “That thing with your shoulders.” She raises her shoulders up by her neck. It looks uncomfortable.

  “Do I do that?”

  “All the time!” she says.

  “Maybe I’ll go.”

  “Clean things up here. Get your patients ready to hand off. Go take a shower. Put on some sexy underwear. And go get some biker lovin’.”

  I laugh, shake my head. “You’re crazy.”

  “A little. But not as much as you. What patients do you have?”

  “I was just looking through my charts. Um… 17-year-old with an ankle sprain: X-ray negative. She’s going home. 88-old man with pneumonia. He’s getting antibiotics and going upstairs. We’re just waiting on a bed to free up. And a 43-year-old drunk that’s sleeping it off in a hallway bed.”

  “That’s it?” she asks. “You’ll be out of here on time, no problem.”

  The nurses radio crackles. A call comes in from an ambulance. “We are in route with an 8-year-old black male with history of asthma, currently in respiratory distress. We’re trying to give a nebulizer treatment but the boy is screaming and crying and looks to be in severe distress.”

  Madison looks at me. “Sorry, I think I jinxed you.”

  The ambulance driver continues, “Vital signs—oxygen saturation is eighty. Breathing is forty times per minute. Can’t get the rest of the vitals because he’s so freaked out. We are one minute out.”

  Madison says, “That’s one sick puppy. Forty breaths per minute? That’s way too much.”

  “Clear a trauma room,” I say and I start running to the bay to meet the truck.

  When the ambulance gets there and they get the cart out, the kid is sitting up on the bed. His eyes are darting around frantically. His chest his heaving up and down. The paramedic tries to get him to lay down but the kid pushes him away.

  “It’s ok,” I say to him. “We’re going to help you.”

  He looks at me. I don’t know if he even heard me. When we get him into the trauma room I say to Madison, “Call Respiratory Therapy. Get the intubation equipment ready.”

  One of the paramedics gets ready to move him to the hospital bed. “On three,” he says. “One, two, three.” We lift him over to the bed and he’s still fighting us the whole way.

  The paramedic says, “He wouldn’t let us do anything. He’s working so hard to breathe but he won’t let us help him. I think he’s going to need a tube.”

  I say, “Okay.”

  Madison is on the left side of the bed. I go around over to the right side and sit down next to the bed. “Hi,” I say to him.

  He looks at me. There’s so much fear in his eyes.

  “I’m Dr. Jess.” I hold out my hand.

  He grabs it and squeezes hard enough to hurt which is surprising coming from an 8-year-old. His hand is clammy, his clothes are drenched in sweat.

  “Is it okay if I listen to your chest?”

  He nods.

  “Great. That’s good.”

  I put my stethoscope to his ballooning chest. There’s no breath. He’s not moving any air. Shit.

  “Silent chest,” I say. This is what happens right before asthmatics stop breathing and arrest. These are the kids that die of asthma.

  “Can you tell me your name?” I ask.

  He tries to talk but he can’t, his eyes are so wide they’re all whites with a ring of red surrounding them.

  “Okay. That’s okay. Do you have asthma?”

  He nods.

  “How long have you been sick? One day?” I hold up a finger.

  He shakes his head.

  I hold up two fingers.

  He shakes his head.

  Three fingers.

  He nods.

  Jesus. “We’re going to make you better, okay? We need to help you breathe better with some medicine.”

  The respiratory therapist comes in and starts setting up a nebulizer treatment. He tries to put a mask on the boy’s head but the kid starts flailing again, pushing the mask away, over and over. He grabs my hand again.

  The R.T. says, “He won’t let me get near him.”

  “Here, give it to me,” I say. The nebulizer medicine is streaming out of it like fog.

  I put the mask near my mouth. “See? It’s okay.”

  Then I put the mask near his mouth and he doesn’t push it away this time.

  “This is going to help you breathe better. Can I put it on your head?”

  He nods.

  I put it over his mouth and tighten the string around the back of his head.

  “He’s still breathing too fast,” I say to Madison. “Okay,” I say to the boy. “We’re going to play a little game.” I start breathing in and out fast—as fast as he is. “We’re going to breathe together okay?”

  Then I start to slow my breathing down, bit by bit. And he catches on; he does his best to match me.

  “It’s working,” Madison says.

  I continue decreasing my breath rate until he’s taking much deeper breaths and in turn getting more medicine into his lungs.

  I sit with him for fifteen minutes while we play the breathing game. “I’m going to listen to your chest again.”

  I hear a horrible wheezing coming from his lungs. Which is good because it means he’s actually getting air in there, but bad because it means he’s having a severe asthma attack.

  Madison comes back into the room. “How’s he doing?” she asks.

  “Better,” I say. “He’s got some wheezing now.” The kid is a lot calmer too, but still obviously scared. “Let’s start an IV.”

  Madison starts to get the IV ready while I keep talking to him.

  I say to the kid, “Are you feeling a little better?”

  He nods.

  “I bet. It’s nice to be able to breathe. We need to give you some more medicine now. My friend Madison is going to gi
ve you an IV to help do that.”

  He looks over to Madison. She’s hiding the needle out of his line of sight. She’s a pro.

  “Look at me, okay?” I say. “It’s going to be a small ouchie but it’ll be over before you even know it. I promise. Just look at me and hold my hand.”

  He puts his tiny hand in mine and looks at me. His forehead wrinkles as he braces for it.

  Madison gets it into his vein the first time. He jumps a little but nothing like how scared he was earlier.

  “Great!” I say. “You’re so brave.”

  The kid nods and shrugs his shoulders. Now he’s just hamming it up. That’s a good sign.

  I say to Madison. “Start IV fluids and prednisone, 2mg per kg.”

  The attending physician comes into the room. It’s Dr. Reese. He’s pretty good. Honestly, at this point I’m happy when the attending is anyone but Dr. Webber. “What do you have Jess?” he asks.

  “8-year-old male,” I say. “History of asthma. Presented in respiratory distress, initially with a silent chest. Now he’s received part of an hour long neb and steroids. His oxygen saturation has increased and respiratory rate has decreased. He’s going to get an IV bolus, magnesium, and a chest x-ray.”

  “Chest x-ray?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “I know it’s not standard, I just want to rule out any outside issues.”

  “You’re the doc,” he says. “Parents?”

  “Unknown. Kid was home alone and called 911.”

  “Wow. Well, good work, Doctor.”

  When the chest x-ray comes back, I have a look at it before the radiologist does an official read. Dr. Reese is passing by while I’m looking at it.