The Italian: A Mountain Man Romance

by Hazel Parker

  FUCK!

  Today was supposed to be a typical day.

  One Week Earlier

  I’ve always hated hospitals. I hated the smell of antiseptic, the bland, white walls, and the sound of death all around me. The clacking of the keys coming from the receptionist’s desk and the constant, boring commercials on the TV were enough to drive me insane. Not even considering how long I’d been sitting here thinking about what the fate of my brother would end up being—well, not my blood brother. That one’s was sitting right beside me. My club brother. He might not have been related by blood, but he was as family as family could get. Banditos were brothers for life, and a Bandito never leaves a brother behind. So here I was—waiting, just waiting to hear the news. We all were. That’s all we could do.

  I turned back around to survey the small space I was pacing across. Five men sat in the lobby; the rest of the visitors were too scared to sit across from them. They weren’t too focused on their worries and grief to forget stereotyping a group of tattooed men. I understood. We got it everywhere we went. You get used to it after a while. In truth, we are pretty scary looking.

  Gus looked like every motorcycle stereotype come true. Between his thick, white beard, tattoos, and his leather jacket, he could do all the scaring by himself. Add in my twin Ethan, the epitome of bad boy with his scowls and the bandana covering his head, Warren, who was the height and weight of a football player, Jason, who I hadn't seen smile in years, and Jerry, who vacillated between staring at Lila’s face and at the door the doctor would come through like he was debating charging through it at any moment? Yeah, we were a pretty intimidating group.

  The only redeeming qualities we had were Lila and Shirley who, while equally tattooed and equally tough, were women, and as a result, not quite as frightening. For some reason, humans with two X chromosome were deemed less scary. Big mistake in judgment, especially when it came to these two.

  But we weren't bad people, just significantly more tattooed than your average person with an obsession for riding. No, none of us were bad, and on a good day we’d smile and kid around, with the exception of Jason, but today wasn't a laughing day. Today was a sad day. One of our own had taken a hit and we were waiting for news—any news. The wait was draining and it was making me miserable.

  Harrison had been hit by a car while waiting at a stop sign. Some idiot just drove right over him and didn't even stop to check on him to see if he was alive or what. Nothing. Didn’t even call the police. Someone who was driving in the opposite direction saw him bleeding in the street and called for help. I bet the fool was texting. I hated to think it, but if Harrison's bike was louder, that probably wouldn't have happened. People complain about how loud bikes are, but the sound serves a purpose. You hear it and look around. You pay attention. You wouldn't believe how many people die every year by being hit by an idiot behind the wheel of a car claiming they didn't see the motorcycle, see the driver, or my favorite excuse, he “just came out of nowhere.” Motorcycles don't kill people. Idiots in four wheelers kill people, and from the way Harrison looked coming in, I didn't think he was going to make it. Which sucked, because Lila loved him more than she loved morning coffee—which was a whole lot. And that’s saying something. I’ve seen her stab someone for messing with her morning coffee.

  All I needed to hear was a prognosis. Something. Anything. I needed to know my friend wasn't dead, and then I was leaving. Well, not for good. I could never abandon him like that, but I’d definitely take a break. Pacing the halls was just a way to burn nervous energy. I knew it was driving my brothers up a wall though. We all had our own way of coping.

  Gus taught me how to ride, but Harrison taught me how to make love to the road. When my father passed, there was never any doubt that I’d follow in his footsteps. I was only fourteen, but I’d been around the club every day of my life. My mother knew there was no point in trying to make us wait until we got our licenses. It was all just formalities. As soon as I weighed enough to be able to pick up a bike if it fell over, I was on one. It was my own version of rehab, and with Harrison, I learned how to cope on my own.

  I could still remember the quiet mornings when I would wake around four, before the sun rose over the Arizona horizon, looking out into the dark and sneaking off to the club on my bicycle. That was the last place I saw my father alive and somehow, being there made me feel closer to him. Harrison found me one morning and he didn’t say a thing except, “Follow me.” He mounted his bike and pointed to another for me to get on. At the time, I had no idea where we were going. I didn’t know if I should follow him either. He was still new to the club. At the time, all I knew was he was a war vet and forced into retirement after ten years in the service. He had to be around thirty years old. But he was a brother. A Bandito and I trusted him with my life. So I followed him.

  Together, we slowly rode up a mountain, around several curves and hidden bends until we were on a ledge. Then in the stillness of the morning, we watched the heavens swing open and the sun rise.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but Harrison had just showed me his own way of coping. By managing his own grief, he helped me manage mine. For months, we’d ride up in the still of morning and wait for the day to meet us. Over time, we rode more because of the serenity it gave us rather than the need to escape. I dealt with my grief and in learning that, I learned how to be a skilled driver. It felt a lot like becoming a man. It happened when I wasn’t paying attention and I owed it all to Harrison. I reached out in my own way and he held on. Without him, I couldn’t say where I would be. There’s nothing more dangerous in life than a troubled teen without a father. Ethan was proof of that.

  “Mrs. Harrison?” A doctor with silver hair and the face of some guy you'd ask for directions called out, interrupting my thoughts. He was completely nonthreatening with his thin glasses and weathered face. Lila and the crew immediately jumped up. I hung back, watching. I didn't have to hear what was being said to know it wasn't good. His movements were unhurried and deliberate, as if choreographed, ready to catch Lila if she fell, but she didn't. She had us.

  She stood there taking it all in. The pain on her face was as clear as an open wound. She covered her face, her sobs stifled as if trying to push the tears back in. Jerry rubbed her back trying to comfort her as the devastation pushed hard. She turned into Jerry’s chest and wailed. I winced. The primal sounded of her pain pulled at me. They were the kind of sounds humans were programmed not to ignore. It hurt to hear. To be so close to that kind of pain. I felt guilty walking away even though I knew I was coming back. Gus, our faithful leader stepped up with follow up questions.

  “I don't understand. Brain dead? And there's nothing we can do?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid there isn't. The machines are keeping him alive. With Mrs. Harrison's permission, I'd like to suggest organ donation. He'd be a viable candidate, and he’d be able to help a lot of people,” he said with a perfunctory frown of sympathy. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he said again before turning to walk away.

  Well, shit.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. Now. I could feel it. It was coming for me. To sink me. Drown me.

  I had to get out of here.

  There were enough people in the waiting room to support Lila and hold her up. They could spare me a few minutes, and that's all I needed. Harrison was a good guy, and for some reason, hearing he was brain dead was worse than hearing he’d died on the operating table. I almost would have preferred that. At least that way, he would truly be gone. Brain dead offered options, delusions, and a lot of maybes. I didn’t want to hear he was on some table existing solely because machines willed it to be. I didn’t want to hear that there was a slight chance he’d wake up. One in a million was still a small chance and I hoped Lila wouldn’t cling to that as I walked away.

  I figured if I was going to leave, I might as well make myself useful. I had no idea where I was going, but I had every intention of finding the cafeteria. I
walked aimlessly, lost in my thoughts into a dead end. Nothing here but rows of medical supplies. It was darker and secluded and gave me the minute I needed. I stood there gaping like a fish, gulping air and stuffing my pain back down where it came from, where it's supposed to lay quietly.

  Where the hell am? How did I get here?

  I tried to think rationally while mentally fighting my own demons.

  This isn't about you. You don't get to hurt right now. This is Lila's pain.

  That all sounded good, but the truth was pain isn't picky; it'll kick whoever it wants and if you let it, it'll make you its bitch.

  “Are you lost?” A soft voice came from behind me.

  I froze, the fog of my thoughts vanishing, the rows of supplies and the smooth, tan color of the wall materializing around me instead. I only needed seconds, but it was enough to piece my fractured face together and seal off my emotions just before I fell completely apart. I cleared my voice and turned around.

  Brown eyes.

  That's the first thing I saw. Big, brown eyes, wide and morphing into concern—concern for me.

  I stared at her face, trying to absorb the beauty while my chest ached. I'm not sure if you'd say she was classically beautiful, but her large, liquid, brown eyes held such an intelligence and serenity that it was impossible for me not to be held prisoner by them. Her cheekbones weren't especially high, and her nose was a little too long to be perfect, but there was undeniable symmetry to her features, and perhaps that's what held me so captivated. Her black hair was pinned in a bun, and in my mind, I could easily imagine holding the hair in my hands as our lips pushed against each other. She was wearing scrubs that in no way should have been so attractive, but on her curves, they were.

  “What gave me away?” I asked the petite nurse standing with one foot around the corner as if her body was debating whether to keep walking or stop to help me.

  “Your face. I've seen that look enough times. Where you headed?” she asked, not at all judging.

  I hoped my face didn't show that I was seconds from a panic attack. “I was trying for the cafeteria.” If it did, she didn't seem like she minded. In fact, the longer we stood together, the more I didn't want her to walk away. What could I do? How could I get her to stay?

  “Well then you're a long ways away, my friend. It's on the second floor. You're on the fourth. You'd need to take the elevator to the second floor, turn left and then—you know what? Why don't you just follow me?”

  I'd follow her anywhere. “You sure you don't mind? I don't want to impose.”

  “Not at all. I'm on break anyway. I was just off to get my own cup of java.”

  I smiled softly at her words and that she was kind enough to escort me to the cafeteria. I liked her voice. Something about it was calming. I didn't much care what we talked about as I stepped in time with her, not paying attention to where we were going.

  Kaylen

  I sat at the nurse station, exhausted. This was the first time in four hours that I'd had a moment to sit down. If I could, I would have propped my feet up on the desk, but there wasn't any space. I barely had enough space to type the updated patient information into their charts.

  The morning had been a blur of taking vitals, bed-baths, changing adult diapers, and administering medications. I typed in Rudy Thompkins’s hourly BP, thankful to be free of her clutches. She rang for a nurse every five minutes, and if I didn't come immediately, she’d start screaming. Most days I loved my job, but patients like her made me want to scream right along with them. After typing in the last number, I smiled at the time in the corner of the computer. My lunch break had officially begun, though that really didn't mean much in the grand scheme of emergencies; patients were more important than lunch. I scrutinized my notes, making sure they were as meticulous as possible. The one thing I did remember about nursing school was the doctors drilling us about the importance of the patient’s chart.

  “This is a legal document,” the instructor would bellow, holding a blank chart in the air. “Your notes need to be written in such a way that they'd stand in the court of law!”

  If I were ever summoned, there'd be no issue with my notes. I wrote concisely, but elaborated in every place I thought appropriate. If I were working somewhere that still had paper charts, my penmanship would be equally clear and legible.

  I stood and stretched. Exhaustion wasn't an excuse here. Everyone was tired. With fifteen minutes left on my break, I logged out of my account on the computer, sterilized my hands, and made my way to the cafeteria. I needed caffeine about a week ago.

  Most times I walked on autopilot, barely paying attention to the things around me. After a while, it all blurred into the same thing: patients, either crying, laughing, coughing, or something in between. It was all the same and it was hard to condition myself not to respond. My job was to respond and help, but I was on break. I can’t just stop every time someone needed help. I tried to remember that as I walked briskly to the elevator. I didn't last a second seeing the dark shadow of a man, obviously not in the right place.

  His back was to me and I peeked around the corner cautiously. He didn't seem like he was stealing anything or doing something perverse. He also didn't seem like he was crying. I tried to go on but something held me back.

  “Are you lost?”

  It was a simple question. If he said yes, I'd point him in the right direction. If he said no, I'd go on my merry way. I could hear the coffee calling my name. He turned and I flushed at the sight of him. His chiseled jaw clenched, his icy blue eyes dazed but focusing solely on me. I was tall for a woman, five foot seven, yet he towered over me still.

  “What gave me away?” His voice tickled up my spine and I shivered.

  “Your face. I've seen that look enough times,” I said, trying to act normal. “Where you headed?”

  “I was trying for the cafeteria,” he said, running his hands through his dirty-blond hair. He looked like he'd had a long day. His eyes had bags, his face was pale with exhaustion—like he’d been in the hospital too long. I bet if I put him beside a bed, he’d be asleep in a minute.

  “Well then you're a long ways away, my friend. It's on the second floor. You're on the fourth. You'd need to take the elevator to the second floor, turn left and then—”

  In truth, I had all the reasons in the world to leave him with my instructions and no logical reasons to accompany him, but I wanted to be around him a little longer. Maybe it was because he looked so dejected? Maybe because it’s in my nature to help? It didn’t help that he was hotter than sin either.

  “You know what? Why don't you just follow me?”

  “You sure you don't mind? I don't want to impose,” he said stepping forward.

  “Not at all. I'm on break anyway. I was just off to get my own cup of java.”

  I noticed his arms—tanned and toned. He was dressed casually in a white V-neck t-shirt and jeans. Colors stood out against the pale skin of his arm, knitting together stories that I wanted to hear. At a glance, I could see several crosses, tribal work mixed in with some kind of animal with wings. I had a thing for tattoos. Tattoos that are like artwork—who am I kidding? Tattoos are artwork. And this man was a complete work of art. I tried to study his arms inconspicuously as the elevator rode down. Only his right arm was inked. I wanted to ask him why, but it was clear he was in a world of his own.

  “Long day?”

  “Yeah,” he said sighing deeply. “I lost a friend today.” His shoulders slumped as if his body just accepted the admission.

  Crap. Why did I even ask? Of course something bad happened to someone he knows. He’s in the damn hospital. “Oh. I'm so sorry. I hope he didn't suffer.”

  “I don't think he did. It was a car accident, but he was unconscious when they found him.”

  “That's terrible.”

  “Yeah. I agree. It is. His widow practically fell apart.”

  I cringed. I knew what that looked like. I'd seen it enough times.

 
“They have any kids?”

  He shook his head. “No, but they were trying.”

  I never knew if that was good or bad. On one hand, the widow kept a piece of her husband; on the other hand, no children were left fatherless.

  “So you taking a break?”

  “Yeah. A much needed one. I'm hoping I can make it better by bringing coffee for everyone,” he said, lifting the corners of his mouth attempting to smile. It fell flat.

  “It'll help. It's more helpful than you'd think.”

  Together we stood in the coffee line and when it was his turn, he held out his hand, allowing me to go first. “Ladies first.”

  “Double espresso, please.”

  “That’ll be 5.45.”

  “One coffee, please. Black.”

  “3.20.”

  He stepped to the side and met my eye.

  “I figured I'd sit and have a cup with you first. Don't want their coffees getting cold.” I smiled softly.

  “I see.”

  Together we sat by a window and looked outside at the beauty of spring.

  “Was he family?” I asked, hoping he was one of those guys who healed by talking.

  “By blood? No. But he was family just the same. We were all he had.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Of course,” I said smiling.

  “Tim Harrison. Longtime friend and retired vet. After ten years, he still wouldn't let himself slow down, leave his bed undone, or go by his first name." He said that with an amused smile. "But he knew how to ride, and that's all that matters where I'm from. He lived a good life. He was a good man. He worked hard and loved harder. His wife, Lila, is a real spitfire,” he said, smiling widely. “They met at a bar fight. A guy smacked Lila on the ass and she punched him in the face. It wasn't hard enough to knock the guy out, but it was hard enough to make him mad. So Harrison jumped in to save her, thinking she had a death wish. Afterwards, she chewed Harrison out for jumping in to help. He came home with swollen knuckles and hearts in his eyes. They got married a year later.”