Conquering Circumstances: Black Shamrocks MC Novella

by Kylie Hillman

  Rolling onto my side and then onto all fours, the letter flutters to the floor underneath me. Wendy’s name stares back at me in typed black letters. The left-hand corner of the page is filled with a logo and the name of a clinic I know all too well.

  Mater Private Hospital Brisbane, Oncology Clinic. The words stare back at me. Mocking me. Reminding me of the worst time in my life to date. A time rivalled only by the despair coursing through me as the implication of those fucking words sinks in.

  Wendy Markham. Breast Cancer. Chemotherapy. Appointment. Tomorrow.

  Fuck! I feel the vein in my forehead that’s a barometer for my emotions begin to pound. She starts treatment tomorrow.

  Springing to my feet as quickly as my aching bones and bleeding face will let me, I grab the closest piece of dirty clothing I can find and press it to my gushing nose. I can’t feel any pain. It’s all gone, driven from my thoughts by my growing urgency to get to Brisbane.

  I know the damn selfless woman inside and out, and I’d bet my balls that she hasn’t told a soul about the fight ahead of her.

  Grunting with exasperation, I punch the stupid pillow I’m trying to put comfortably behind my back two more times. Giving it one last thump, I’m satisfied it will cooperate this time when I’m dragged out of my fight with the damn thing by the woman across from me in the oncology clinic whispering to her female companion.

  “Holy mother, I’ve died and gone to heaven. Sex. On. A. Stick.”

  I woke in a bad mood, not looking forward to this day in the slightest, yet even I’m curious as to who could get a reaction like that out of a woman who’s currently sitting in a rubbery chair having life-saving poison pumped into her veins. My curiosity piqued, I lean forward in my seat and peer in the direction they’re looking.

  Goddamn it. I should have known. Of course, it would be him. And, I’ll guarantee it’s not a coincidence he’s here right now.

  Shifting in my seat, I give up on the pillow, and hold a magazine in front of my face. Spying a nurse, I gesture her over to me.

  “Can you please pull the curtains?” I ask in the quietest voice I can. It’s barely above a whisper, breathy and panicked.

  The nurse stares at me, bewilderment all over her face. “We haven’t got you set up yet. Once we have everything ready, I’ll draw them shut for you.” She pats my hand, mistaking my panic for a need for privacy. “I know your first time is daunting, but we’ll do everything we can to ensure your comfort.”

  Searching for her name badge as my dread increases, my voice comes out as squeak when I speak, “Nicki, I’m not scared. I just need some privacy for a moment. My—”

  I pause. What do I call him? My ex-boyfriend? My ex-partner? The man I devoted thirteen years to, even though I knew he was still in love with his dead wife, and I could never compete with her ghostly perfection?

  “Here he comes,” the women across from me giggle and I know my time has run out. Lifting my magazine in front of my face I ignore the poor confused nurse and pray as hard as I can for invisibility.

  “Little lady,” Patrick greets me in his panty-meltingly gruff voice. Goosebumps break out over my body, and I barely stifle the desire to shiver at the sound. Lord, I’ve missed him. Nodding at the nurse, he pulls the visitors chair to the left of me and lowers his long, wide frame into it.

  With wide eyes, I plead telepathically with Nicki to rescue me. She smiles a wide smile that tells me she’s misread me. Winking, she grabs the curtains and draws them around my chair, bowing out of the cubicle with grace and a flirtatious smile in Patrick’s direction.

  “What are you doing here,” I hiss at him. “I told you to leave me alone.”

  Breaking into a broad grin, he laces his hands behind his head and slides down in his chair until his legs are straight in front of him. “Since when have I listened to anything you say? I’m not letting you do this by yourself.”

  Swallowing the lump that’s made its way into my throat after his unexpected words, I let my gaze run over him. He’s been fighting, the signs are clear on his face, if you know what you’re looking for. His beautiful olive skin hides the lighter bruising around his blue eyes and Romanesque nose, but I can see the split lip hidden in his salt and pepper beard. The new bend in his nose is less visible unless you know him like I do. Running my eyes down the remainder of his relaxed form, I reevaluate my assessment that he’s been fighting when I can’t find broken skin or bruising on his knuckles. A quick glance over his wide shoulders and his barrel chest doesn’t give me any further clues. Apart from his face, he’s unmarked.

  Did he let someone beat him? That’s not the strong, cantankerous MC President I know and love.

  The lump in my throat disintegrates at my last thought. He’s no longer the man I love, or an MC President. His vile actions that resulted in our children getting hurt saw to that. The reminder is what I need for my anger at him to spark and catch fire.

  “I don’t want you here,” I keep my features blank, letting only the flames of my rage show in my eyes. “Madelaine and the boys will be here soon, and they won’t want you here anymore than I do.”

  Heart pounding in my chest, I hope that he doesn’t call me on my bold lie. I haven’t told the children about my diagnosis, and I have zero intentions of telling them unless I don’t respond to the chemotherapy.

  “Bullshit, little lady,” Patrick laughs, unlinking his hands from behind his head and sitting up. Full, belly rumbling bellows of delight leave him. He clutches his stomach as if it hurts him, filling me with certainty that he was beaten up without defending himself. The question “why” I table until later when I have time to examine it. “I’d bet my Lowrider that the kids haven’t a fucking clue that you’re in the city, let alone sick and needing medication.”

  “Chemotherapy,” I mutter, giving up and tossing my magazine on the table next to me. The damn man knows me too well; he wouldn’t threaten to bet his beloved shovelhead without being certain. “I’m getting twelve weeks of chemotherapy.”

  Patrick’s expression fills with horror, and he turns white before my eyes. His shoulders bunch until they almost touch his ears and he drops his chin to his chest. With his right hand, he crosses himself while his left grips the armrest of his chair as if he’s afraid it’s about to spit him off it. I watch his full lips move as he delivers a rapid prayer, the words that make it up indecipherable in their urgency.

  I reach for him, seizing hold of his right hand when he begins to cross himself again. The squeeze he gives me in return says more than words. Our eyes meet—inhumanly bright blue melding with plain dark brown. Our connection becomes so intense that I’m about to open my mouth to say something stupid...something along the lines of please stay with me or, even more stupidly, please take me to my car and make love to me on the backseat like we’ve done a million times before, when the curtains are pulled open and the nurses wheel in the IV pump and the bag of medication.

  With minimal fuss, the nurses get me hooked up, and the first bag of medication starts its journey into my body. The entire time, our iron grip on each other’s hand doesn’t falter. As hard as I know it must be for him, Patrick doesn’t flinch when he looks at the spot where the needle enters my skin. Instead, he raises my hand and kisses the back of it as the nurses drag the curtains around us when they leave.

  “Tell me the full situation,” he demands, breaking the companionable silence between us with his heated words. “I’m not fucking stupid. Twelve weeks of treatment means it’s spread. Am I going to lose you too?”

  The question at the end of his tirade is more of a plea. The fear in his voice makes my stomach twist and knot. This reaction, the distress and worry, was why I didn’t want any of them to know. Not Patrick and definitely not the children. I met them six months after Alanah’s death, and they were still a mess. If I’m honest, parts of them never recovered despite my best efforts to help.

  “Patrick,” I breath his name as if saying it will soothe him—soothe me. “
I don’t want to discuss this. I’m happy for you to stay with me today, but it changes nothing. I want you to leave me alone. I’ll deal with what’s coming on my own.”

  “Bullshit!” he barks at me. Pulling his hand from mine, he leans forward and points at me. “Either tell me or I’ll fucking find out myself. Baby girl will know how—”

  “No. Don’t.” The thought of him dragging Madelaine into this removes my options. There’s no arguing with him; he’ll do exactly as he wants. Always has; always will. Headstrong, bombastic, and dominating. Three words that will describe Patrick until the day he dies. “I’ll tell you...”

  He nods as I trail off. With a shaking hand, I reach for him, and without hesitation, he gives me his hand. Rubbing my thumb over his misshapen knuckles—eternal reminders of his propensity to hit anyone who threatens his family or the Shamrocks first and ask questions later—I pray to God that he will accept my proposal.

  Heart beating like a drum, nerves making my stomach churn, I lay down the law. “I’ll tell you if you promise that you’ll keep it from the children.”

  “Deal.”

  I’m suspicious of the calm acceptance. Patrick notices my arched eyebrow and hits me with his mega-watt grin. Having been on the receiving end of this more times than I can count, and possessing the knowledge that he’s taught the boys to use the same easy charm to disarm people, I should be immune to its effect. Unfortunately, I’m not. My stomach turns to liquid, and I feel my cheeks heating.

  A tall, broad man with stereotypical Black Irish good looks—thick, silky black hair, bright blue eyes, and olive skin—Patrick is undeniably handsome. However, his commanding presence and take-no-prisoners aura lifts his looks from merely striking to another stratosphere altogether. Everywhere he goes, women react just like the women seated across from me did earlier and other men treat him with a deference not given to ordinary people. Our undeniable attraction to each other has always confused me ... and others. I’ve been called sweet-looking numerous times—a polite way to describe my average height, average build, regular brown eyes, and boring brown hair in a way that doesn’t offend. I guess that makes me the perfect foil to showcase his brilliance.

  “Where’d ya go?” his rumbling voice drags me from my musing. “You stuck in your head again, little lady?” Shaking his head and flashing a tight smile, he continues his grumbling, “Told you before, and I’ll tell you again, nothing good ever comes out of being alone in your head. Tell me what’s worrying ya?”

  For a perceptive man, he’s way off base this time, and it makes me laugh for the first time in weeks. “I wasn’t worrying. Just wondering what is was that made you want me?” After the words have left my mouth, I could kick myself. My laughter dies an instant death, and I shoot a cautious look in his direction.

  For well over a decade, Patrick and I have danced around our feelings, skipped over any mention of putting a name on our relationship, and studiously avoided answering the ongoing questions about why we never married. Once upon a time, I wanted the fairy tale—the beautiful wedding, the nice house, the loving husband, and the children that I bore with my own body. Instead, I was given a child who was taken from me hours after birth, five children created by another woman’s body, and a man who couldn’t give me his heart because it still belonged to another.

  The words “I love you” have passed his lips in my direction exactly once. And, he was so drunk the night he said them that I thought I was going to be forced to call Doc to the Clubhouse to pump his stomach.

  “Your goodness. It flows from you like a fucking geyser. It balances my bad.” His answer strips the air from my lungs. I stare at him, lost for words and unable to catch my breath. “You’ve never looked down on me, no matter how much I’ve fucked up. You love my kids like your own, and you’d die before you’d let them get hurt. Fuck, Wendy, you picked my kids over me. Over us. What’s not to love about that?”

  I know facing the prospect of death puts things into perspective, and that’s why I thoughtlessly asked the question that’s driven me crazy since the day we met. What I don’t understand is why he chooses now to tell me his honest feelings? Why he couldn’t brush me off with a non-answer like he has a dozen times before?

  It’s too much to handle on top of my uncertain future. I’ve hit my limit, and I can’t deal with Patrick anymore today ... maybe forever.

  “Please go,” I beg as the tears that are making my nose tickle begin to slide down my cheeks. “I can’t do this with you. Not today. Not ever.”

  Falling to his knees beside my armchair, he wraps one big arm around my shoulders and places a hand at the back of my head. Pulling my face to his, he begs me with his words and his tear-filled gaze. “Don’t cry, little lady. I’m a fuck-up. I know that. Hell, we both know that. But, I’m gonna fucking fix it if you’ll let me.”

  The pressure from his hand at the back of my head increases and he uses it to move our mouths together. I don’t have it in me to resist. Seconds before they meet, his tongue darts out, and he licks away the tear that’s gathered on my top lip.

  “I’m fucking sorry,” Patrick whispers in the seconds it takes for me to register what he just did. My free hand snakes around his neck and, this time, I pull him to me. Our mouths meet and it feels like I’ve come home. Five long months. It’s too long to be apart, yet not long enough after what he did. When he teases my mouth open with his prodding tongue, I allow him the admittance he seeks. I can’t help myself. My desire for him is stronger than my need to punish.

  Seconds? Minutes? Hours? I haven’t a clue how much time passes while we reconnect. Our hands roam, exploring familiar territory. Tongues meeting in a sensual two-step that only experienced lovers can manage. I’m lost in the feel of him, held captive by the memories that touching him again sets free until a throat clears next to us.

  “Ahem, Ms. Markham.” The nurse from earlier, Nicki, makes her way to the IV pump that’s beeping. “You need to straighten your arm. The alarm won’t stop until you do.”

  Embarrassment makes my face heat. I hadn’t even heard the damn thing beeping. I scramble to straighten my arm, and it ceases immediately, making Patrick chuckle. He drags his chair as close as he can to mine and retakes his seat.

  “Only thirty-two minutes left,” Nicki smiles on her way out.

  Feelings of stupidity and remorse make their way through me. My actions betray Madelaine and Mikhail...not to mention the two teenage boys he left to fend for themselves. Finding solace in the person who wreaked havoc on our family, and betrayed the Shamrocks is the ultimate slap in the face to everyone I love. Patrick caused so much damaged, and then ran away without so much as an apology, it’s impossible to let him off the hook.

  Fussing with my magazine after I pick it up from the table, I pretend that I can’t see the hurt on his face at my dismissal. I flip through the pages without seeing what’s in front of me. In my mind’s eye, all I can see is Madelaine collapsed on the floor of the bar as an innocent Mikhail is wrestled out of the doors and into the waiting police van, a turn of events caused by the scheming of the State of Queensland’s corrupt Police Commissioner ... and Patrick.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m going to be here every week. You’re coming home with me so I can look after you.” His voice is strong, his manner direct, and the only sounds that fill the treatment room are the regular, low beeping of the machines and the pages of my magazine as I turn them. I can imagine everyone outside of my cubicle staring at the curtains that are providing us with an illusion of privacy and hanging onto his every word. Even as it pains me, I refuse to acknowledge him.

  “Once you’re through this, I’m fronting the Shamrocks and asking for absolution. I can’t fix us until I’ve made amends with them. Which I will, even if it kills me.”

  My heart skips a beat at his vow. This hair-brained scheme could end exactly how he says—with his death. Treason is not taken lightly in outlaw circles. Closing my magazine, I turn and glare at him. “
Don’t be stupid, Patrick.”

  Lifting the arm that’s attached to the IV, I wave it at him. “Now is not the time or place to discuss this.” When his eyes harden as if he’s about to argue, I reach over and slap his bicep.

  “I mean it.”

  “All right. I’ll shut up.”

  We sit in silence, staring at each other in mutual frustration. My thoughts about our captive audience are proven correct when the treatment area comes to life moments after we fall silent.

  Leaning my head back, I rest it against the chair. Jumbled thoughts course through my mind, screaming for attention. The loudest of them demands to know how I’m going to stop this headstrong man from following through with his plan, because as much as he deserves some sort of punishment for his actions, it would kill me if he wound up dead.

  “You’re coming home with me. That’s not negotiable.”

  Although he says it in a whisper, the iron-clad promise behind the statement is clear.

  Knowing when I’m defeated, I nod my agreement. My energy is flagging the longer this medication is being pumped into me. I’ll worry about escaping him once I’ve worked out how to talk him out of fronting the Shamrocks—crazy man should just let sleeping dogs lie.

  With a broad grin covering the lower half of his face and making the lines around his eyes crinkle, Patrick slouches down in his seat. Clasping my hand, he squeezes it. “Let’s get this done so I can get you home, little lady.”

  Despite my efforts to remain collected, I’m done for when he winks at me. All worries about how I’m going to keep the children from finding out that he’s back in my life for now, fly from my head, and I settle back in my seat determined to enjoy the next twenty or so minutes as simply Wendy and Patrick.

  I should have put more thought into this. This goes round and round my fucking head as I hold Wendy’s long hair out of the way and rub her back while she throws up the meagre contents of her stomach. Six weeks of treatment down. It’s the halfway point, and I’m fucking failing her.