Finding Nirvana (Black Shamrocks MC, #5)

by Kylie Hillman

  “Mads,” I greet my sister, then mentally kick myself when her bottom lip trembles and her eyes fill with tears. My shortening of her name combined with my goddamned face is a cruel reminder that I’m Joel, not Benji.

  “Joel.” As if she knows what’s on my mind, Maddi repeats my name in a deliberate voice, and then holds out a photo to me. “It’s twins.”

  I stare down at the square sheet in my trembling hand. It’s an ultrasound pic. There are two distinct forms showing in stark contrast against the shiny black background.

  “Twins.” I repeat her statement. The shaking picks up causing the photo to flap around in my hand, so I hand it back to her. “Looks like history’s repeating.”

  Maddi takes it, laying her hand on mine and subduing the tremors a little. “Let’s hope not.”

  Mad Dog clears his throat, then hits me with a look that’s supposed to offer comfort. It fails, not reaching his eyes. They’re hard and deliberately expressionless, shutting his true thoughts off from the world. I know his game. It’s one I’ve played for years, unbeknownst to those who love me. He’s hiding his need to rain hell down on the head of everyone who stands in the way between him and the retribution he’s searching for.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be a hard day. For everyone.” He gestures around the room, then fixes me with a no-nonsense look. “First, I need you to do something for me.”

  Visions of a dark haired beauty with smooth skin and legs for days fills my mind’s eye. It’s all sorts of wrong—she’s practically my sister. Yet, here I am, trying to push thoughts of her out of my head so I don’t get a hard cock around my actual sister.

  I see Mad Dog open his mouth to speak again and it makes me mad. I can’t control my own limbs; there’s no way he’s putting me in a situation where I can’t control my freaking dick. Women have been the furthest thing from my mind since the Mavericks ruined my body. For one good reason. I’m not giving any of them the opportunity to laugh at me.

  “No. I fucking told you I’m not doing physio.” Chuckles echo around the room when I swear. Apparently, my lack of cussing means when I do let one drop, it’s funny. Well, if it’s profanity Mad Dog needs to get this stupid idea out of his head; I’m happy to provide it. “Fuck you all. I’m out of here.”

  Pushing through the group, I’m forced to a stop when Timber steps in front of me. “I’m not joking, Goliath. I will punch you in the gut if you don’t move.”

  My threat to reinjure his stomach wound is met with more laughter. Good to know that I’m a joke to everyone. Joel the cripple, harmless as a fly.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Mad Dog takes charge, putting an end to the amusement they’re all finding at my expense. “If I recall correctly, you told me that you were on board with this plan. What fucking changed?”

  With narrowed eyes, I glare up at Timber. He shrugs. I close my eyes, then brace myself to face Mad Dog. My words from months earlier have come back to haunt me.

  “Can’t you find someone else to do it?” I point at Kyle. “He’s injured. Make him go.”

  The ball of dread that had been weighing me down lifts when I come up with a viable alternative.

  “Fuck no,” Kyle interjects. He lifts his arm. “I’m almost healed, plus I need to work on digging through the doc—”

  Maddi makes a choking sound that stops Kyle speaking. His eyes widen, and he lets out a gasp and covers his mouth with his good hand. I look between the pair of them, catching a silent exchange that leaves Kyle well and truly reprimanded.

  “Joel, there’s no one else. We all have our part to play in this. Yours is to make nice with the girl. She’s gonna need a friend if this turns to shit. Plus, we need an in. You’re it.”

  My heart pounds, desperation clawing its way up my throat. I can’t think of one damn objection that makes sense.

  Except, one. It’s a stab in the dark, but it might work.

  “What if we walked away?” Even as I say the words, my gut revolts. I believe in karma. I choose to find my zen through meditation, through the release of my problems into the universe so that it doesn’t eat my alive. At least, that’s what I pretend to everyone. Joel O’Brien: the new age guru. Your go-to man for platitudes and advice you don’t want to hear. It’s all a lie, but it’s one I committed to after my suicide attempt. I’m stuck in this role, no matter how much the need to destroy the people behind my brother’s death eats away at me. Steeling myself, I continue against my better judgement. “This Club isn’t what it used to be. Maybe it’s time to call it a day?”

  Outrage takes hold of the room. The walls start to close in on me as the words I just said sink in. Fuck—this moment definitely calls for a curse—I’m a goddamned coward. A lily-livered weakling who should have been put out of his misery at birth. Benji would punch me in the face if he heard my suggestion.

  And I’d deserve it. Hell, I’d step forward and ask for another one. When did I become this person? The sort of guy who’d put his fear of a woman he finds attractive laughing at him before the loyalty that he owes his family?

  It was when you were crippled for this family, the insidious voice in my head that gets off on my confusion reminds me. With shaking hands, I take hold of my head. Pressing my palms against my temples, I try to quieten it so that I can put a stop to the mess that I’ve just created.

  “He’s right.” JJ is timid as she agrees with me. I let go of my head and stare at her in horror. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I want Lucas out of the Black Shamrocks.”

  She looks from me to Timber with genuine fear in her eyes. “You’re a dad now. Kaden and I should mean more to you than this.” JJ waves her hand around. “Club.”

  Spinning on her heel, she faces Mad Dog and Maddi. “Both of you should be seriously considering what you’re about to do. This is crazy. What if more people die?”

  A sob breaks free from her tiny frame. It sums up every emotion I’ve had since I watched first my sister take a bullet to the back, then my brothers being shot, one after the other. Confusion. Devastation. The feeling of not knowing what’s up from down anymore.

  Life as we know it has been thrown on its head.

  “I don’t know,” JJ is out-of-control now. Tears stream down her face and she swings back to face Timber. “We can’t go to the police because they’re the bad guys. We can’t trust the people in the Club because they turn against us. I don’t know what we should do. I watched you get shot. I felt your blood running over me when you laid your life on the line to protect our baby.”

  Timber takes Kaden out of JJ’s arms and passes him to Mama C. He lifts his crying woman in the air with a gentleness that belies his size and cradles her against his heart. She burrows into his arms, chanting the one sentence over and over again. “I don’t know, Lucas. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  He hushes her, then turns to me with anger on his face. With a determined motion, he gestures to JJ. “This is why we don’t walk away. We’re a family. We have each other’s backs. When our own are hurt, we take out the fuckers who did it. No matter the cost. Get your fucking head in the game. Stop being a pussy, and lay yourself on the line for our family. If you can’t do that, then you should grab another bottle of pills and finish what Benji saved you from last time.”

  Timber’s sentiments are blunt. They hit me straight in the heart, digging their way under my skin. I hold my hands in front of my face, opening and closing my fingers with slow precision. The damaged, scarred skin taunts me. The misshapen digits screaming at me to make the assholes who did this to me pay with their lives. The ball of rage that’s been sitting idle in my gut for years, the one that was woken up by the carnage I witnessed, roars to life and kicks me in the teeth.

  It’s time for me to man the fuck up.

  No more bitching about my limitations. I need to take control of my body and use it to help the Shamrocks end this war.

  With a nod in Timber’s direction, I turn back to Mad Dog. He meets me with a fierce gaze. One of his
hands is clutching my sister’s, the other bunched into a fist that hangs out of the end of his sling. I’m sure he’d love to drive it into my face as payback for the scene I’ve just caused.

  “I’m not a pussy. I’ll do it.”

  “This afternoon?” Mad Dog cocks an eyebrow, disbelief written all over his face.

  “Right bloody now.”

  “Good.” He smirks at me, then waves Kyle forward. “You’re his chauffeur. Take him to her office so he can make an urgent appointment. Use the doctors letter that you forged as a referral and make sure he gets assigned to Sascha Koswalski for the most intense therapy program she offers.”

  Kyle gives him a thumbs up, then heads toward me. The smug grin that curls his lips makes my hand itch to wipe it away. He stops next to me and throws an arm over my shoulder.

  “Let’s go.”

  I shrug him off me and begin walking for the door.

  “Joel,” Mad Dog calls after me. I pause to hear what he has to say, keeping my back to him because I can’t trust myself not to let this new resolve die so I can find another excuse to back out of this. “We’re all counting on you. Don’t pussy out and fuck this up.”

  The bell on the door of my clinic tinkles, heralding the entrance of a client. I look up from my notepad and into the angriest blue eyes I’ve ever encountered. The rage in them is palpable and it doesn’t lessen when I send a tentative smile his way—if anything, it intensifies. His reaction makes me drop his gaze and shift my attention to his companion. The tall, skinny redheaded man with Mr. Angry is much easier to reach, an easy grin on his face as they approach the reception counter.

  Swallowing, I glance back at the angry man. He’s limping; his gait appears painful. I quickly catalogue the injuries that I can see; finding, at least, one leg injury that I can fix with hydrotherapy.

  Lifting my gaze up his long frame, I take note of the trim hips encased in slim-fit jeans, the torso that begins at the aforementioned hips and widens with unexpected width to a solid pair of shoulders. His arms are naturally muscled, tapering nicely to strong wrists. They lead to hands with severe deformities. The right hand is turn toward his body as if he’s trying to hide it, while the left isn’t quite so hidden. At first glance, it appears normal, but then I notice the fingers have been damaged. He’s missing the tops of his thumb, index, and ring fingers—a clean removal from the first knuckle.

  I’m lost in my perusal and don’t realise that my examination has been noticed until he stops and turns to head out of my clinic.

  “Oh, hell no.” The angry man has a voice like velvet. Rough velvet, because at this moment he sounds pissed off. “I’m not doing this. She’s already staring at my hands.”

  The man with the red hair, takes hold of his arm and pulls him back toward me. “Mad Dog said you have to. Don’t make me call him.”

  They come to a stop at the counter, the attention of the clients in my waiting area firmly on the pair of them. My heart begins to race when I run my gaze from Mr. Angry’s chest to his face. His body is nice, even with his obvious injuries, but his face is something else. It’s the stuff of fairy tales. Symmetrical and tanned, it holds the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, an aristocratic nose that’s dead straight, and lips that look like cushions. I don’t know what it is—the rage in his expression, maybe—however, something saves him from being too feminine. Instead, he’s a perfect mix of beautiful and masculine.

  “Are you going to stare all day?”

  There’s that voice again. Rough velvet.

  I finally snap out of the stupor he’s put me in when he turns to the redheaded man and quips, “Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought. Seems like she’s mute.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I clear my throat after I speak. Heat rushes up my neck and settles in my cheeks when he lifts a thick, black eyebrow in my direction. “I was trying to determine the extent of your injuries. It’s common practice to examine the patient when they’re off guard since they’ll sometimes try harder to compensate during physio sessions.”

  I think he brought my rambling excuse. The suspicion on his face dims, although the smile on the other man’s face widens. I’m guessing he saw through me.

  “So, how can I help you?” I hold my hand out to Mr. Angry over the counter. “I’m Sascha.”

  He looks at it and then back at my face. Our eyes lock, and for the life of me, I can’t manage to drop his gaze. “I’m Joel O’Brien. I’ve been referred to you for rehab.”

  My hand is still hanging in the air between us. I pull the offending appendage back and wish for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me. It would be better than standing here, in the clinic that I own, feeling like I did at university when one of the hot boys looked my way. Out of my depth. Awkward. And, weird.

  “Here’s his details.” The red-haired man appears to take pity on me. He breaks the staring competition between Joel and I by handing me a sheet of paper. “You’ve probably noticed that he’s pretty fuc—I mean, messed—up. If you could get him started as soon as possible, that’d be great.”

  I run my eyes over the document I’m holding. The referral isn’t from a doctor that I’m familiar with. I’m about to ask where they got my name from when Joel speaks. “I’ve been told that you’re the best so I want you.”

  He’s talking professionally. I know that. Tell that to my stomach, though. It begins to flutter, dancing at the thought of this gorgeous man “wanting me”.

  “Are you always this hard to deal with?”

  Shaking my head, I duck behind the counter so he can’t see my cheeks turning red at his rude question. I’m making an idiot of myself.

  Nothing unusual there, I suppose. I quietly laugh at the thought. My family find my lack of composure adorable, so do most of my clients. Joel will come around soon enough.

  Running a fingernail down my schedule, I stop when I come to my next available appointment. I lift my head, flinching when I see the two men leaning over the top of the counter watching me. “I have a four o’clock appointment the day after tomorrow available.”

  “Sounds good,” Joel’s friend answers for him. He turns to my newest patient, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’ll be here, won’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  His lack of commitment is clear. This isn’t going to work unless he’s invested in the program as much as I am. I try to put my finger on Joel’s problem, momentarily stumped, until it hits me. “If you’re more comfortable with a male physiotherapist, I have one free. He’s just as good as I am. We went to the same school.”

  Joel turns white. I realise that I’ve made a huge mistake with my assumption.

  His friend throws his head back and laughs. “She thinks we’re gay.”

  “No shit Sherlock.” He spins on his heel, wobbling slightly before he finds his balance and strides as well as he can for the exit. “I’ll be here for my appointment with you.”

  Wracking my brain, I try to think of something to say to ease the embarrassment I’ve caused us both.

  “Make sure you bring swimmers.” I shout after him. The people in the waiting area who weren’t already watching us with wide eyes, turn to look at me. My mouth is in gear before I can stop it. “I’m going to have you bent over in positions you’ve never even thought possible.”

  Crap. I keep making this worse. “In the pool, I mean. You’re going to make me wet.”

  Joel’s friend turns to me, laughing so hard at my latest gaffe that he has tears running down his cheeks. He slaps the top of the counter, then tries to speak. I manage to get the gist of it, even though his laughter makes it him hard to understand.

  “You are somethin’ else. You’ll have that stick outta his ass in no time.”

  I look at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious with his comment. The moment our eyes meet, my own sense of humour kicks in, and I start to giggle. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I bite down on my bottom lip and drop to my knees so the waiting patients can’t see me.


  Shaking my head, I try to contain myself. It takes some effort, but I manage it after a minute or two. The red haired man wipes away his tears as he regains control of himself as well, then nods at me. His expression sobers, the mirth disappearing from his features in an instant.

  “I like you,” he says, still nodding at me. “Make sure you keep that smile, though. Joel’s going to put you through the wringer.”

  How are you supposed to feel the day you bury your brother? Sad? Angry? Lost? I still haven’t decided what it is that’s burning a hole in my stomach and squeezing my chest so tight that I’m afraid my heart is about to stop beating.

  All I know as I walk into the kitchen of the house that I share with Maddi, Mad Dog, and my little brother’s is that I’m not ready. Not to say goodbye. Not to look at my life and realise that I’m about to face it without one of the two people I always thought would be there. Benji, Joel, and Kyle. The terrible threesome. The little shits who’d steal any alcohol that wasn’t nailed down. The trio who’d fuck Smoke’s girl-of-the-moment behind his back, just because they could. My brothers-in-arms. The one’s I’d get into a punch-up with over the stupidest things, only to high five and then start beating on anyone who tried to break us up.

  This morning, I woke alone in my bed. The mattress beside me was cold for the first time in weeks; the recliner in the corner empty. I got dressed in silence—regretting my nasty words from yesterday during every silent second.

  “Joel,” Mad Dog greets me. He’s leaning against the breakfast counter, gripping a cup of coffee in his right hand while Maddi tries to slide his cut over his left shoulder. This is the first time I’ve seen them since I left the hospital yesterday. I made my appointment with Sascha, then made Kyle drive me home. I’d hidden in my bedroom, even though I could hear the Club gathering in the living room to welcome them home. Our house is the new location for lockdown while the damage to the Clubhouse is being repaired. It’s a tight squeeze; too many people filling this house to the brim, and it’s only going to get worse now that the injured people have been released.