Doc (Ruthless Kings MC Book 7)

by K. L. Savage

  “Your cholesterol wasn’t high to begin with, but healthy changes are good changes.” I ease the needle in his vein and then grab a test tube, pushing it against the needle. Red liquid fills the tube, and I look at Bullseye’s face and narrow my eyes at him when I see him looking around the room and swinging his legs. “Out with it. What do you need to talk about?”

  “It’s embarrassing.” His cheeks turn a shade of pink.

  “Well, everything checks out down below. I don’t see any abnormalities. We still have to swab, like usual, but I think we will be fine. Unless you’ve been having unprotected sex? Bullseye, we’ve talked about that,” I sigh, pulling the test tube free, along with the needle.

  “Can I get a cool band-aid? Like Star Wars or something? Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean the kids should get all the cool shit.”

  Who doesn’t like a cool band-aid? “You got it, Bullseye.” I open up the cabinet and take out a few for him to pick from, along with a sucker, because I don’t care how old you are, patients love suckers.

  I won’t give it to him now since he’s naked. It’s weird to give a man a lollipop when his cock is out. It’s a line I won’t cross. “Are you going to talk to me, or what?” I place the band-aid on his arm, shove the lollipop in my pocket, and grab the swab for his cock. I don’t know how he stands getting this Q-tip up his dick so many times throughout the year, but when you’re as sexually active as Bullseye, I’m glad he cares enough to get the full workup.

  “Can we talk after you stick that thing in my pee-hole?”

  I fucking hate it when they call it that. “Sure, Bullseye. Stand up.”

  He stands, and I do my business. He doesn’t even flinch. I place the swab in the plastic tube as he puts on his jeans.

  I take off my gloves, toss them in the biohazard bin, and lean back. Now I hand him the sucker. A smile blooms across his face, and I chuckle watching him unwrap it like a kid at Christmas. “Okay, you’re worrying me. It isn’t like you not to share something that isn’t personal. You’re nervous, and I’m starting to wonder if I need to be concerned.”

  “I … I…”

  I lean my head forward, waiting to hear what he has to say.

  “Fuck, Doc. I… I haven’t been able to get an erection in the last two weeks. I’ve been … dizzy and losing chunks of my hair.” He turns around and shows me a few patches by lifting up the longer parts of his brown hair. There are a few bald spots. “I’m freaking out. Don’t get me wrong, I have a healthy sex life. I’ve fucked enough to cover the rest of my life, but losing my hair? Doc, that scares the shit out of me. I haven’t told anyone because I think they’ll make fun of me and blame it on sex. My hair falls out in clumps when I shower. I’m going to have to buzz it soon. I’m fucking terrified, Doc.”

  This isn’t what I was expecting. I figured it was something shallow and conceited because it’s Bullseye, but he has tears swimming in his eyes. He waited too long to talk to me because now he’s thought the worst and is freaking out over an assumption.

  “Okay, hey…” I lay my hand on his shoulder and look him in the eye. “We’ll figure this out; don’t panic. I know it’s easier said than done because this is out of the ordinary. I need to take more blood, and I have a lot of questions to ask you. First, I need to know if anything in your routine has changed? Is there something in the garage that is different, products, tools, anything with a chemical compound? Tell me everything from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed. Don’t leave any detail out. I know I’m your friend, but I’m your doctor; even if you think it’s embarrassing, I need to know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, anything. I’m an open book for you. You know that, Doc.”

  He has no idea how much easier he makes my job by being like that. “Okay, I’m not worried. It can be something as simple as stress.” I’m a man of science, and until I see the problem, I won’t believe it.

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  The whites of his eyes are red as he leans back. Bullseye doesn’t scare easily. He deals with death all the time, but it’s different when the arrow is pointed at you. The value of life changes, and the want to live is increased by a million. You think about the things you haven’t done and want to do, need to do. Everything becomes urgent when you feel like a clock has been mounted on your timeline.

  I won’t let Bullseye live like that.

  I’ve lived like that, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

  And the only person I know of who can relate to me in any way, or at least, I feel like she can, is Joanna. A woman I have no business thinking about because she’s in a very dark place right now. All I can think about is how I want us to share each other’s darkness. Maybe our shades of black are different, and the nights won’t be so bad if we leaned on each other.

  Who the fuck am I kidding? Who would want someone who looks like me? I’m a monster, a scarred-up beast, a Frankenstein’s monster. If she saw all of me, all she would see is a freak show. I know I put on a good face with coming to the rescue at someone’s beck and call, but they don’t know me.

  If there is one thing I don’t do it’s attention, even if I do want it from Joanna.

  I stare down at the pregnancy test in my hand in disbelief. This can’t be right. This cannot be happening to me. Oh God, no. No, no, no. I throw a hand over my mouth and sob. Those two pink lines have to be lying.

  Pregnant.

  I knew something was wrong for the last few weeks, but this was the last thing I thought it would be.

  “Oh my god, what am I going to do?” I lean against the bathroom wall and let the fear of being a mother seep into me. I wail painful swells as emotions tighten my chest. I try to think about the moment it happened, the time I was so thoughtless, but nothing comes to mind.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve partied in college like every other person, and I have my dark moments because I still dream of that basement I was held captive in. I lay a hand across my stomach and think about everything. I have a final exam tomorrow. One test. One test and I’ll have my degree. I’ve worked so hard, and the Ruthless Kings have fronted every cent of my college education. Reaper has been amazing through this entire experience. I have my own apartment, car, and I don’t have to work because they keep my bank account full.

  They are opposite of who the Ruthless Kings were in Jersey.

  And I’ve let them down.

  “What happened? Oh, God.” I toss the pregnancy test in the trash and think about all the choices that have led to this moment. This can’t be happening. It has to be a false positive. I haven’t had sex since before I was kidnapped in New Jersey. “Okay, breathe. Think. Breathe. Get your head on straight. You’re alive. You’re here.” I’ve never felt so empty. This baby is a mistake. I can’t believe I don’t remember—

  Wait a minute.

  I wipe my cheeks with my forearms, feeling the ridges of a few scars and think back to the party I went to a month or so ago. It was at Brody’s apartment. I remember having a drink that Brody gave me, just the one, and then everything after that was a little fuzzy.

  What if…

  “No,” I whimper and cover my face with my hands. “No, no, no. I’m going to be sick.” I flip around on the toilet and throw up my breakfast. I reach for the toilet paper roll and pull a sheet and then wipe my mouth off. Tossing the ruined paper in the toilet, I reach for the handle and flush. I fall on my ass, and the cold tile doesn’t yank me from my nightmare. My pants are around my ankles, but I don’t bother pulling them up.

  I don’t have the energy.

  Surely, Brody wouldn’t… He couldn’t… He is/was my friend.

  I pull my thighs to my chest and cross my arms over my knees. I hang my head and cry because I don’t know what else to do. I’m twenty-one. I’m fucked up. What the hell am I going to do with a baby?

  I could get an abortion.

  I cry harder at the thought. The baby is innocent. I could never get an abortion. Whether I’m ready or not, I’m going
to be a mother. I don’t understand why Brody did what he did, but there isn’t anything I can do about it since I can’t remember details. If I hadn’t gone to that party, if I didn’t accept that drink, then none of this would be happening.

  If. If. If.

  Ifs are useless to think about since nothing can be changed. Time can’t be erased, and I can’t take away or fix the decision I made to accept the drink Brody handed me.

  I can’t do this.

  I can barely pass my classes. I haven’t been getting As. I’ve been lying to everyone. This entire process has been a struggle. I’ve put on a brave front, but I want to go home. I want to go to the club, where I feel safe.

  I’m a safety hazard for myself. I don’t trust I won’t hurt myself to the point of no return.

  I have to go to therapy for what happened to me in Jersey, and I wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, gasping for air. I’m not cut out to be a mother. I place my hands on the ground and push myself up while grabbing my sweatpants. My vision is blurry as I walk out of the bathroom. I sway, slamming my shoulder against the door from my equilibrium being off.

  My hip hits the edge of the plain gray countertop where the sink is, and I barely feel it. I grip the counter, staring at myself in the large mirror hanging on the wall. My brown hair is messy and hangs in my face, my eyes are swollen from crying, and my green eyes look neon and the whites are red. I lift my shirt up and turn to the side, my chin wobbling when I see how flat my stomach is. I lay my hand against it. It won’t be long before my belly is round. These damn tears! Goddamn it, I can’t fucking stop them.

  Am I able to be scared of being a young mom and be afraid and disgusted that I was raped while unconscious? A horrible thought enters my mind; what if I wasn’t drugged? What if I can’t remember because I was drunk?

  I can’t say I’d be surprised. I’ve barely recognized myself lately. Darkness is closing in on me more every day. I’ve never felt more alone. No one understands what I’m going through. Well, that isn’t true. There is one person that I can confide in, the one person who helped me the most when I came to Vegas. Leaving him was like leaving my sanctuary. He was the only person who would listen without offering to fix it because he knew nothing could erase the nightmares besides time.

  Eric, or Doc as the club calls him, a man who is so kind and considerate of others. He has a heart of pure gold, someone I will never be good enough for. What doctor is going to want a woman that they feel like they have to fix? And him being a doctor, he would feel obligated. I don’t want to be an obligation to someone.

  I’m not worth the effort for someone to pour into. This is who I am now. A shell of who I used to be.

  Lowering my shirt, I have the urge to throw up again when the voice in the back of my head tells me that I’m pregnant. I’m not in the position to raise a child. Can I go to the Ruthless Kings? Will they take care of me?

  Yes, without a doubt. Reaper will never let a woman struggle. I’m so tired of being a problem someone needs to take care of. I want to take care of myself, but I’m doing a piss poor job at it.

  My fist slams against the countertop, and I let out an ear-piercing scream. I continue to pummel the sink with my bare fists until they ache. I’m running out of breath. My chest heaves. My eyes water. The scream helped, but the fear is deep-seated.

  Fear doesn’t leave. It’s a parasite, a life-sucking, blood-draining, promise of death. Once it’s there, the only way it can leave is if you conquer it before it takes ownership of your soul.

  I think I’m too far gone.

  With a shaky hand, I reach for the gold handle of the drawer and slide it open, revealing my stash of razors.

  I hate myself.

  I know how self-deprecating I am, and I’m sick of feeling that way. I don’t know how to get better, and now I have to worry about a baby?

  Maybe I can give him or her up for adoption. That’s a decent option. I can live with myself knowing my child is alive instead of aborted.

  But then I’ll have to go my entire life knowing my kid is out there living a life without me. I slam the drawer shut and run my fingers through my hair, pulling the strands tight at the indecision bouncing around in my head.

  No, I need this.

  I wish when I was in Jersey, they would have killed me. Life has been too hard to live day by day. I feel like I’m sucking the life out of the Ruthless Kings, like I’m an obligation instead of a friend, someone they want around. They are stuck with me because of what happened. I’m a constant screw up, someone who always needs to be babysat because no matter where I go, I seem to be a burden.

  Maybe that’s why the last six months of school have been so hard. I’ve been slowly self-destructing. I don’t know how to live anymore, not after Jersey. Every day that goes by I’m a ghost of myself, only appearing when I need to and want to.

  I turn my arms over and see the scars decorating them. Some are pink, freshly healed, some are old, a pale white, while some are scabbed. I don’t need to be doing this, but I can’t help it. The cutting brings me so much peace, and I relax. I never relax.

  One more time.

  I open the drawer again, my hand shaking as I reach for the straight razor.

  I love the pain, the sting, and when I see the blood pooling on my skin, I feel like I’m a little bit closer to death. It’s taboo, a rope I like to balance on. I stare down at the razor in the palm of my hand, the silver of the metal shining against the bathroom light. A tear falls from my face and lands on it, reminding me of the sad death that awaits if I do it right.

  The air conditioning kicks on, a low hum sounding as the breeze from the vents blows against my face. My tears dry, and when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s with determination.

  My gaze follows the steps I take as I walk into the bedroom and settle on the bed. This time, I’ll do it right. I place a pillow behind me and bring the white covers up to my waist. If I die, I want to be comfortable.

  The urge to hear his voice one more time has me reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I type his name in my contacts and press call, then place it on speaker. I lay the phone against the bed.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone sings for ten, fifteen, and then twenty seconds. My brows crease, hoping he answers. I want to hear his voice.

  I take the blade and press it against my skin, right where my elbow creases. I dig the blade in and make a sound in the back of my throat from the initial sting. I inhale a deep breath and hold it as I drag the sharp razor down my arm, watching the flesh split open and the blood part on either side of the wound.

  “Hey, Jo. What’s up?” Eric answers just as I stop at my wrist.

  It’s the longest cut I’ve ever given myself.

  “Eric,” I say, half high on the pain. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” I move to the other arm by placing the blade in my left palm. The blood soaking my hand makes it difficult to grab the razor. Everything is slick. “I’m sorry,” I slur and think about the night we shared together. It’s the only good memory I have, the only one I can remember. It isn’t anything special; at least, I doubt it is to Eric. It is to me. He held me all night, and it prevented me from having a nightmare. We didn’t say a word.

  He just curled his arm around me, and we slept.

  “Sorry? For what, Jo?” Jo, he’s the only person to ever call me that, and I love it. It makes me feel special to him, even when I’m probably not.

  Finally getting a hold of the blade between two blood-slick fingers, I lay them against the same place on my right arm and drag it down again.

  “Jo? What are you doing? Jo?” He sounds eerie, skeptical, curious. He always knows when something is going on.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin to cry again. “I can’t do it. I can’t live this life anymore, Eric.” My head falls against the headboard as my eyelids grow heavy. Blood is saturating the white blanket, a red-stained coffin just for me. “I tried,” I gasp.

  “What the hell are you talki
ng about? Jo, don’t do anything stupid. I’m on my way. Just stop, okay? I’m coming.”

  “No,” I whisper, the weakness in my throat a disease against my vocal chords. “Don’t bother.” Tears swim my vision, and as I shake my head, the salty drops fall on my raw, red cheeks. “I honestly can’t. Too much has happened now. I’m—” I almost let slip out that I’m pregnant, but I know Eric will want to change my mind. I’m better off. The baby is better off. What if my son or daughter gets adopted by an abusive family? What if they never get adopted and end up on the streets? I won’t put my kid through that.

  “Jo, you listen to me,” he chokes, and the line goes static for a moment. It sounds like he’s walking outside. “You are brilliant. You are strong. You are fucking amazing. Whatever you’re about to do—”

  I wheeze and roll my arms so the wound is down, and the blood flows out quicker. There’s so much the sheets aren’t soaking the red up anymore. It’s a pool. “It’s too late.”

  “Jo—no. Listen—” With the last of my energy, my finger presses the end button, cutting off whatever else he has to say. I know that he will try to convince me that this dark, fucked up world is worth it.

  But my experience tells me, the world can go to hell.

  “Fuck!” I roar as I swing my leg over my bike and throw on my helmet. I should’ve been keeping a better eye on Joanna, but with my attraction to her and everything she has been through, I thought I’d give her more time to heal. Damn it. What kind of fucking doctor am I?

  I crank my bike, only for it to stall, and try again. “Stupid goddamn September desert heat and this stupid goddamn bike won’t start.” I’m so damn nervous I can’t fucking think. “Come on, you stupid piece of shit!” I slam my fists on the handlebars when the damn thing won’t start. I’ve only felt panic like this once in my life, and that was when my dad was skinning me alive with his scalpel.

  “Talk.”

  I jerk my head up to see Tongue standing in front of me, gripping my wrist and stopping me from hitting my bike again. I can’t breathe. My heart is beating a million miles an hour, and I can’t think straight.