HARD RIDE (The Slayers MC Book 2) Page 12

  I move to object but Dawson intervenes. “She’ll get checked out. I’ll see to it.”

  Dawson supports me around the waist as we move through the house. “I don’t need to get checked out,” I try one last time.

  We use my spare key to lock up the house behind the two lingering EMT’s.

  “Right… because normal, healthy people faint all the time, huh?” He’s not having it.

  Fuck.

  I’ll have to think of a more creative way to get around this.

  ~*~

  “Hee, hee, hoo” Baby squeezes my hand. “Hee, hee, hoo.”

  I breathe along with my friend, but watch the contraction monitor next to her hospital bed. She’s had enough of these in the two hours or so for me to have mastered the art of reading the lines on the square medical screen.

  “And… that one should be over.” I breathe a sigh of relief as Baby’s head falls back against the pillow propped up under her back.

  She’s exhausted, spent after this last contraction.

  “Ice chips!” I have an epiphany. “I’ll go get you some!”

  I hope they’ll be able to make her feel better, but I also need a moment away from these monitors and her pain, so the ice chips will serve both purposes right now.

  Baby nods, signaling that she’d like the frozen refreshment, and I oblige, leaving her to herself while I go fetch it. According to the fancy monitor, she should have about four or five minutes before the next contraction.

  It must be a slow day around here, as Baby was assigned her very own room when they admitted her. Even the halls are quiet and empty. One place that is most definitely NOT quiet and empty, though, is the waiting room.

  Every single Slayer from this charter, except for Chase, who’s been away on business for a few weeks now, and Stitches.

  Dawson managed to fill me in during the car ride over to the hospital. It’s unbelievable, a miracle, that Stitch is on his way here right now! We made the decision not to tell Baby. She has enough on her mind right now, she doesn’t need anything else.

  It would be devastating if he either weren’t to get here in time or get here at all. I’ve been around long enough to know that when it comes to the Slayers, nothing goes according to plan.

  “How is she?” Dawson leads the charge towards me for news as I join them in the waiting lounge.

  Baby’s doctor thought it best that her room be as quiet and peaceful as possible. I’m sure if these guys were clean cut and wearing suits instead of leather that good old Dr. Thornton would feel differently, but it is what it is.

  It’s not the first and definitely won’t be the last time these guys are discriminated against.

  “She’s doing fine. She’s doing great. Any word on Stitch?” I ask for my own update.

  Dawson checks his cellphone. “Won’t be here for another forty-five minutes or so. She gonna wait that long?”

  I nod. “According to the nurses, she’s got a few more hours to go, at least. I don’t know how she’s gonna be able to, though. She’s getting tired.”

  “How ‘bout you?” Dawson takes me aside. “You look exhausted. You gonna be able to do this? You can’t stand to see blood.”

  Just the mere mention of it makes me swoon.

  “Angel?” Dawson catches me under my arms as I wobble on my feet. “Trix?” He calls behind into the large group of family and friends.

  Uno’s Ol’ lady, Trixie, steps forward. “Yup?”

  “Can you go sit with Baby for a while? So Angel can take a breather?”

  Trixie steps up to the plate, eager to pitch in. “Sure thing.”

  “Ice chips!” I call to Trix. “She wants ice chips.”

  My replacement waves her hand in the air to signal that she’s heard me.

  “You still lightheaded?” Dawson turns his full attention to me.

  Truthfully? Yes, I am, but I’m not about to tell him that. My lack of answer is enough for him to jump into action.

  “Excuse me,” he stops a nurse that’s passing through the waiting room.

  I pull his arm, embarrassed. “Dawson, don’t.”

  He ignores my protest. “My woman. She needs to see a doctor. She fainted.”

  The young nurse looks from Dawson to me. “You fainted?”

  I minimize the seriousness. “This afternoon. Not now.”

  Dawson doesn’t let it slide. “She fainted and now she’s dizzy again.”

  I could hit him right now.

  The nurse begins an inquisition. “Are you hypoglycemic? Diabetic?”

  I shake my head. “No. No, nothing like that.”

  “We’re pretty empty over in ER. Why don’t you let me check your vitals? Maybe a blood panel to see if there’s anything behind what you’re feeling,” she suggests.

  The mere mention of giving blood causes my knees to give way again. That seems to be all the proof Dawson and the nurse need to haul my ass away.

  ~*~

  “Better?” Dawson hands me another cookie as I juggle the oatmeal raisin in my right hand with the carton of orange juice in my left.

  I can’t stop staring at the cotton square taped over the inside of my elbow. Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I remember it, but that doesn’t mean I’m in any rush to go donating blood anytime soon.

  “Traitor,” I label him.

  He threw me under the bus when the ER doc suggested a blood test, not letting me sidestep it.

  One prick, two vials of blood, two oatmeal raisin cookies and a lot of cursing later, here we are and I survived.

  “So, that was fun,” the nurse returns to the fabric curtain walled cubicle that I was assigned to when first brought down here.

  I feel embarrassed. “Sorry about the cursing.” Some very colorful language had been used as she was searching for just the perfect vein to stick. “I’m not exactly a fan of this stuff.”

  She feigns surprise. “No....”

  “When will the results be in?” Dawson gets back to business.

  The nurse scribbles some notes onto my brand new chart. “About two days. Doc says you’re free to go. Make sure you stay hydrated, and don’t skip any more meals. We’ll give you a call when your labs are back.”

  Thankful for the dismissal, I slide off the paper lined medical examination table and swipe my hoodie back from Dawson who’s been keeping hold of it for me. He attempts to help me walk, but I shoo him away.

  “Play nice,” he reprimands me, whispering in my ear.

  Turning to face him, I make it clear how pissed I am. “Let me stick a needle in your arm and see if you’re up to playing nice after.”

  He laughs. “At least you got a cookie.”

  I scowl. “Fuck your cookie.”

  “D!” Gryff comes running around the hallway corner in search of us. “He’s here! Stitch! Deputies just dropped him off.”

  The three of us look from one to the other. It’s happening! It’s really happening!

  Dawson grabs my hand and leads as we take off in a sprint through the hospital hallways, garnering more than one nasty look from staff.

  I feel myself grow dizzy again, but don’t dare tell Dawson. The last thing I need right now is his overbearing protectiveness.

  Instead, I hold on tighter to his hand and talk myself successfully through the the spell, coming out on the other end of it without fainting. I’ve been having these kinds of woozy moments for s few days now, first having noticed them when I bent down low to pick Sasha up from the floor one afternoon at Trixie’s daycare.

  Chalking it up to a lack of carbs, I didn’t give it much thought. But then, after what happened in Baby’s kitchen, and again just now, I’m not so quick to write this all off. I may absolutely hate to give blood, but maybe something good will come of all this.

  Every single woman in my family has been hypoglycemic. I never really understood what they were going through and thought it was just a good excuse to carry around a chocolate bar in their purse.

  I guess the
family curse is finally making its way to me. I noticed a nice sized vending machine in the waiting room. Time to start carrying around a Hershey bar. It’s not the worst thing in the world.

  The three of us come to a screeching halt as soon as we notice the very tall, brown, shaggy haired man being led into the waiting room by two fully uniformed Deputies. I take stock of all his details, and match them to the mental image I have in mind of his picture.

  This must be Stitch, Dawson’s best friend and Baby’s Ol’ man.

  One by one, the leather-vested men gathered ‘round, hug him hard, pounding on backs, grateful to see their brother once gain. The Ol’ ladies that are here take their turns, too, being whirled in the air by the big, strong guy.

  When all others have had their chance, including Gryff who’s left our side, Dawson and Stitch stare at each other from across the room. I can feel the emotion behind the innocent act, and notice that I’m not the only one in the room tearing up.

  I may be a newcomer to this group, this family, but I’ve heard enough to know the close bond between Dawson and Stitch. This is the first time I get to see it firsthand though.

  Uno has to look away as he wipes the hidden trace of moisture near his good eye, pretending to cough. I notice it and smile just a bit at the hint of emotion from these guys.

  Dawson steps forward cautiously, and approaches his best friend. As they near each other, I size them up and compare the impressive physical attributes they both offer.

  Both are taller than most, but Stitch has just a touch more height on his president. Shoulders are strong and broad on both, and I imagine Stitch having honed all those muscles to perfection while in the pen, but Dawson wins in that category.

  Each of the two men have the same hardened eyes that are symbolic of a true Slayer, with Dawson’s a deep brown and Stitch’s an almost emerald green. Stitch’s hair is longer than Dawson’s, hanging in sharp angles as if needing to be cut.

  He’s wearing jeans and a black long sleeve thermal shirt that hugs his body, covering up most of his skin, but the areas I can see are covered in ink of different shades. Some old and worn, some new and vibrant, with those most likely compliments of the prison tattoo artist.

  His large knuckles are adorned with scrolling letters that I can’t seem to read from this distance, blending into larger artwork that dips beneath the sleeve of the shirt.

  By his neck, around the collar, there are just the tips of some kind of dark blue/black ink strokes playfully peeking from under the black cotton. One lone tattoo on the side of his neck and under his left ear catches my attention.

  I focus my eyes to read it clearly, with the shape and size of the medium piece of artwork being very familiar to me. I’ve seen it before, many, many, times. I know it by heart.

  My eyes dart to Dawson, who’s reached his friend by now, standing before him, silent still. I can’t see the left side of my man’s neck from how he’s facing, but I know that the identical tattoo to Stitch’s is on his own skin. The weeping angel on her knees has always mesmerized me, with the sadness and innocence in the rendition of something so powerful, yet vulnerable, on someone like Dawson’s body.

  The two men almost appear as mirror images, each reflecting something in the other. Dawson breaks the silence first and pulls his best friend in for a long overdue embrace.

  My nostrils begin to close and I realize that I’m on the verge of crying at seeing something so genuine. Sniffling, I control myself and my emotions. This is a happy time, I keep telling myself.

  It’s clear from the wince on Stitch’s face that he’s not completely healed yet from the attack, but he bears through it. I can hear the deep thudding of pounding on each other’s backs before they free and collect themselves.

  “Esè,” Dawson calls out to the rookie who’s standing somewhere in the crowd. “Cut.”

  The people step aside and make way for the young kid coming through, carrying what must be Stitch’s own well-worn leather vest. The vest is handed to Dawson, as a sign of respect.

  I had forgotten about the two Sheriff’s deputies standing near until one of them speaks. “You know the rules Towson. No gang related memorabilia.”

  There’s a dripping amount of disdain in the man’s words.

  Dawson’s jaw flexes and tightens and I know him well enough where his thoughts are my own. If the vocal deputy wasn’t hiding behind his badge right now, he’d be a punching bag. But he is hiding behind his badge, and too many people have too much to lose if things get out of hand right now.

  So Dawson keeps the anger inside. “We’re no gang. We’re family.”

  Turning the aging leather vest inside out, revealing the ripped inner lining that’s seen more than I can even imagine, Dawson slides the vest over the shoulders of his brother, hiding the embroidered patches close to the man’s body.

  With the deputy satisfied, he hands over a piece of paperwork to Stitch. “Stick to rules, man. I don’t need to come hauling your ass back. Check in with your parole officer tomorrow. Once you’re home, stick to within fifty yards of your primary residence. No contact with known felons.”

  They seem to have all been expecting this, with the collection of Slayers backing away and retreating to the far corner of the waiting room. Even Dawson nods some silent understanding to Stitch before coming back to join me.

  “I—” I speak up for the first time. “I’m not a felon.”

  Dawson’s eyes light up at the realization. Stitch doesn’t have to do this alone.

  Dawson takes my hand and squeezes it, giving me his blessing. I can feel the weight of the deputy’s eyes on me, in shock that there’s someone in this group that’s not an outlaw, woman or not.

  “Shall we?” I offer my hand to my man’s best friend.

  As if he somehow already knows me, he smiles warmly, and I can see what Baby meant when she spoke about her husband’s kindness. It’s not on full display. It’s hidden, deep beneath the layers of hardness that he’s built, but I see it.

  “Angel,” I’m not surprised that he already knows not only who I am, but my nickname, too. “After you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAWSON

  Every time I get up, pacing back and forth in front of the large glass windows, I see the unmarked squad car in the lot outside, with its lights off and the two silhouettes of what appear to be men sitting in the front seat.

  Under normal circumstances, if you could ever mistake this type of lifestyle for normal, I wouldn’t think twice about it, chalking it up to Stitch being on parole. The sneaky sons of bitches sitting in that dark, late model, inconspicuous sedan would most definitely have to be here to grab Stitch the moment he violates parole.

  But things are most definitely not normal for us right now. Sure, those men could be here for my recently paroled brother in leather, but they could also be from the Cartel. Even that possibility isn’t as clear cut as it could be.

  Which part of the Cartel would they be from?

  Could they be Jimenez’s men, finally making an appearance after all these weeks? Or could they be here on orders from Mateo, who seems to be running his own agenda?

  Either way, I’m not happy with any of the three possibilities. The fact that someone’s here, watching me and my men is something I just can’t tolerate.

  “Hey Esè,” I casually call over the tired-looking kid trying to stay awake over in the corner. We’ve been here for hours, and I don’t blame him for trying to catch some shut eye, but I’ve got a task for him. One that will require him to be fully awake.

  “Yeah, D?” He rubs his eyes.

  Gryff sees our little huddle forming and comes over, too.

  I rest my back up against the glass, giving the assholes outside a perfect view of my patches. If they’re from the Cartel, I’m also giving them a clear view of their target.

  If they were going to shoot, they would’ve done it already, as I’ve been pacing back and forth in plain sight for a while, even before noticing th
em.

  “Without looking, there’s an unmarked car outside. Been watching us all night.” I speak casually.

  Like a true rookie, Esè looks behind me through the glass to where the cars are lined up.

  “Wanna make it any more fucking obvious?” Gryff reprimands him.

  “Enough.” It’s like keeping the peace between a couple of toddlers. “Rookie, you’re gonna go put a tracker on that car, under the rear bumper.”

  His eyes grow wide at the task, at what I’m entrusting for him to do. “Wo—won’t they see me?”

  I don’t have the patience for this shit. “Gryff, make it happen.”

  As I’m walking away, I overhear Gryff laying out a plan about offering a distraction while Esè plants the bug. Seriously, these guys have been outta practice too long.

  I’ve paid my dues, I’ve done my fair share of grunt work. Now, I delegate. They’ll do it, what I need of them. If they fuck up, they’ll pay the price.

  Another thirty-minutes of waiting impatiently for any news of Baby passes by. Gryff and Esè return from their project just in time to see Angel barreling through the double swing doors to the waiting room dressed in a blue paper gown and cap.

  “It’s a girl!” She breathlessly extolls.

  The crowd erupts into cheer, grateful for the good news. It even affects me as I feel the tight smile spread over my lips and a warmth begin to flood my eyes. Angel paws at the flimsy hospital wear, bunching it into a soft blue cotton ball as she excitedly approaches me.

  “Is that my big strong badass biker tearing up? It can’t be….” She’s fucking around with me.

  “Got dust in my eye,” I blow it off.

  Sarcastically, she nods. “Sure… Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  I pull her close. “What secret is that, exactly?”

  Angel licks her lips. “The fact that you’re a big softy.”

  Oh, really?

  Everyone around us is busy with the news of the youngest addition to the family, but even if they saw what I’m about to do, I doubt it would deter me. I reach for Angel’s soft hand and pull it down, holding it against my firm cock.