Page 5 of At Last

2.

Duke

Jesus Christ. When I got back from my ride, my club was overrun with pussy not available for fucking, and they’re still fuckin’ here.

Boss’s old lady and her girls’ night in. All of ’em except for Trish, sucking back tequila like they just invented the recipe and are trying to get it right.

’Course, drunken pizza making was pretty entertaining. Rounds of mozzarella stuck to the ceiling until the prospects scrape it down.

Sneak has his cell out snapping off pictures to send to Boss. The women have been dancing on the bar singing Taylor Swift songs for the last half-hour. Taylor Swiftin my club.

And shit, Dr. Brennen up there shaking her ass. That woman has moves. What I wouldn’t give to bury my dick deep inside that undoubtedly sweet pussy. Bet the carpet matches the drapes. She seems too good to wax. That’s fine. Shit’s better than fine. I prefer some stubble. Trimmed, but I like the scrape of course hair against my cheeks when I feast.

Then there’s her fucking hair. Seeing all those curls cascading down her back. No bun. My fingers itch to run through those glossy, soft strands.No, dammit. I’m not even attracted to redheads. Give me a sexy burnished chestnut any day. Dawna had thick burnished chestnut hair, when she wasn’t on the chemo.

I need to calm my dick down. I need to get laid. Vicky-Lee, my regular piece is great with her mouth, but I need something more than she gave me this morning. Besides, she ain’t here because I stupidly agreed to keep ’em out tonight. What the fuck was I thinking?

Sneak uses his two fingers to whistle at his woman using Tommy Doyle’s wife as a pole for a pole dance, even though she ain’t drunk. Once Gun was conceived, Trish put Sneak on a mission to put a baby in her belly, too. So now she’s knocked up, just starting to show.

When I turn away from the PG stripper show, the good doctor is down on her knees, writhing over the counter like she’s riding an imaginary dick.

Then the strangest thing happens. Her phone rings, and right in the middle of a gyration, she answers it.

“Hello?” She sounds off, concerned. Since it’s a one-sided conversation, I don’t know who’s talking to her or what they’ve said, but she shouts, “I’m coming.Oh god… I’m coming. Keep her head and neck immobilized.”

The doctor pushes off the bar top and slips. She’d have face planted if I hadn’t caught her.

“Get off me,” she says instead of thank you. “I’ve got to go.” And I notice her pulling keys from her pocket.

Fuck that. She can barely walk, I ain’t letting her drive. “You ain’t driving.”

“I have to go. I have to gonow.” She wrenches from my arms. But I ain’t drunk and catch hold of her belt loop to stop her.

Split second decision. “You need to go, I’ll take you,” I tell her. And I know the second the words leave my mouth shit’s about to get real between us. Because Dr. Brennan is the kind of woman you get real about, and you do it quick.

Her eyes go wide and for a moment, I think she’s gonna fight me. But nah. She turns to me and I can see the fear and pain on her face. What the hell was that phone call about?

“We have to go now,” she says, giving in. Though I have to keep my arm around her to keep her upright.

Once we’re out the door, I steer her away from my bike toward my old pickup sitting outside my doublewide. She looks confused since clearly bikers ride bikes, but hops in without a word. God knows I’ve seen that kind of fear in a person’s eyes too many times to count, so before she even has the seatbelt clicked, I’ve already backed out of my spot and am headed for the gate.

Thornbriar being so tiny, it takes us only six minutes to reach… well it’s a house in one of the nicer sections ’a town. The doctor jumps from my truck before I park and runs up to the door. There’s a woman waiting for her with the door open.

The woman, not noticing me or not caring, starts to shut the door, but I wedge my hand between it and the frame before she could shut me out.

“Ambulance is on the way,” the woman tells Dr. Brennen.

“Thank you,” she answers, dropping down next to a little girl laying at the base of a set of carpeted stairs, running her hand over the child to check her out. The kid already has a neck brace on.

“We used the brace from when Jack broke his collarbone and wasn’t supposed to move his neck.” The woman, whose home we’re in, says as she absently runs her hand up and down the back of a boy standing next to her. He must be Jack. “We were careful.”

When the doctor nods, I assume the woman means getting the brace on.

“Mama…” the little girl cries to the doctor.

Mama? You gotta be kidding me.

That’s the calm before the shitstorm. Not two seconds after, red flashers from the ambulance light up the nighttime sky, and paramedics flood in with a stretcher. They try to do their job while a still quasi-buzzed doctor barks orders. I’ve heard doctors don’t make good patients, so I can only assume how bad they can be when their kid is involved. Making it doubly bad when a buzzed doctor’s kid is involved.

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