Page 9 of Carver
He drops down to a crouch beside my chair. “My name’s Tyrant,” he tells me conversationally. “I’m the Prez here.”
Okay, I didn’t see that one coming.
Prez? As in, the guy who runs this whole thing? He certainly doesn’t seem old enough for that. Looking at him now, I do see that he has a quiet authority. He’s not the kind of man who has to go around barking orders. He’s the kind that men would want to follow simply because they’re smart, wise, and kind. It makes sense. Everything I’ve heard about the Satan’s Angels—and granted, it’s not much—says that they’re a differentkind of biker club than most. The way they arranged for Dominic to come here and get the surgery he needed speaks directly to a strong bond of brotherhood. I’ve heard that they truly care about their community as well, and now that I’m here, I can believe it.
I keep my face tilted. Even though he’s crouched down, I still have to look up. I make eye contact, unyielding and unafraid. I let him see everything in mine, giving him a direct line down to my desperation, hope, and pain. “Do you have a family, Tyrant?”
He blows out a breath, then tucks his hand in his hair and runs it through. “I do.” He smiles wryly. He can track where I’m heading. “My club brothers and my old lady and a daughter.”
“You’d do anything for them?”
He nods, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenches it like he’s physically trying to stop himself from giving me the words I need to hear.
“Then you’d double understand that I’m the only family Dominic has left. I love him. My parents and my sister and brother—wealllove him. I love him. More than anything in this world or the next. If I have to knock on every door in this city, I’ll do it.”
Tyrant shoots up. He paces a few steps towards the clubhouse, then sighs loudly again and whips back around. He can see that I’m dead serious. He saves me from having to go out and accomplish what would probably amount to a whole lot of nothing. “I’ll go get Viking.”
I have no idea what that means, but my heart leaps into my throat, racing out of control.
I don’t know who Viking is, but from the way Tyrant just spoke, I know that if I can make him understand, then I have a good shot at finding Dom.
I don’t know what I can say. I only have the truth. If it’s not enough, I don’t know what I’ll do. This isn’t just surgery and healing. This is our lives. I just have this feeling that if I’m not beside Dom now, I’ll never get another chance. He’ll pull away from me for good. He’ll listen to that shit inside of him that tells him that he’s never going to be good enough. He’ll fall into that black hole and I won’t be able to reach him, even if I spend a lifetime trying.
I’m prepared to grovel if I have to, but when the door opens and a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and scars on one side of his face, I know I won’t have to. This is the man Dom first trusted.Dravin. He’s scarred on the inside and outside, just like my Dom. This man, he understands. He’s been where Dom’s been, and he’s more than likely felt what Dom’s felt.
Hegets it.
That’s how I know he’ll hear me out.
Chapter 3
Carver
There’s nothing like letting someone see you at your very worst to operate as an ironclad trust building exercise.
Dravin was there for me every step of the way. He shot straight when I asked him what my face looked like, and when I wanted to get the bandages off to see, he helped me. We stood in the bathroom of my private room and stared at me in the mirror.
I said it looked worse than ever.
Dravin promised me that you had to look like you went eighty rounds with a set of harrows before anything improved.
I have no idea how he knows what harrows are.
The first week was the worst. My face felt like a balloon and looked pretty much the same from all the swelling. I was bruised like I’d been crushed by a stone for a second time.
Dravin picked me up two days after Bronte came to my place. I let her believe that the surgery would be further into the future and made sure I left the place exactly as it always was. I knew that if she stopped in instead of just driving by, she’d realize right away that I was gone, but I figured that after our heated exchange, she’d give me time to cool off.
When I got to Hart, Dravin took me straight to Archer’s. It’s a smaller clinic, but as nice as anything in a big city, and immaculately clean. I’m not sure how Archer started working for the club, but Dravin mentioned something about a debt.Apparently, there’s a secret basement that remains locked and Archer has it set up solely for the club’s use.
Adam Archer is a great doctor. He’s quiet with a shrewd, intelligent, clean cut look. He took x-rays and showed me what he’d already done with his 3D modelling software to reconstruct my face.
He used several implants instead of bone grafts, to reconstruct my jaw and cheekbone. Facial reconstruction isn’t a one and done, no matter what kind of miracle worker your surgeon is. He’s done the initial groundwork, but the scar revision surgery will happen later.
As for the other injuries, Archer wasn’t confident that he could do much for the nerves in my shoulder and arm. He told me about a few specialists in Seattle he can make calls to, and also gave me a list of excellent physical therapists here in Hart. The fact that I have started to regain some use over the past few months means that the future isn’t entirely bleak. But there’s no promises that I’ll ever regain full function. I appreciated his honesty.
Long story short: I’m uglier than I was before, but I hope to be a little bit less so in a few months when all the swelling fades and Archer’s work is revealed. He did caution me that it’s a slow process and full healing might take up to a year.
After day seven, Dravin could tell I was starting to go insane—I’m not the best patient in the world—so finally, Archer agreed to discharge me.
