Page 15 of Healed By Doc
Each flash is a sensory overload, a visceral reminder of the life I led for five years.
Whenever this happens, I make use of the club’s gym. I punch the bag until my knuckles are raw and wrists sore, and on the rare occasions when even that barely soothes the raw feelings in my gut, I step into the ring and go a round or two with one of my MC brothers.
Other times, I jump onto my Harley Davidson Road Glide and ride for hours along Lake Michigan until blood isn’t roaring in my head. Tonight, however, none of those are an option. I’m not at the clubhouse, and hence have no way to deal with these haunting memories.
I spent five years in a shoe box of a cell, among people who lived and thrived on violence. Most of the inmates in therehad nothing to lose, seeing that they would live out the rest of their lives behind those barbed wires. To be fair, I had it easier than most inside. I earned respect by providing aid to anyone who needed it, regardless of who they were or where they came from. But that doesn’t mean I was shielded from the violence that happened around me. In fact, I bore witness to most of it and nearly became numb to it all.
But I got out.
I glance at the woman sleeping soundly beside me and nearly swallow my tongue at the sight of her, and suddenly, I realize I don’t regret the past, despite everything that happened. I managed to escape my hell, and more importantly, so did she. Cara is an angel. Her light hair, a silken river, flows across the pillow. The moon caresses her skin, highlighting the perfect curve of her cheekbones and the softness of her lips. Even something as simple as the gentle rise and fall of her chest is mesmerizing.
How could I hate her? The little girl, or the woman she grew into?
I reach up and trace the curve of her brow with my thumb, taking in the way the moonlight dances over her face, and Christ, she’s so beautiful. I’m completely in awe of her.
And I want her. Desperately.
Not wanting to wake her and knowing I won’t be able to help myself if I stay, I push back the covers and slowly climb out of bed. It’s only four in the morning, but I doubt I’ll catch any more sleep. Staying in bed with a half-naked Cara poses a whole different challenge for me, so I decide the kitchen is the safer option. Besides, I could use a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll read through the medical article I’ve been meaning to check out.
With a last glance at Cara, I head into the bathroom to get cleaned up. A quick, cold shower clears the fog in my brain, and by the time I walk into the kitchen, I feel like an entirely different person. I prepare the coffee before settling on one of the stools to read through the article I saved. I drink my coffee as I read through the latest advancements in concussion protocols. Heaven knows I need all the knowledge I can get, especially when one is responsible for treating adrenaline junkies with an extreme aversion hospitals.
I’m so buried in the latest research that I don’t even notice that my coffee’s gone cold and the sun has already risen. It’s not until my phone vibrates that my attention is pulled from the article.
My brows draw as Saint’s number flashes on the screen, but I shouldn’t be surprised. As the club’s medic, I am used to getting calls at odd hours, so I take it.
“I’m standing outside your door. We need you downstairs,” Saint’s voice breaks through the speaker.
“Problem?”
“Yes, Trigger shot himself when one of the prospects didn’t properly unload his gun before returning it to the armory and Trigger decided to clean the pistols while still half asleep. The son of a bitch woke everyone with the shot. We were sure there was an attack or something. I am surprised you didn’t hear it from your place.”
Yeah, about that. “I’m not at the clubhouse.”
There is a pause, which I understand. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent the night out away from the clubhouse. In fact, most of my MC brothers tease me for having no social life, but I always like to be available when there’s a medical emergency at the clubhouse. And there are many.
“You know, men are not allowed to stay overnight at the shelter.”
I don’t bother asking how he even knows where I am. Saint makes it his business to know everyone else’s business. “There are no rules against staying in the staff quarters. Just the residents’ rooms, unless I’m wrong.”
“Fuck, I don’t even want to know. Can you get here or not?”
My eyes move to the bed where Cara is sleeping, then glance at my wrist watch. It’s only six, and although I don’t want to leave without telling her, I also don’t want to disturb her sleep. Besides, I’ll be coming right back here to check on Abby and another woman who’d arrived a few days ago.
“Where did he shoot himself?”
“It grazed his hand.”
“Apply firm and direct pressure to the wound to stop bleeding,” I instruct. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
I hang up and stuff my phone into my pocket before getting up. I walk over to Cara, intent on just looking at her and leaving, but I lose a battle against myself as I lean in and brush my lips over her temple, letting them linger as I inhale the sweet fruity scent clinging to her hair.
Pushing back, I allow myself to look at her and admit to myself that even without the history that binds us, I would have still pursued her. Perhaps things would have progressed further without the past hovering between us like a dark cloud.
I need to clear things up between us. When I get back, I’ll fix everything.
With a final glance at the woman who has quickly wormed her way into my heart, I leave. I take the back exit so I don’t runinto any of the other residents and scare them, circling to where I left my bike parked.
The ride to the clubhouse is spent thinking of Cara, when typically it would be on the patient I am on my way to see. I should be considering the best course of action if Trigger damaged any major blood vessels or nerves, but instead, my mind is on her. It’s still on her when, fifteen minutes later, I walk into the clubhouse and I am met by Saint, who leads me to his office where Trigger is waiting. The second I hear his voice, I figure the injury must not be so bad if the man can still laugh.
