Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“I was born in the backseat of a car on the way to the hospital, so in a way…”
“Your president has a road name.”
“Well, for obvious reasons. Raff is a nickname from when he and his brothers were kids. Riff and Raff.”
“Like who let the riff-raff in.”
“Exactly.”
“How’s he doing? I didn’t see what happened to him, but I heard him cry out when it happened.”
“He was stabbed. Fucker dug in and pulled up. We barely made it home.”
“He seems to be in good spirits.”
“He’s got a revolving door of women dressed in nurse costumes coming to dote on him.”
“Scrubs or slutty Halloween costumes?”
“What do you think?” I asked, making her shake her head. “Bikers and their club girls,” she said.
“Does it work the opposite way?” I asked.
“You mean did we have hot, muscular guys walking around in thongs, feeding us grapes and rubbing our feet? Shit. Lost opportunity…”
A surprised huff of a laugh escaped me at that.
“So no.”
“I think for most of us, the safety of a sisterhood was kind of the point. We didn’t want to invite men into that space.”
“Which makes how shit turned out especially rough.”
“Yeah,” she said, exhaling hard.
“Whoa, you okay?” I asked when she wobbled on her feet.
“I… yeah,” she said, touching her forehead, where she was starting to sweat. She looked pale too.
“You sure?” I asked.
She was trembling lightly.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she insisted, her hand sliding to her heart as the dog at her feet started to whine and nudge her.
“Hey, Doc?” I called, reaching out to press a hand to Dylan’s lower back. “Got a sec?”
“I’m fine,” Dylan said again, but she sounded less sure.
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”
Dr. Price stood, turning with a concerned look on his face. His gaze moved over Dylan, then down to the dog who was nudging her.
“Your dog is alerting you,” he said.
My gaze slipped down, seeing the kind of frantic look on the dog’s face, like she was worried that her human wasn’t listening to her.
“Colter, get her on the couch,” he demanded.
“I’m just a little low,” Dylan said, but she moved along with me as I led her to the couch.
“Your sugar?” Dr. Price asked, moving in front of her, reaching out for her wrist to check her pulse.
“Yeah.”
“When’s the last time you tested your sugar?”
Sugar?
She was diabetic?
“Last night.”
“Last night?” Dr. Price asked, his tone a little sharp.
I didn’t know anything about managing diabetes, how often you needed to test. But, clearly, she was not doing it often enough.
“I’ve been careful not to eat carbs. I’m out of insulin,” she admitted. Then her gaze flicked up to me, “they took it all.”
Christ.
That was a real dick move.
Who steals someone else’s medicine?
Well, I guess the kind of men who would kill or force women into prostitution.
“Well, we can fix that,” Dr. Price said, reaching into his kit. “Do you not have a continuous monitor?”
“No. I have… Sugar,” she said, patting the head of the dog who was still letting out pathetic little whimpers.
“Okay. Let’s test you then,” he said, pulling out a little kit.
He spread it out, opening an alcohol wipe and cleaning Dylan’s finger.
“I can do it,” she insisted.
“I’m sure you can,” Dr. Price agreed, reaching for a little blue plastic thing and shoving it into something pen-shaped.
He pressed it to her finger and hit a plunger.
The way Dylan inhaled was the only sign that anything happened.
When he came away, a bead of blood was on her finger. From there, Dr. Price gathered up the blood and checked it with the monitor.
“Can someone make her some juice or candy? Even a soda would work, but not diet.”
Slash came over with some orange juice.
“Thanks,” Dylan said, her voice small as she took it.
She wouldn’t look at anyone, making me think that she was embarrassed about the whole situation. It was stupid. But I could understand. She was used to being in charge, in control. No biker president wanted to seem weak or reliant on anyone. Especially strangers.
She sipped her orange juice while Dr. Price started to ask her questions about her medications and insurance.
“I’ll pay out of pocket,” she said when he reached for his prescription pad. “Is there a pharmacy in town?”
“In the grocery store,” Dr. Price said. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“Six-ish, I think.”
“This morning? Dylan…”
“I know. I was driving. And I didn’t want to spike my sugar without insulin.”
“You need to eat soon.”
“I’ll get something when I leave here.”
“What does she need?” I asked. “We can make something.”
“Something low carb. Eggs, non-starchy vegetables, chicken, turkey, or fish.”
My gaze slid to Saint, our live-in egg cooker.
“On it,” he said.
“No!” Dylan said, shaking her head. “I can go get something.”
But Saint just ignored that as he went to the fridge. “Can she have cheese?” he asked.
“I don’t want—”
“Wasn’t asking you, babe,” Saint said, shooting her a lazy smile.