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)
“Yeah,” Dr. Price said, looking bemused.
While Saint cooked, Dr. Price tested Dylan again, declared her sugar was up, then packed up his testing kit, tossing the two disposable needles into a small red plastic square marked “Sharps.”
“Feeling a little better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“Good. Don’t waste time filling your insulin. I gave you a refill for your basal insulin too, in case you don’t have any others on file. Are you in town for a while?”
“For a bit,” she said.
“Well, my name is Dr. Price. And if you need anything, this is where you can find me,” he said, passing her a business card.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little thick.
I imagined she had to be scared shitless when she learned her medication was gone. It wasn’t like it was the kind of thing she could skip. I was no expert, but I was pretty sure people died without insulin.
“Here. I’ll go get these filled,” I said, reaching for the prescriptions on the couch cushion. “I’ll go drop this off, so they get started on it.”
“No, I can—”
“I’m sure you can,” I cut her off. “But you have an omelet to eat. So I’ll drop these off. Then you can pick them up after you eat.”
“Fine,” she agreed. Then, a little more quietly, “Thanks.”
I gave her a nod.
I had scripts to drop off.
And a basket to build.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dylan
I’d seen quite a few clubhouses in my life.
None were anything like the sprawling warehouse these guys called home.
I had no idea what the square footage was, but the place was cavernous. And weirdly well-decorated.
I mean, my clubhouse wasn’t even as nice. And it was full of women.
And the omelet?
Divine.
And, you know, regulating.
I felt a lot more human after some food.
We also couldn’t count out the relief that came from knowing I had medication waiting for me at the pharmacy. It removed a lot of the anxiety that had been needling me since I realized Roach and his guys stole my insulin in the first place.
“You said you’re staying in town for a bit?” Slash asked when the doctor was gone and so was my food.
The guy I saved, Colter, hadn’t returned yet. And for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, I kept looking for him: glancing at the door, listening for a bike approaching.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you go take care of yourself, and we can have a meeting tomorrow?”
I wanted to object, to tell them that I was fine, that I didn’t need to ‘take care of’ myself. Because the suggestion made it sound like I was fragile, that I needed coddling. And while those were thoughts and worries I did struggle with, I knew that they were just insecurities, not reality. I wasn’t weak. I didn’t need special treatment. I damn sure didn’t need these men to take care of me.
That said, I knew what he was really asking for.
Time.
Because they wanted to research me.
They wanted to talk about me.
They wanted to decide if they were going to work with me or not.
That was how clubs worked. There was a hierarchy, sure, but it was a collaborative organization.
“You have a time you want to meet up?” I asked, getting to my feet, the movement dragging Sugar away from her attempts to befriend the club cat.
“You free tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Seven?”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” I agreed, making my way to the door. “See you then.”
I made my way out the door, taking a slow, deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.
I was still looking down at the town when the bike rambled up the road, heading toward the clubhouse.
I watched it approach.
Then there he was.
Colter.
Climbing off his bike.
“You walked?” he asked.
“I’m driving a moving truck. Would have been weird to show up here in it.”
“Why are you driving a moving truck?” he asked, head cocked to the side.
“Because all I have is a bike. And I couldn’t get out of town with that and Sugar. A moving truck seemed like the best bet. Your president wants me to come back tomorrow at seven,” I told him. “I guess I’ll see you then. What are you doing?” I asked when he fell into step beside me.
“Walking you home,” he said, shrugging.
“I don’t need an escort.”
“Maybe not. That’s not gonna stop me.”
I shot him a sideways look. “What are you, a chivalrous biker?”
“Is that so unheard of?”
“Yes.”
“That was a fast response.”
“I’ve known a lot of bikers,” I reminded him.
“And no good ones?” he asked. “Your old man…”
“My father was a chauvinistic and misogynistic asshole who treated women like shit,” I admitted.
“Even you?”
“I’m a woman, aren’t I?” I asked. “I mean… he was protective of me as a kid. But once I started actually looking like an adult, he was as dismissive of me as he was about the clubwhores.”
“But he left you the club.”
“That might be a generous way of putting it,” I admitted, pausing when Sugar wanted to sniff something a little harder. “He died. I was the next of kin. After probate, it was in my hands. Mortgaged to the fucking hilt. It took a lot of work to get his mess sorted out.”