“Thanks.” I wave my sandwich in the air. “I need to go.”
Her fingers dig into my arm as she stops me from walking away. “How about you and I go out sometime? I’ve always wanted a Ruthless King.”
You know what I find really annoying? Easy women. It isn’t because they like sex. I don’t have a problem with women getting their own. We have cut-sluts for a reason. I’ve had my dick sucked by a few, like Candy and Jasmine. Humans need touch, passion, sex. It’s natural. There’s no judgment. But I don’t like women who have an ulterior motive for their actions. Want to fuck?
Great.
You want to fuck but somehow figure out how to get in the club or maybe trap one of us? That’s my problem, and she has biker bitch written all fucking over her, especially with how she’s rubbing her nails up and down my biceps.
“No, thanks for the offer, but I’m taken.”
“She doesn’t need to know,” she purrs, biting her bottom lip into her mouth. She rubs her breasts against me, and I grab her arms and push her against the vending machine. Her mouth drops open on a moan, liking it a bit rough, but I’m not getting hard off this. I’m getting pissed the fuck off. “Yeah, I like that, Doc.” She emphasizes the C in my name. “Unlike this machine, I like it a little rougher.”
“Let me get something through your head, sweetheart.” I bend my head down and act like I’m about to kiss her. “I’m not interested. If you’re looking to become a cut-slut, you’re welcome at the clubhouse, and I’m sure there are a few guys there who would be happy to run a train on your ass. I’m not interested.” I let go of her arms and see the water pooling in her eyes. Everyone thinks I’m this great guy, head on straight, no temper, but I have the worst temper of all.
My fuse is short, and there has only ever been one person to sizzle it out with just her presence.
And it isn’t some whore of a nurse.
“You get me, sweetheart?”
Her brown eyes turn hard, and the lust vanishes. She has a few freckles dotting her nose, and her lashes are long and thick. She’s cute, but her personality seems to carry ill intentions.
“Your loss,” she snips, straightening her top and fluffing her hair.
I start to walk away, but the need to have the last word takes over. “Yeah, I highly doubt that,” I spit over my shoulder.
“Asshole,” she mumbles behind me.
Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I don’t care.
My boots pound against the hallway as I pass medical carts near a few closed rooms. I reach Jo’s room and take a minute to compose myself. I don’t want to be the guy with a bad temper with her. My phone vibrates again, and this time I don’t ignore it. I dig into my jean pocket and pull the damn thing out. My stomach drops when I see Reaper’s name.
“Doc, here,” I answer quickly and nod at another doctor who walks by, giving me a look that says he doesn’t like me standing outside of a room for no reason.
“Doc, we need you… There’s been a…” The phone goes in and out, replaced with static. I can hear screams in the background and another round of fire.
“Reaper? Reaper? What’s going on? What did you say?” I plug my right ear to try to hear what he says, but it’s static. “Reaper!”
“So many gunshot wounds. Get here. Now!”
I hear another round of gunshots before the line goes dead. “Fuck,” I hiss and hang up the phone. I run into Jo’s room and see that she’s sleeping. I don’t want to wake her, but I don’t want her to think I’ve left her either. “Jo? Jo, I need you to wake up. Jo, love, come on. Wake up for me.” I’m careful to only touch her shoulders, not wanting to go anywhere near her arms. Her beautiful green eyes open, and those dark lashes flutter like butterfly wings across the tops of her cheeks.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
“Eric? What’s wrong?” she says on a yawn.
“I know I said I wouldn’t leave, but Reaper called. There were gunshots—”
“Gunshots?” she echoes. “Is everyone okay? Melissa?” Jo whimpers when she tries to get up. “I need to go. Mary must be so scared.” She moves her legs and swings them over the bed.
“What the hell are you doing? Get into bed.” I run around the other side of the bed and block her from getting up. “Get into bed.”
“No! Something happened. They need help. My friends are there. What if—”
“And I’m going to go. You have to stay here. If you leave, your stay will only be extended when they demand your return. You need to heal. There’s nothing you can do right now.”
“I’m not fucking worthless. I can be there for my friends. Please, Eric. I haven’t been a good friend. I need to be there.”
“You will be when the time is right. That time isn’t now. I need you to focus on healing, please? I need to do my job. They really need me there, but I won’t be able to focus…” I cup her exquisitely delicate face, rubbing my thumbs over her flushed cheeks as we lock eyes. “I won’t be able to focus if I don’t know you’re safe. Please, Jo.” I finally have her here. I can’t risk losing her.
“Okay,” she whispers, but I can hear the slight tremble of anger in the back of her throat. She’s not happy about having to stay. Jo turns her chin to the left in defiance, taking her attention away from me.
“Thank you.” I grab her legs and place them on the bed, then pull the blue blanket up to tuck her in.
She still won’t look at me.
“I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I lean down and press a kiss to her cheek. I try to pull away, but the feel of her skin against my lips is too much. I need to leave; my family needs me.
Ah, I can’t.
My palm lays on the other side of her cheek and presses her harder against my lips. “Please, stay.” I rub my nose against her jawline and pull away, putting as much space as I can between us.
If I don’t hurry, I’ll sit down in the chair beside her bed, instead of going to my brothers, which is fucked up because they need me right now.
But she needs me too.
I’m tearing myself in half, and Jo has no idea.
Fuck. That.
Eric shuts the door behind him, and I wait a few minutes to give Eric plenty of time to exit the hospital.
Yeah, no way am I staying here, not when my friends need me. I’m doing nothing here, and I don’t know what’s going on at the clubhouse. After everything they have done for me, I can be there for them.
I kick the blankets off and swing my legs over the bed. The stickers on my chest pull my skin as I rip them off and toss them on the bed. I flicker my attention to the door to make sure no one is coming and then stand. My head swims, and I sway on my feet. I try to lift my arms, but the gravity pulls on my stitches. I need to get out of here. I don’t know how I’m going to make it again, but I’m determined to do so. Staying here is just asking for me to start cutting myself.
This place is depressing. How do they expect people to heal? I can’t leave without being noticed. There is no way I’ll make it out the doors. My arms throb, and I hold them against my stomach, then lean against the bed.