PREZ: Take a day if you need it. I’ve heard only good things.
PREZ: I take that back. Get here now. Joce said she saw something disturbing.
CLEAVER: Sorry.
BULLET: Yo, might want to check your phone.
BULLET: You’re a fuckin idiot.
PREZ: Get here now.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself before throwing my dirty clothes inside the hamper. Hurrying around the room, I grab new jeans before reaching into the closet to grab a clean t-shirt. Only the closet is practically empty. Five of my shirts hang on one rack, and the other side is bare, the pink hangers sitting empty. I back out of the closet and pull out the top drawer of the dresser that usually holds all her random shit. A sewing kit, buttons that she’ll never actually sew back on her shirts, fuzzy socks that she gets as gag gifts from co-workers, and her extra supplies of tape, pins, and tights. My chest aches, and it feels like I’m having a heart attack. I’m staring at an empty drawer. I’m vaguely aware that I haven’t grabbed my cut as I bolt to the bathroom. My hands open doors, drawers, and I pull back the shower curtain, only to find everything empty. Her razors, shampoo, conditioner, her creams of all kinds, everything is gone.
“Win!” I call her name. Maybe she just moved her stuff into the other room because we had a fight and she needed space. I just need to see her, and everything will be alright. Rushing across the hall, I open the spare room door. The room looks undisturbed as I open the drawers and closet. Empty again.
“Winnie.” Her name comes out as a growl this time. I spin around and speed walk down the hallway to the main living area.
The blinds are open, letting the sunlight in, but the room is quiet, eerie. The couch looks undisturbed, and the magazines that usually clutter the coffee table are all gone. The kitchen is clean, spotless, and not even her favorite coffee mug is sitting on the edge of the sink. It feels like someone reached inside of my chest and has my heart in a tight grip. I need to just breathe. Is she gone? Did she just need space? Did I miss a memo that all her clothes may have just needed to be dry-cleaned today? I’m grasping at straws when my eyes land on the key bowl by the front door. My feet shuffle forward against my wishes. Deep down, I know that once I look, it will change everything. Winnie won’t just be out to breakfast with her friends. She won’t be at the club helping set up for a fundraiser. She won’t be grabbing breakfast from our favorite place because we had a hard night. Once I look in that bowl, it will be over. The woman I love will be gone. After years of putting up with my shit while I fucked around, too scared to tell her the truth, she finally did the one thing she should have done long ago.
My hand reaches into the bowl. My fingers close around the cold, metal key chain. My eyes slam shut against the rush of emotion and memories. I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. I finally pushed away the woman who stood by me, who loves me unconditionally, and I punished her for it. I lied to her to keep her with me. I let the club and my wants overshadow our relationship. I let her down. Falling to my knees, I clutch the daisy to my chest. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste the salty tears on my lips. I really fucked up this time. But this is Winnie, and this is me. I’ll give her space, some time to cool down. Then I’ll get on my knees and beg for her to forgive me. My phone vibrates again, and I realize I don’t have more time right now to find her. Quickly, I pocket myphone and the key chain before grabbing my cut and heading out the door. I’ll handle the club business. I’ll see what Prez’s issue is, and then I’ll reach out to Win and bring her home.
Chapter 15
Winnie, 5 years later
“Paging, Doctor Graham. Paging, Dr. Graham.”
The monotone voice breaks over the loudspeaker of the on-call room, pulling me instantly from the dead sleep I was in. If they were looking for Dr. Brody Graham, then I was also needed. I glance at my phone and notice I still have nine minutes left of the quick thirty-minute nap I allowed myself to take in the middle of my shift. After four years of being an emergency room nurse, I should be used to the hours and the shifts that tend to roll into each other. Usually, I allow myself to take a thirty-minute nap in between the twelve-hour shifts, just enough to energize myself but not enough to throw myself into a drowsy, overslept feeling.
This was something I discovered about myself, my first year working in the ER, right after I became a registered nurse and was thrown headfirst into the crazy schedule of a big city hospital. Although at that time I was also heartbroken, broke, and living mostly at the hospital I worked at while I searched for affordable housing close to the hospital. When I left Dodger, I also left behind the security he gave me. I had been clinging to it since we left home together as teens, knowing he was alwaysthere. Not only had my dreams of love and a family gone down in flames, but so had the foundation of who I had been. I was no longer Finn’s girl. I turned into the girl that Dodger played, and the worst part was that I let it happen.
Once I got to Atlanta, I applied and interviewed for a position at the largest hospital in the area. A tip I had received from the group chat of girls I went to school with. I didn’t think I would get the job and was even prepared to wait tables or take any part-time work until I could get hired as a nurse somewhere. I was shocked when they called me back and offered me a position in their emergency room. I threw myself into work, saving every penny I earned for a new place to live, finding my own furniture, and rebuilding my life. The first time had been easier because I hadn’t been alone. Dodger had secured us a place to live; he provided for us until I started working part-time in school, but this time, everything was on me. I was a single woman in a new city, and I vowed to myself that I would never let myself be taken care of by a man. Especially a man who makes pretty promises but puts in zero effort to keep those promises. I turned my heart off. I let the useless organ die along with the fairy tale relationship I thought I had.
Bleary-eyed, I turn over and grab my watch from the side table, noticing it’s just after three in the morning. “Paging, Dr. Graham.” The speaker goes off again, and this time I jump to my feet, shoving them back into my well-worn HOKAs, and refastening my watch before hustling out of the room. The energy that hits me once I step out of the on-call room is a rush of panic mixed with adrenaline. Life hangs in the balance here. Life is often in the hands of the nurses and doctors who work in these halls. I’m instantly swept up as the commotion toward the waiting room has resulted in a standoff of two doctors and three nurses against a small mob of men dressed in stylish, expensive black suits. My brow arches, and my eyes roam overthe men. Even five years after leaving life in the MC behind, I can still pick out weapons that are secretly holstered and hidden in suit coats and behind backs. Weapons that are prohibited in the emergency department, to be exact.
Slowly, because the last thing I want to do is spook a group of men who are obviously either gang or mafia affiliated, I approach the group. My eyes find Sonja’s first, and her gaze flashes with fear. Her fingers are gripping the edges of her scrub top, and she looks ready to bolt. Brody, the doctor on call, is holding court in the middle, his eyes bouncing between the man in front of him, who is angrily shouting, and the man who is slumped in one of the waiting chairs. He’s covered in blood, the darkest of it coming from the side of his head, where it looks like he has a severe head wound.
Brody hears my footsteps and his gaze swings to me. “This is Winnie, and she’s our charge nurse this evening. Why don’t we let her see Mr. Bianchi so she can address what needs to be done?”
The man in front of Brody looks to the man sitting in the chairs before his gaze lands on me. His eyes are dark, almost black in color, and I don’t miss the way they narrow on me after sweeping over my body from head to toe. Not that I’m not used to the extra scrutiny from loved ones who bring patients in. I may wear the standard light blue uniform, but my shoes are bubblegum pink, as is my watch, my stethoscope, and my pens. I tend to be fresh-faced, and am often told I look too young to be a competent charge nurse.
Trying my best to diffuse the tension, I hold my hand out to the man and give him my best polite smile. “Evening. Can you tell me the nature of Mr. Bianchi’s wound so I can assess where he’s bleeding?”
The man’s lips curl up in disdain. “She’s a woman. Mr. Bianchi can’t be under the care of a woman. I need a doctor to see him and patch him up.”
Brody shifts, and his arms cross. “I already told you that our charge nurse needs to assess Mr. Bianchi’s wounds to help with treatment decisions, and if I need to do surgery. Holding us all here hostage is delaying the care we could be giving him.”
Brody’s face is impassive, but I can see the way this man is getting angrier. And his men are feeling it as well. They keep glancing at each other before moving in closer, surrounding the man I assume is their boss. Bianchi doesn’t ring a bell to me, but I do know that it is a popular surname associated with the Italian mafia in the southern states. Atlanta is a hugely populated city, and it wouldn’t be too out of the norm for them to bring their boss here if they felt they absolutely had to, which means the wound is serious or even life-threatening.
Ignoring Brody, I step up to his side, positioning myself so that I’m almost in front of him, and forcing the other man to have to talk to me. This time, instead of smiling, I give the man the blank mask I’d worn for years inside the clubhouse. One I perfected in front of powerful men who tried to intimidate me.
“Your boss is losing blood. That’s a fact you can see just looking at him. His color is off, and his eyes are unfocused, drooping closed, which leads me to believe his head wound is serious. That and the fact that if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have brought him in. I understand that you prefer a male doctor to perform any needed surgery, and that’s fine. If Dr. Graham isn’t to your liking, we also have another experienced doctor I could put a call into with the surname of Rossi,” I explain, keeping my voice calm, unattached, and void of emotion. The feeling of being numb flows through my veins like an old friend. It is so unlike the more sunny disposition I usually bring to the ED thatI can feel Brody’s intake of breath and see the concern on Sonja’s face as her attention focuses on me.
The man in front of me grunts in response to my words. “Rossi.”
“Yes.” I nod, my eyes flickering to his boss in the chair one more time. “I’d be happy to have Sonja go call him, so he can be prepared to get here if we need him.”
“What’s wrong with the guy behind you?” the man asks, nodding his chin over my shoulder.
