As a veteran and an all around badass, she’s no stranger to taking charge in chaotic situations. Beyond that, she’s got a soft spot for the Ghost Born guys who served, Malachi especially. Then again, it’s impossible not to adore the lovable oaf. Hedidn’t used to be like he is now, but a traumatic brain injury, coupled with nearly being blown up, has a way of changing a man.
So the look she fixes on me packs as much lethal intensity as any commanding officer I ever had possessed. . It’s no exaggeration to say I’ve been in front of my fair share of pissed off COs during my days in the military. Thyrie has my respect just as much as any of them did.
It’s common knowledge, once Malachi finished his rehabilitation after his final mission left him at death’s door, I walked away from my commission as soon as it was legal. Yes, it required a lot of pulled strings and dirty deals for me to be reassigned as his personal physician after years of being a field doctor. In the deal, I’d signed away several years of my life to the same shadow op organization as Shaw and Konrad, the founders of our mother Charter. It was worth it, and I’ll be damned if some random punks will undo everything I sacrificed.
“What do we know?” Hyram asks. He knows I’ll be judicious with the information I relay. As private as this space is, we’re still in a fairly public place. There’s no evidence to indicate this attack has anything to do with the club, and I let him know it appears to be random.
Thyrie’s eyes sharpen on me when I tell them about the witness, who says she got a good enough look to identify the men who hurt Malachi. They’re both impressed to learn she arrived with him, unwilling to abandon our brother while he was injured. Her expression turns shrewd as she looks around as though she can spot the witness in the sparse clumps of people occupying the waiting room behind us.
“I’ll want to talk to her,” Thyrie says, and I can’t suppress a snort at her demand. Hyram may be the prez of our chapter, but Thyrie’s the bossiest of anyone I know.
“What about cops? How much do they know? I’m assuming it was reported,” Hyram adds.
“Do we have anything to worry about?” I ask. I know if we do he won’t go into it, not here and possibly not with me at all. I’m a part of Ghost Born, patched in and everything, but I’m no officer in the club. I don’t call any shots. My role is mostly to show up and sew up the guys when things get a little too rough.
“Nothing specific,” Hyram says cryptically.
The curiosity that makes me a good doctor pricks at me. I want to know the non-specifics he’s withholding. Because I’m sure as shit there must be some. Protective instincts rise to battle with my vow to do no harm because I won’t let this club be the reason Malachi has a setback in his TBI recovery. He’s a grown man and can make his own decisions, but everyone knows better than to put him in a position to suffer more. I won’t be rational about the guy. Not when he’s both my patient and my responsibility of sorts.
“Shaw’s on the way,” I state simply. It’s all the threat I need to make. While I’m not in the club’s hierarchy the way the others are, I know damn well Shaw will make sure nothing Hyram did caused this shit.
“I think you both should take a deep breath and focus on what Malachi needs. Less dick measuring, especially between brothers,” Thyrie interjects.
She’s not wrong. Of all the things I want to do right now, fucking around with the two of them doesn’t even make the list. I’ve been on shift for damn near fifteen hours at this point, and it’s well past the time I should have been able to leave. Not that I’ll even think about leaving until Malachi’s out of surgery and doing well in recovery. Maybe not even then.
And that’s to say nothing for the bone-deep compulsion urging me to get back in the room with Tegan Farris to learn everything I can about the incongruities I’ve already noticed.There’s something about her I can’t look away from. Some pull I’m unable to ignore and unwilling to let pass by.
“Fine. Follow me. But keep your voices down and don’t make me look bad,” I grouse.
“Oh,” I add. “And don’t freak out the witness. She’s already had a terrifying night, and she stuck around to help. Her showing up and stepping in likely saved Malachi’s life. So be gentle with her.”
I don’t wait to hear how my lecture lands, turning and walking through the double doors deeper into the emergency department. I’ll pay for being an asshole to my prez and his old lady later, but fuck it, something tells me Tegan Farris is worth it.
Chapter
Four
Tegan
I’m not alone in the room after they wheel Malachi out and the medical personnel move on to the next patient for long. In fact, I barely had time to sit down before a cleaning crew pops in. They mop up the blood, which I’m doing everything possible to ignore, and sanitize the room. Of the two women who have come in to clean, only one looks my way.
“Sorry, normally, these rooms are empty when we come through, but Doctor Charmden instructed us that you’re waiting in here for something?” I hear the question in her comment, but I probably know less about what’s going on than she does.
I already gave the police at the scene my name and contact information. Whoever the lava-hot doctor is, he’s not a cop. So why did he insist I stay put? And moreover, why am I obeying?
Instead of answering the nosy question aloud, I just shrug and reach into my satchel. It’s kind of surprising I managed to keep it with me through everything that’s happened, but I’m thankful for whatever luck was at play. My fingers are restless, something that tends to happen when I get anxious.
The sketchbook and pencil set I pull out will give my brain something to focus on instead of everything around me. After working a double shift at the art supply store and then finding Malachi, I ought to be exhausted. Adrenaline are keeping me wired though, and if I don’t settle my brain somehow, I’ll spiral. And nobody needs that mess.
The janitorial duo finishes cleaning the room. Before they leave, the same woman as before grumbles under her breath about having to come back to finish once the room is actually empty. As if any of this is in my control. I ignore her or try to anyhow. I get her frustration over the mundane task. As the new girl at my job, I’m the one stuck doing the least interesting tasks like stocking shelves and rehanging product on the right pegs.
In the silent again room, my fingers push and drag the soft pencil over paper, the slightly rough surface a perfect toothiness to grab the lead and hold it on the page. There’s no direction from brain to paper, just stream of consciousness outpouring. Shapes form, the scene I witnessed when the elevator to the shopping center garage opened, playing out in a series of comic style boxes.
Purging the terrifying memory into my sketchbook releases a tension that clenched my shoulders to my ears for hours. It’s soothing, even though the subject matter is horrifying. I thread in speech bubbles to capture the words the men spoke, the comic I’m drawing anything but funny. Still, I know the exact words used might be helpful when the attack is investigated.
When the boxes chronicling tonight are done, I turn the page and allow myself to remember what the men who beat Malachi looked like. Their mean eyes, tight with fury. I can’t know if it was directed at me for interrupting them or at Malachi. Reason says it must have been anger at Malachi, though it seems ludicrous he could have pissed off anyone that badly. Still,there’s no suppressing the shivers that race down my spine as their faces come to life in the drawing.
One of the men had a deep scar running along the side of his face, into the left side of his mouth. It had given his upper lip a snarl that showed off a sharp canine tooth on that side. I’ve never met a person with such a prominent tooth like that, almost a fang. I don’t discount my recollection, though other people surely will. What I saw is what I draw.
