Time slips away as I put memory to paper. Logically, I know I don’t have anything to fear right now, but with every stroke of the pencil, my dread multiplies. Both of those men were so casual, so cruel in the way they kicked and hit poor Malachi. I can’t even guess at what the motive was, but it hardly matters. I’d managed to get the bear spray out of my bag, which I’d only carried as a promise to my grandmother who worried about me moving here. The one with the sneering scar on his lip had advanced on me as if he weren’t the least bit concerned he might get sprayed.
I guess it’s a lucky thing he hadn’t counted on the spray being actual bear spray and not hairspray or something. The way he’d hit the ground only seconds before he got to me thanks to the jet of watery repellent still makes me feel queasy. His buddy had stopped hitting Malachi when he heard the guy hit the ground, screaming, and for a moment, I thought he’d come after me.
For whatever reason, instead of following his friend’s lead and trying to get to me, the other dude heaved his buddy onto a shoulder and stormed off. The entire encounter was maybe two minutes, and without some context from Malachi, who probably won’t be in any condition to remember it, the motive for the attack has no explanation. At least, none that anyone’s sharing with me.
“This the room where they took the dirtbag?” A gruff voice just outside the door of Malachi’s room catches my attention.
“His name’s on the tag in the file bin for the room, so yeah, I’m guessing he’s in there,” another man responds.
Two men push into the room, their eyes scanning immediately to where I’m curled up in the chair near the medical equipment. Both are wearing suits, but they also have chains around their necks with badges hanging from them. Detectives, I assume. The police at the scene already took my phone number, so these guys must be here to see what they can get from Malachi.
I’m unsure what comes over me, but an urge to keep the images I’ve drawn takes over. I discreetly flip the cover of my spiral-bound sketchbook closed and tuck it between my thigh and the arm of the chair. Neither of the cops seem to care much that I’m here, confirming my guess they’re looking for the victim. Malachi. A man one of them has already decided must be a dirtbag for some reason.
“Can I help you?” I ask, politeness and respect for authority drilled into me from childhood demanding I acknowledge them.
“Looking for Malachi Cole. This is his room. Right?” Yup, that’s the voice of the guy who called Malachi a dirtbag.
Annoyance pricks at me. I don’t know whether the guy I found being beaten nearly to death is a good person or a bad one, but I do know nobody should act so callously about a victim. Even on the chance that he is a real jerk, which seems a stretch, this cop should be more respectful.
“Did the doctors allow you back here?” I answer with my own question.
“We’re law enforcement, young lady. We go where we need to when there are crimes to investigate.” He’s so smug, and it definitely rubs me wrong.
I’m glad I followed my gut and put my sketches away. Something tells me these guys won’t do much to find out who did this to Malachi. Not with the attitudes I see from both of them. It seems smarter to wait and see what to do once I talk to Malachi and the doctor, who I think must be a family member maybe. Guessing he’ll approve of my decision.
Chapter
Five
Charm
My least favorite local cops are squared up opposite Tegan in Malachi’s room, and it wasn’t what I expected when I led Hyram and Thyrie down the hallway. Officers McConnell and Hawley are the worst of the worst. Arrogant and rude. I’ve always suspected they’re dirty. I know Hyram has the same feelings about the duo, but for now, we have no solid proof.
The fact they always manage to be involved whenever one of our club interacts with law enforcement seems awfully convenient. It could just be they’ve got hard-ons for Ghost Born or for MCs in general, but it feels personal. Because of my job, I deal with police as a professional far more frequently than my brothers do, and most of the local cops and I get along fine. At least, we do when I’m wearing my white coat. These two, though? It’s always veiled threats and shitty attitudes. It figures they’re the ones who caught this investigation.
“Officers, I wasn’t aware you two were working this case.” Being mindful of my position as a respectable physician, I temper my dislike of them.
“Charmden. Isn’t it a conflict of interest for you to be the doctor for this guy? Seeing how he’s one of you?” Hawley sneers.
“Not quite how it works, Hawley. And it’sDoctorCharmden.” I can’t resist the small dig.
“Whatever. We’ve got other cases to investigate, so we’ll be on our way. I’ll let you know if we need any further information from you or…” There’s a pause in which I hear his disdain loud and clear. “The victim.”
Both Hawley and McConnell turn to leave, completely ignoring Tegan,the witness, in the process. Neither bothers to acknowledge Hyram or Thyrie as they blow by the pair on their exit. They couldn’t be more obvious in their utter disregard for Malachi and what happened to him if they’d actually deigned to use words. Tegan’s eyes meet mine across the room as I step aside for them to exit, and I can see she’s got questions.
When the room is ours again, I cross to the chair opposite hers, to the other side of where the hospital bed would typically be. When Malachi’s brought back from surgery, he’ll do his post-op recovery in here. While Lexan is a large enough town for a trauma center, it’s still a small hospital and spaces frequently multitask. Besides, as his doctor, I can keep the room for as long as I deem necessary.
“What was that about?” Tegan asks, once the door closes and the clatter of footsteps has gone quiet.
“Those two are the worst of the lot, but law enforcement and motorcycle clubs in general aren’t good matches.” There’s more to it than that, but while she’s smoking hot and I can’t extinguish the spark of chemistry I feel, she doesn’t need to know more.
“That tracks. I take it by they implied you’re a biker like Malachi?” Her voice lifts in question. “And they couldn’t care less about solving what happened to him. Assholes.”
“Exactly. But don’t worry about it. We can keep him safe and sort out what happened.” I don’t explain it’ll all be outside the law because that part’s obvious.
“Good. I want whoever hurt that poor puppy to pay. In pain.” Malice drips from every word and I find myself looking more closely at the curvy bombshell. She’s unexpected, in so many ways.
“Poor puppy?” I parrot. The idea of someone who doesn’t know my close friend being able to see him as anything other than a hulking threat stands out more than even her bloodthirstiness.
