CHAPTER FIVE
SHORT
Fuck, but I hate that man. I glare as Doc leaves my room, my eyes hardening as they stay on his back. There was always something about him that needled me, even before I witnessed his disgusting behaviour for myself. He’d tried to touch an unconscious woman’s pussy, and did it in front of my VP and prez. It was as if he couldn’t help himself, his needs a sickness, like a druggie getting his fix. There are some addictions even we,filthy bikers,can’t countenance.
If there weren’t a mutual benefit in him needing money and us needing a no-questions-asked medic on speed dial, Dr. fucking Maximilian Custer wouldn’t be allowed to step one foot in this club.
I’m lucky it wasn’t him putting his filthy hands on me. If it had been, then I’d be heading straight for a long, hot shower to wash his dirt off. Instead, I had the sweet, gentle and innocent hands of his daughter, whom he should never have involved in the dealings of the club. Here, she’s been exposed to gunshot and stab wounds, and not those in the sterilised environment of the hospital where she works. Not to mention the rowdy behaviourof my brothers as she enters and leaves, or the overt sexual behaviour in the clubroom.
We should be concerned with a civilian like her seeing and hearing more than she should, but it’s plain she’s under the strict thumb of her father, and knows her silence, as well as his, is non-negotiable for him to keep this job, and maybe his life if he spoke out of turn. As far as I know, the retainer we pay him is his only form of income. Let’s face it, where else would he find a bunch of male-only patients who need fixing up, outside of a prison that is? Any legal employer would want to see his credentials, which he no longer has.
It’s not just his reputation that disturbs me. It’s the way he treats his daughter. I can barely control my anger when he orders her around, or when he saunters in and out, leaving her to carry his heavy bags around. Today, I’d noticed the tiredness in her reddened eyes and the stoop of her back. She’d probably already worked a full shift in her day job. Doc’s fully competent to change a few bandages himself, yet he drags her along with him as if such demeaning acts are beneath him.
Does he pass any of the money he receives onto her?I fucking doubt it.
I suppose it’s my past that makes me so bitter about a child being treated as a slave. My mom died when I was a toddler, leaving me to the mercy of my dad. Despite his neglect, I grew fast, becoming the tallest in my class by the time I left elementary school. It was then that he decided I’d had enough education and that I could be put to work. Big and brawny already from my chores on the farm, there were never any visitors to question my age, and no one in authority to ask why I hadn’t progressed to middle school. It was like I’d just fallen off the radar. Dad chose to drink while directing me to work sunrise to sunset. Payment? Well, that was nothing at all, in his eyes, a roof over my head, and just enough cheap, and usuallyunpalatable food on the table to keep up my strength was all I needed. All profits went into his pockets and from there directly to the bars he used to frequent. That’s where he ate his meals, and where he got drunk.
Any argument from me was met with swift punishment – his fists, a night locked in the cellar, or a few days without even the most basic of food. If he remembered, I got water.
Fed up with being worked to the bone, I finally caught hold of his raised fist. Towering in stature over him, he was easy to overpower. And me? Well, once I was in the driver’s seat, every abuse and neglect I’d suffered over the years now had an outlet. I started hitting him, and I didn’t stop, not even when he ceased to fight back.
That was the first time I’d ever killed a man, and I wish I could say I had regrets. But guilt for his death isn’t something I carry with me. I’d like to say I grew to be a better man, but that would be a lie.
The one benefit to having fallen off the grid was that everyone had forgotten about Clark Ranger’s son, and no one knew I’d been essentially running the farm since I was eleven. Just turned sixteen, I wasted no time that night my father met his demise. Instinctively, I removed all trace of me living in that tumbledown shack. Not that there was much, there were no school or family photos. If my mother had lived, I’m sure she’d have been into that shit, but Dad had not. I’d only gotten new clothes when my old ones became rags, and without so much as pocket money, I had no trinkets or toys to leave behind. It was too damn easy to erase my existence from that mockery of a home. Savvy enough to know I needed something to prove I was alive, I collected my birth certificate from the safe in his office, where I knew he kept all the documentation.
I took his backpack to carry what little I had, as well as the money I found in his safe, and didn’t forget to empty his wallet.It was a pitiful amount, just a few hundred dollars. Ignorant of anything outside the farm, at that time, I had no idea that those Benjamins wouldn’t take me far. I’d thought I would be able to live a king’s life for a while. I was to become quickly disillusioned.
My final acts were to kick in the door and set fire to the shack. Built of wood, it didn’t take long to catch. I was naïve enough to think I’d covered my tracks, that his death and the damage would be put down to a random break-in.
Whether I was right or not, I took no chances, using some of my precious cash to head over the state line. Luck seemed to have been with me, as I was never caught, never brought in by the police for questioning. I never once looked back.
From then on, I dropped my hated first name and became known only by my last, Ranger.
At sixteen, I was already well over six feet tall, and farm work had honed those muscles I’d been developing for years. I could easily pass for someone ten years older, and I used that to my credit. As an experienced farmhand, I had no difficulty finding a job, particularly because I was happy to take minimum wage, no questions asked. My size also kept me mostly out of trouble, as did the permanent scowl I’d taken to wearing.
For the next five years, I kept my head down, out of trouble, and did what I had to do to survive.
I’d found freedom. I’d always worked hard, so toil and graft never bothered me. Only just able to read and write, I knew enough to get by and furthered my education through the school of life. Not having siblings or, for the past five years, only ever interacting with my dad, I was completely barren of emotion. I didn’t make friends easily, but my work ethic earned me respect. It wasn’t until I met the Kings of Anarchy and was brought into their ranks that I, at last, understood the true meaning of family.
The club accepted me, helped me grow, and finally helped me find my place. I’d never known love, but some version of that was the gift my new brothers gave to me.
I’m a man forged by death. I’d reaped the scythe, killed my personal devil, and now, as a King, have become a feared demon myself.
But someone like Bronwyn? For her, there’s no way out. She’s far too delicate to challenge her father. She’s enslaved in that life. I can only hope she’ll find an escape, that some young man will see her worth, and take her away from the prison she’s locked in with her dad.
If it wasn’t for his value to the club, maybe I’d rid her of her parental burden.
But my oath is to the Kings, and he’s far too valuable to us.
While I might take on an avenging role for her, that would be my limit. She’s too sweet, too innocent for a man like me to corrupt. There’s no part of me that’s soft. My sexual exploits consist of taking advantage of the sweet butts in the club, or occasionally a woman who comes through town, wanting to take a walk on the wild side when she sees my cut.
Love, family, and picket fences are not of my world.
But how I hated it when she’d walked out of the door carrying Doc’s bags for him, and me, laid up, being unable to help.
Alone now, my impulse is to go down to the clubroom, but to be honest, my chest aches if I so much as move in the wrong direction, and my leg is sore. The painkillers Doc supplied me with are doing a good job of knocking me out. I lay back with my hands behind my head and continue to think of Bronwyn, and the similarities, slight they may be, between my life and hers.
Maybe I can’t offer myself as a way out of her predicament, and my hands are tied when it comes to killing her dad, but perhaps I could point her in the direction of finding the right man to take her virginity and give her the life she deserves.
