CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHORT
Fuck! Freak took more delight than he should have when he punched me in the face, then roughly pushed my cheek into the gravel, tearing skin and letting the small stones abrade it, embedding a fuck load of dirt into my wounds. He said he needed to make it look authentic to Doc, but I could tell the sadistic bastard was enjoying himself.
The only saving grace of this situation is that if anything, Bronwyn’s looking even worse than she did last night. Those black eyes are coming out in force, which confirms we were right to come check up on her, as did Doc’s brush-off explanation. I didn’t believe for a moment she’d fallen. He’s also shown no sympathy for her injuries, which surely a decent father should do. Even a man who uses his daughter as his own personal skivvy should have some compassion for her existence? Though what do I know? My only experience was with a shitty excuse for a dad.
Bron told me one thing, Doc another, and I know exactly who I find the more believable. It’s not the one who, after a loud huff, gestures to his daughter.
“Clean him up,” he instructs.
Yeah, no fucking compassion at all. A blind man would be able to see she’s still hurting, even if she’s making an effort to appear normal. Her swollen eyes cause her to squint as she gets out some antiseptic wipes.
“Your daughter’s more in need of doctoring herself, rather than treating Short,” Bullseye suddenly says in a loud, clear voice. His brow draws down in a look of total disgust directed toward Doc. “So why don’t you do what we pay you to do?”
“Bronwyn’s a nurse,” he snaps. “Cleaning wounds is more in her lane than mine.” Doc, his face pinched, draws himself up, as though challenging Prez.
“Don’t doubt it,” Bullseye drawls. “Bet she’s better at it too. But right now, her eyes are almost swollen shut, and her hands are shaking.” He turns his attention to Bronwyn. “Did you hit your head when you fell, sweetheart?”
Bronwyn stands like a deer caught in the headlights, wipes held close. Her hands flick to her father as if seeking guidance on what to do.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Doc steps forward, wrenches the wipes out of her hands, and applies them to my face with far more force than necessary.
As I hold in my exclamation, I wince at the bite of pain. I’d far rather have Bronwyn’s gentle hands on me, but as she’s hurting, I’ll put up with Doc.
Doc wipes away the blood, then, with a huff, delves into his medical bag and comes out with a pair of tweezers. Without much care, he removes, I assume, every trace of the gravel embedded in my face. When he finishes, he literally slaps some antiseptic cream on my poor road-rash-ravaged, and now raw, thanks to him, face. A hamburger ready for the grill probably looks better than I do.
It’s for Bronwyn,I remind myself.My face will heal. But if Doc keeps putting his hands on her, she might end up worse.I want to make him understand that he’s never going to lay hands on her again.
Doc roughly cleans the blood from my nose and pinches it between his fingers. Christ! If it were broken, I’d be screaming. As it is, I grind my nails into my palms to keep myself from vocally protesting his actions. Finally, he lifts my eyelids and shines a torch into my eyes.
“No sign of concussion. Your nose isn’t broken, and it’s already stopped bleeding,” Doc pronounces. “You can get off my table now,” he directs toward me. Then to Bullseye, he rasps, “And all you bikers can get out of my house. I’ll drop my bill at the clubhouse next time I pass.”
While I sit up, swing my legs round, and ease myself off the table, Bullseye makes no move toward the door. Instead, he kicks out a chair, sits his ass down, then beckons to me, Freak, and Tempest to do the same. His eyes gentle as they fix on Bronwyn. “Take a seat, yourself, darlin’.”
Doc’s upper lip curls. “I believe I asked you to leave.”
“Now, that’s just not neighbourly,” Prez drawls. “I would expect with the retainer we pay you, the least you can do is make us a cup of coffee.”
A sound comes from Doc’s throat that suspiciously resembles a growl. But Bullseye keeps his eyes solidly trained on him.
Obviously, concluding the best way of getting us to leave is to pander to Prez’s whim, he gestures to Bronwyn. “Get them coffee,” he demands.
“Nah, sweetheart.” Curling his leg around the vacant chair next to him, Prez eases it away from the table. “You sit down, and rest yourself.”
“You expect me to serve you?” Doc’s brows have risen to his hairline.
“I’d say you’re probably compensated by the amount we pay you. Short needs a moment to gather himself after your treatment of him.” At least Prez saw how rough he’d been. “And,” Bullseye adds, his eyes narrowing, “if you haven’t noticed, your daughter looks dead on her feet. Looks like she could also do with some pampering.”
Doc’s mouth opens and closes, but my focus is on Bronwyn. She hasn’t taken the seat Prez offered. My brow furrows. Fuck it, she looks scared.
She’s more frightened of her father than an MC prez who could wreak havoc on her family if he so desired. She ignores Bullseye and instead steps up to her father. “You sit, visit with your friends. I’ll make coffee for all of us.”
Uh uh.Prez’s request was more like an order. He’s not happy that he’s been disobeyed. But as Doc rolls his eyes and approaches the table, someone enters the room. A very small someone, who I immediately assume is the brother Bron had spoken about. She’d told me he was eight, but he appears a skinny kid, and if I hadn’t known his age, I’d have taken him for younger.
Doc senses his arrival, swings around fast, and hisses, “Get out of here, Trip.”
Intrigued to meet Bronwyn’s brother, I study him. He seems completely oblivious to the strange men sitting around the kitchen table. His reaction to his father’s voice is interesting. His face is blank and expressionless, and instead of jumping to his father’s demand, he stays rooted to the spot.
