“Soirée, Sacha. Voulez-vous toujours que votre quart de travail soit couvert?”
“Oui. Ce serait génial, Lottie.”
“Vous êtes les bienvenus.”
She hung up, grateful Sasha hadn’t found anyone else yet. Work wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t exactly a party, but it was better than sitting here alone with her thoughts and memories.
Throwing her phone on the bed, she started to change. If she couldn't wear the dress, she’d at least wear her scrubs like armor. Something familiar. Something useful.
She wasn’t running. She was surviving. And for tonight, that was enough.
It wasn’t that she was lonely for the attention of a man… well, she was, but more than that, she missed her best friend. It all went back to Sway being kidnapped and tortured because of her affiliation with the club.
Sighing at the thought, Lottie knew she’d played a role in that situation. Her ex-boyfriend, Dawson Franks, had been the one behind the entire horrible attack.
She still didn’t know what had happened to him. If she had to guess, Vicious, Sway’s husband, had probably tortured Dawson to death. Which, honestly, he deserved.
The guilt of being part of the reason Sway had been targeted had Lottie accepting the distance between them.
After Sway married Vicious, the distance only grew. Lottie couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want her around. It was in the looks he gave her—the sharp ones filled with quiet judgment, and the way he barely acknowledged her.
Even Sway had stopped calling as much. The whole damn thing was depressing.
The only good thing to come out of her connection to the club was landing the nursing job at Clinique de Villa. The twenty-four-hour clinic gave her something to hold onto—purpose, routine, and most of all, a place to hide.
An excuse to always be busy. Unavailable. Chicken. That’s what she was.
* * *
Razor
If you sit long enough looking out onto the world, it can almost appear to be perfect at times. When your entire life has been dictated, you’ll find a way to break those ties and grasp freedom at any cost.
For Merritt Clermont the world faded away when he blasted down the highway on his Harley. If there was anywhere his soul could unburden itself, it would be right there on the blacktop, wind in his face, roar of the engine in his ears, concrete beneath his wheels. The patch on his back told everyone who he was. A Royal Bastard.
He’d been born into the life of a biker. His mother “god rest her soul" had wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer. He promised to go to school and kept that promise. But he’d been pulled back into the club life once she died.
He’d made a deal with his dad to let him finish medical school and he’d return to the fold.
He could have left the lifestyle once his old man died. Instead, Razor found another home. One with the Royal Bastards. His brothers were his family. They always had his back whether on or off the road. Whether he had his colors on or not.
Coming up in his father’s world did not earn him anything. Hell, it didn’t earn him the right to breathe. His father had been an officer with the club, which made him have to fight harder for his place in this life. He worked hard for his degree in medicine too. If anyone wanted to take either from him, they would have to be ready for one hell of a fight.
Over the years, he’d managed to find his place amongst his brothers. He was the chapter’s head medic, which gained him the road name Razor. Just like him, each man had their own story. Just like the two men on his six—Book and Hemlock. Book had been in the club for years, just from behind bars. The guy had barely been patched in when he went to prison for murder. He’d been out a year and was still struggling to get his footing. Hemlock had come along as a kid doing odd jobs and now held a position in the chapter as the second medic.
Being in the club they were held to a code. A code they each lived by and no one,no oneever broke the code. One of loyalty, trust, honor, respect, and most of all to protect each other.
Pulling off the highway, he led them into town. Razor was sure it was time for a break. The dust and dirt from the road had him ready for something liquid and cold. His damn phone buzzed in his back pocket. Taking a breath he tried not to think about who may be calling. Things had been hectic at the clinic lately with the older doctor cutting back his hours. If the old man was calling off, Razor would retire the man permanently.
Parking the bike, he sat and waited for his brothers to line up next to him. Reaching into his back pocket he took the phone out only to see a string of missed calls from the clinic along with three texts from Lottie. Opening up his messages he read the text.
Lottie- Razor, doc wants me to close the clinic tonight.
Lottie- The old bastard left me here alone.
Lottie – I tried to lock up, but the alarm went off. Send me the code.
Lottie – CALL ME! The cops are here.
