WAYLON: Angel and the Ruthless Reaper (Ruthless MC Book 1) Page 2

  Jonathan’s life had been pre-ordained from birth. Of course, he’d gone to Princeton, then John Hopkins for medical school before landing in the residency program at Wilmington St. Joseph, where we both work. But if a thoughtful school guidance counselor hadn’t pointed me toward the hospital’s nursing program, who knew what would have happened to me?

  Actually, I knew exactly what would have happened to me. I get a glimpse of that alternative life whenever I see the pretty but rapidly deteriorating women who hang out with my brother and his crew. And it never fails to send a shiver down my back.

  I take the book. It seems easier than arguing with Jonathan, and maybe he’s right. Maybe Missy can teach me how to become the kind of woman rich parents approve of their son dating—the type of woman worthy of a doctor husband and a nice house in the suburbs.

  “Thanks.” I squeeze the word past the jumble of confused emotions in my throat.

  “You’re welcome,” Jonathan answers, his voice taking on a magnanimous note. “I might order dessert after dinner since it’s my birthday. Would you be willing to share it with me?”

  Jonathan is a huge keto guy, so agreeing to eat anything with added sugar in it is almost as big of a deal as him asking me to meet his parents. I’m pretty sure he’s only offering to share a dessert with me to smooth over the argument we almost had.

  “Sure…” I start to say as I put the book in my orange faux leather Target tote. But I trail off when I see the phone I tossed in there before climbing out of Jonathan’s Mercedes Benz. Several missed call notifications from an unknown number are splashed across my home screen. And one text message.

  Unknown Number: SOS

  My heart stops. The last time I received a message with those three letters, I found my brother at the house he keeps in Hillside, nearly bled out from a stab wound.

  “I have to go.” I jump up from the table and yank my bag over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s a family emergency. My brother needs me.”

  “Your brother?” Jonathan stands up himself. “I thought you were an orphan. And dinner hasn’t come yet!”

  “He’s my foster brother. It’s a long story—I have to go. Sorry! Sorry!”

  I rush out of the five-star restaurant without any further explanation than that. There’s no time to explain why I never volunteer to anyone that I’ve got a brother. Ant needs me.

  I can only pray I make it to him in time.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Hey, hermanita, wassup!” Ant pulls me into a huge hug at the door of his row home. He and his gang, the DE Reyes, keep an entire block of them in Hillside.

  I return his hug, relieved to see him in one piece.

  But then I immediately pull back to ask him, “What the hell, Ant? Why did you text SOS if you’re okay?”

  “I mean, I’m okay.” He rakes a hand through his thick black hair, then scratches at his tattoo-covered neck. “But I got caught up in some Chinese-on-Chinese crossfire shit. And now I got an associate in the basement beat all the fuck up.”

  I tip my chin down. “You texted me SOS. for an associate?”

  I’m used to being Ant’s first text when one of his guys needs patch-up work. But he’s only supposed to use SOS, our agreed upon code for “drop everything and get your ass over here” when it’s an actual emergency and someone’s on the brink of death.

  Otherwise, he’s just supposed to text, “Visit?” And I make it over as soon as I can, usually after my hospital shift. Or, in this case—after I gave Jonathan his long-awaited birthday sex.

  As cocky as Ant can be—or at least pretends to be around his crew—a hint of apology creeps into his dark brown eyes. “Wasn’t sure it could wait.”

  He leans forward to whisper, “This guy’s kind of a big deal. Triad Dragon, you know?”

  No, I didn’t know. As I’ve made clear to Ant, whenever he’s tried to get me to leave my job and come work for what he calls his empire start-up, I want nothing to do with his world.

  My high school guidance counselor’s voice rings in my ears: “You don’t get to a good man and a house and family in the suburbs by surrounding yourself with criminals.”

  But I’m glad Ant called me when I see the state of my patient in the triage room I made Ant and his guys set up in the basement.

  I find a Chinese guy lying in the hospital bed, beaten to the point of unconsciousness and wheezing in a way that makes me worry he might have punctured a lung. A woman clings to his hand like she’s afraid he’s about to die. She has long wavy dark hair and the kind of flawless creamy brown skin that makes her look like she could be anywhere from eighteen to twenty-six like me.

  “Please help him,” she begs when Ant introduces me to her as the “best street doc” in Delaware.

  “I’m not a doctor,” I let her know. “I’m a nurse.”

  “I don’t care,” she answers. “I just need him not to die. Please, please save him.”

  I make no promises. I never make promises—here or in the real ER. But I do the best I can.

  Since the pretty woman refuses to leave her boyfriend’s side, I put her to work assisting me. She introduces herself as Jazz but never says the name of the man she’s so desperate to see live.

  Lucky for her, her boyfriend’s pummeled face and bruises look worse than what’s happening inside. His breathing returns to normal as soon as I reset and bandage the ribs, letting me know that his lungs weren’t damaged, just unhappy about the pressure from his broken bones.

  “He should be alright after six weeks. But he’ll need to see a doctor—a real doctor for a follow-up as soon as possible. This is just a stop gap.”

  The woman nods. “Got it. I’ll make him go, even if he doesn’t want to.”

  “His boy Phantom is on the way,” Ant assures her, stepping in beside me like a hospital administrator ready to schmooze after all the real work is done. “You got nothing to worry about, mami.”

  Jazz doesn’t look away from the man whose name I wasn’t given. “I’ll stop worrying when he wakes up.”

  She might still be holding her breath, but I let out a big sigh of relief as Ant and I leave the basement.

  “Wow,” I say to him after we climb the stairs to the main floor of the house. “I’m glad that worked out.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t want to say it, but that would have been bad for both of us if that Dragon died on our watch. Would’ve had to cover this shit up and put a bullet in his girl if he didn’t make it. That would have been a hell of shame, too—pretty lil’ mamacita like that.”

  My stomach drops because I know Ant’s not just talking. That hypothetical would have become very real if things had gone the other way. “Don’t tell me stuff like that.”

  He grins. “Sorry, sis. I know you’re sensitive. But seriously, I owe you big. Now I get to be the hero in this story because you helped me out—sorry about your pretty dress.”

  I don’t notice the smudge of blood on my yellow dress until he points it out. “It will probably come out with a Tide pen when I get home.”

  “Yeah, probably. You should get home.” Ant averts his eyes. “I bet you’re tired.”

  I am tired. But I don’t like how Ant’s not quite meeting my gaze. He’s the Reyes leader, and he calls me hermanita. But I’m his big sister—older than him by a couple of years.

  “What?” I hold his gaze, letting him see that I know he’s hiding something from me.

  Now it’s Ant’s turn to sigh. “You got time to look at one more guy in the kitchen?”

  I roll my eyes. As hard as the Reyes can be, at least one of them asks about booboos or mysterious ailments whenever they hear I’m in the house.

  “Sure,” I answer, nonetheless, tightening my hand around the handle of the emergency medical duffel I keep at the house.

  I’ve been wrestling with my conscience over the legality of what I do for my brother and his gang for years. But I’m a little happier than I should be as I follow Ant into the kitchen, where I usually tend to the less important stuff. The truth is, I enjoy the rush of using both my nursing skills and my instincts to solve problems out of a medical bag.

  Besides, I’ve already ruined my big date night for this. I might as well treat as many people as I can while I’m here—

  I nearly drop my medical bag when I see the man on the table. He’s unconscious, just like my patient downstairs, but worse. Way worse.

  There’s a trail of red blood leading from the kitchen door all the way to the dining table they’ve laid the guy on. I start calling out orders like I’m in an episode of Chicago Med where the characters can’t so much as order a cup of coffee before work without having to save someone from dying.

  The guy on the table isn’t a Reyes—not Latino either, I don’t think. He has hair the color of rust hanging down past a slightly darker unkempt beard. And he’s wearing a motorcycle jacket over a t-shirt that used to be white. Now it’s stained red.

  “What am I looking at?” I ask, pulling on a pair of latex gloves to lift the tee.

  Someone was thoughtful enough to stuff a rag over the wound to staunch the blood. Decent first step, but I have zero faith that whoever it was bothered to make sure the towel was clean, much less sanitize it as we would have in the ER.

  I answer my own question when I lift the rag and find a hole below his rib cage. “A gunshot wound.”

  I’ve been trying to be better about cursing since I started dating Jonathan. But several of them fall out of my mouth as I rummage through my bag for a needle to start an IV.

  How is he still alive? The odds of surviving a torso shot without going directly to the hospital are extremely slim. And it’s been over an hour since Ant sent me that SOS text.

  “How long has he been lying here?” I ask Ant, who’s ju
st standing there watching me with a bemused smile like I really am starring in an episode of Chicago Med. “Why didn’t you bring me here first? He’s way more gravely injured!”

  “He’s way more gravely injured!” Ant waggles his head and pitches up his voice to do his impression of me. And the rest of the gangsters gathered in the room fall out laughing.

  “I don’t know this dude like that,” Ant answers after they’re all done with their belly laugh. “He’s the one who pulled his gun first and nearly got us all killed by them other Chinese. I don’t owe him shit. He’s lucky I brought you in here at all.”

  We’d have to see if my surprise patient was truly lucky. I might have gotten here too late to save him. But even if I could convince Ant to take him to a hospital, which I knew from past experience, I could not—he might not make it even that short of a distance. If I had to guess how much blood he’d already lost, my wager would be somewhere between a lot and too much.

  “Tell O-Blood to get in here. I need him on a bag.”

  “Aw, not again!” O-Blood groans shortly after I’ve started the IV. He’s a large Latino guy with a big stomach and a real name I never bothered to learn. Everybody’s been calling him O-Blood ever since I taught him how to assist me in makeshift surgeries by offering up his own arm for blood donation.

  “Just do it!”

  I use my nurse voice, and no more complaining. O-Blood hurries over to the sink, washes his hands, and then reaches under the sink to grab a collection bag for the self-draw process.

  But Ant shakes his head. “That’s fucked up. This MC dude ain’t a Reyes. We don’t know him like that.”

  When this is all done, I’m going to have yet another talk with my little brother about the general value of human life. But for now, my number one priority is making sure this MC dude doesn’t leave me with all sorts of nightmares by bleeding out on my makeshift surgery table.

  After sanitizing my hands the best I can, I toss the rag away and use saline solution to clean the wound site—

  The unconscious patient suddenly surges up and grabs my wrist with a rough, callused hand. “The fuck you doing?”

  I look up to find the biker, now sitting up on the kitchen table, angrily awake.

  Sharp…everything about him is sharp. Sharp voice. Sharp nose underneath a sharp, crystal blue gaze that makes me shudder inside. Like I’ve tumbled into an ice-cold lake. And a monster has grabbed onto my wrist.

  Then that monster pulls a gun out of his jacket.

  And points it straight at me.

  CHAPTER 4

  My patient has a gun.

  Having a weapon drawn on me by a patient was one of those ER nurse bucket list items I never wanted to check off.

  But, in that moment, I tick that box off with a hard, fearful swallow.

  He lets go of my wrist. But any relief I might have felt about that dies a quick death when he uses that hand to slide back the chamber, cocking it to discharge right in my face.

  Only my years of training in the ER keep me from peeing my pants. Is this how I’m going to die?

  I brace myself for that possibility, but instead of shooting, he blinks at me. Once. Twice. Like I’m an apparition he can’t unsee. “Who are you?”

  Meanwhile, in the background of our one-sided conversation, the sound of several guns being cocked goes off behind me.

  “Don’t worry about her name, puta. Her face is going to be the last thing you see if you don’t put that gun down.”

  The MC flicks his blue eyes to my brother, who’s standing at my eight.

  Then they come right back to me like Ant really is as minuscule as his nickname. His gaze is so cold it burns like the dry ice us nurses are always being warned not to touch.

  This man is a killer. Of that, I have no doubt. My death might be imminent, but all I can do is stare at him.

  I can’t close my eyes. Can’t look away from those icy lakes. Can’t utter a word as I drown.

  “I said drop the gun,” Ant yells behind me.

  My brother’s angry bellow kicks my own voice back into line. I go into nursing mode with the glittery-eyed MC.

  “Listen. Listen, I understand you’re upset—and probably in shock. That’s the only reason you’re able to hold a gun and sit up right now. You’ve been shot, and we’re just trying to help you. If you put down the gun, we’ll help you.”

  “Who are you?” he demands again. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…” I begin to explain again that I’m trying to help him. But then I realize…he’s not asking because he plans to kill me. He’s honestly confused.

  “I’m a nurse…a nurse practitioner,” I explain. I point to Ant. “And that’s Antonio. He’s my brother who I think you’ve already met. He’s probably freaking out right now because his mom was killed by gun violence. It would traumatize him for life if anything happened to me. So please just put down the gun. Let me help you.”

  He shakes his head. “You want to help me?”

  His voice comes out rougher this time, his words slurring. The shock is starting to wear off.

  “Yes, I want to help you.” I hold out my free hand. “May I please have the gun. You’re about to lose consciousness again, and I don’t want it to discharge when you fall out.”

  He starts to shake his head. “No, don’t want to…”

  I take a risk—step closer to him instead of backing away like my survival instinct wants.

  “I know you don’t want to pass out. But it’s going to happen. Please trust me. I won’t let anyone hurt you while you’re asleep. I just have to treat your wound.”

  He stares at me. Then stares at me some more.

  Then he uncocks the gun and places it sideways in my hand. Like a knight offering a lady his sword.

  “Angel…” he mumbles—right before collapsing backward into that unconscious state I promised was coming for him.

  “What the fuck?” Ant rushes forward to stand on the other side of the unconscious biker.

  I hand him the gun like it's poison. “Take this. I need to get to work.”

  Ant takes the piece from me but says, “Naw, I’m not even sure I want you working on this motherfucker. He pulled a gun on you.”

  “I promised him!” I try not ever to yell at Ant in front of his crew, but I’ve already lost too much precious time. “Now stand back and let me do my job!”

  I don’t wait for his response before getting to work treating the wound. I finish cleaning it and decide to leave the bullet in there for now. I can see a glint of metal inside, but a kitchen table surgery to remove it would introduce more risk than benefits.

  So I bandage the wound and type his blood—thank goodness he doesn’t wake up again for that. And it turns out he’s O, too.

  I take O-Blood's self-donated pint and thank him while asking for a couple more just in case the wound reopens or the one turns out not to be enough.

  Before he goes, I also get his help, stripping the biker out of his clothes. And then all that’s left to do is wait.

  I don’t trust Ant or the rest of his gang to properly monitor the situation. So, I guess I’m staying in my now completely ruined dress—Jonathan definitely doesn’t have to worry about me wearing it to meet his parents anymore. There’s no dry cleaner or bleach pen in the world that could get all the bloodstains out of my formerly butter yellow dress.

  Resigned to my fate, I take a seat at the kitchen table beside the sleeping biker. I don’t pull a Jazz and post up next to his unconscious body in a state of full-on cling. But I don’t exactly relax either.

  Other than trading my morning shift for a later one with another nurse on our text chain, I don’t touch my phone. I monitor the situation, monitor him like I’m one of the machines we would have hooked him up to if Ant had taken him to the hospital.

  His back is covered in tattoos, some of which extend to his sides. However, he only has one on the front of his upper torso: There but by the grace of God go I…

  An expression of godly humility, I suppose. But he doesn’t look particularly religious or humble in his unconscious state, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

  He radiates power and violence, even lying prone and almost naked.