WAYLON: Angel and the Ruthless Reaper (Ruthless MC Book 1) Page 3

  He’s tall and on the lean side but chiseled with muscle. This is the look Jonathan and his Keto bros are going for when they meet up for early morning sessions at the hospital gym. But I don’t think this guy owes his muscles to regular gym visits.

  There’s a feral quality to his body. It’s sharp and tight—like a hungry tiger resting up before its next meal.

  I wouldn’t call him handsome. Not quite. He could be if you added even a speck of softness to his features. But no, the face underneath his beard is etched a little too harshly to be called pretty.

  Still, there’s something about him that magnetizes my gaze. I’m not just monitoring the situation…I can’t look away.

  So, I’m almost grateful when his blood pressure levels off right before sunrise and his breathing becomes more regular. And that means he’s stable enough to move.

  That gives me an excuse to tear my eyes away and leave his side to ask O-Blood and another one of Ant’s guys to help me transfer the MC to a real bed. Not the hospital one downstairs, unfortunately—that’s still being occupied by the Chinese guy who’s sleeping off his beating.

  The guest room’s better than a kitchen table, though. And the MC wakes up just enough to shuffle between the two Reyes as they guide him toward the bedroom.

  Which reminds me there’s one thing my gangster assistants might be better equipped to do than me.

  “Can you help him to the toilet before you put him in the bed?” I ask Ant’s guys.

  One throws me an aggrieved look. And O-Blood says, “You better hope this puta don’t have no more weapons on him.”

  He wasn’t being dramatic. We found another gun in an ankle holster when I cut off the MC dude’s black jeans. Plus, an array of knives inside each pocket of his leather motorcycle jacket, which had RUTHLESS REAPERS written out in gothic letters across the back.

  O-Blood and the other guy take the patient into the guest bathroom with twin looks of wariness like, they can only hope he doesn’t have one shoved up his ass.

  I’m still snickering at the thought when the door opens a few minutes later.

  “What are you laughing at?” a voice asks. It’s gruff, like sandpaper scraping over corrugated metal.

  I snap my head up to see the MC shuffling gingerly back into the guestroom.

  I jump to my feet. “You’re walking on your own.”

  He grunts. “I didn’t need those assholes to do my business.”

  Tough words, but he sways in a way that has me rushing forward to lodge myself under one arm before he keels over again. He’s a good half a foot taller than me and heavy, but we managed to get him over to the bed.

  “They were only trying to help,” I assure him as I ease him down on the mattress. “And they really shouldn’t have let you walk back by yourself no matter how much you complained.”

  “When I give an order, it gets obeyed. Or else.”

  He says this like it's a law of physics. Objects fall at a rate of 9.8 meters per second. And everyone obeys this guy’s every order.

  But I notice he doesn’t push me away as I help him into the bed where I’ve already pulled the covers down for him. And he doesn’t protest when I make him take a few sips of water after tucking him into the guest room bed.

  “You never did answer my question,” he says as I put the glass on the nightstand. “I want to hear the answer before I pass back out like a fucking baby from just one trip to take a whizz.”

  “That and the gunshot wound,” I point out before asking. “What question?”

  “What had you smiling earlier, angel?”

  I almost invite him to call me Amira. But then I remember…

  This isn’t the kind of guy you want to tell your real name. Or any personal details whatsoever.

  He’s a criminal, I remind myself. Never mind the pretty blue eyes and the perfect body. Look at the rest of him. Rough and grizzled with a hungry tiger lurking underneath.

  “How old are you?” I ask instead of answering his question.

  “I’m legal if that’s what you’re worried about.” He gives me a half-cocked grin. “How about you, angel?”

  Personal information. Still not a good idea. So I finally answer his question.

  “We took so many weapons off of you, one of the guys was worried you might have one hidden up your….”

  I swoop a finger in the air instead of saying the rest.

  “Up the ass. Should’ve thought of that.” He expels a weak chuckle.

  But then he sobers to ask, “Angel?”

  “Yes?” I answer, even though that’s not my name.

  He lays his hand out on the bed between us, the callused palm facing up and his long fingers splayed out.

  “Hold my hand until I fall back to sleep.”

  My stomach drops at his unexpected request. I’m not sure why.

  But I chuff nervously before answering. “Oh, I think you can fall asleep without me holding your hand.”

  “Yeah, I know I can.” He raises his gaze to mine, pinning me with his blue stare. “But I want your hand in mine when I do. Remember what I told you earlier?”

  When I give an order, it gets obeyed. Or else.

  I understand his claim on another level now.

  I place my hand in his before I can think not to do what I shouldn’t do. With a patient. For reasons I can’t explain.

  He expels a breath like he’s been holding it all this time. And his breathing evens out in just a few more breaths, signaling his imminent departure into sleepy town.

  But then he mumbles, “Angel?”

  “Yes?” I answer carefully.

  “Be here when I wake up.”

  A command. Not a request.

  And this time, I know exactly how to answer. But he’s snoozing before I can open my mouth.

  Leaving me to wonder if he’s always like that. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who gives a command then walks out before you can answer it like some of the older staff at the hospital. But you know—not a doctor.

  The opposite, in fact. Those weapons, the hard blue stare, the callused hand wrapped around mine…this isn’t a guy in the habit of helping people.

  That reminder finally restores some sense to the situation.

  I take my hand back and blink as if awakening from a dream. I’ve got to go home. Get as much sleep as I can before my overnight shift.

  As if to co-sign that realization, my phone goes off with a buzz.

  It’s a text message from Jonathan.

  DOCTOR BAE: I’m sorry about the book. In hindsight, that was presumptuous of me. Breakfast tomorrow?

  I blink down at the message, wondering about all the things I’m not feeling.

  Normally, I’m thrilled when Jonathan texts. And, it always feels like getting chosen by the prom king whenever he invites me on a date—trust, that’s a pretty special feeling for someone who lived in a group home her senior year. I didn’t have enough money to buy pretty dresses for high school dances anyway, and even if I did, I never ever would have been chosen by the prom king.

  But this morning, I hesitate before typing out: Sure

  And guilt explodes inside my stomach as soon as I hit the send arrow.

  Ugh! That’s what I get for holding some scuzzy MC’s hand when I’m dating a perfect Dr. America.

  “Is it Jonathan you’re feeling guilty about? Or is it the other way around?” a little voice comes out of nowhere to ask.

  What? No? I shove the voice away. Just because he asked—no commanded for me to be there when he woke up doesn’t mean I owe him anything more.

  I grab my medical duffel and head toward the door, refusing to look back at the patient who asked me to be there when he woke up.

  Or else.

  CHAPTER 5

  ME: Hey, Ant. Just got off my shift. Meeting Jonathan for breakfast. Then I’ll come check on your friend.

  I’m not expecting Ant to be up this early in the morning, but his response to my somewhat coded message comes back pretty immediately: k

  I wish I could go do a quick check over and redress for the MC right now, then go back to my place and collapse, but I told Jonathan I’d meet him for breakfast after my shift. And after the way I ran out of his birthday dinner, I can’t just cancel on him at the last minute.

  So, I toss the phone back in my tote, rub at my tired eyes as best I can with contacts in, and pinch some life into my face. Then I drag my exhausted butt over to Gillie’s, the diner where the medical staff at Wilmington St. Joseph can grab breakfast, lunch, or dinner before and after their shifts.

  In this case, breakfast is already waiting for me when I drag into the restaurant.

  A few slices of tomato, egg whites, and a side of cottage cheese. Not a carb in sight.

  Jonathan stands like a gentleman to kiss me on the cheek. “I ordered for you. I knew you’d be hungry after your shift.”

  A weepy feeling washes over me when I see the measly meal.

  Yes, I was hungry. I could have housed an entire stack of pancakes with four pieces of sausage on the side—that’s my usual post-overnight shift meal order.

  But this sad substitution for a real breakfast is on me, I have to admit. I’m really wishing I hadn’t told Jonathan I wanted to get into keto but wasn’t sure how on our first date. He’s been pre-ordering for me ever since.

  Jonathan values healthy living. Both his mother and recently revealed ex are waif thin.

  But my body just plain doesn’t do that. My ass, hips, and chest simply yawn when I try to whittle them down. And no matter how many crunches I do, my tummy area likes to add on an extra layer when the weather starts to cool—as if it's worried I’ll need the additional stores to get me through the winters in this strange, seasonal land my ancestors were brought to o
n boats.

  Still, I do what I can to eat my best. At least when I’m with Jonathan. And normally, I’m touched that he values me enough to order healthy food for me.

  But thanks to me running out before I could eat the salmon and salad he ordered for me at The Spotless Dove, I haven’t eaten a proper meal in nearly 36 hours. Just an old microwave burrito I found in the break room fridge.

  “Something wrong?” Jonathan asks. “Another terrible shift in the ER?”

  Jonathan assumes all my ER shifts are terrible. He’s a fifth-year resident in the neurosurgery program. So, besides the occasional Intensive Care Unit shadow consult, most of his patients are expected and scheduled way ahead of time.

  “You really should consider switching departments now that you’ve earned your master’s degree and leveled up to nurse practitioner,” he says, digging into his own scrambled egg whites. “It’s easy to get entrenched in departments where there’s a higher demand for capable staff. In a few more years, you might be in a situation where your head nurse refuses to let you transfer.”

  I bristle at his assumption that I hate the ER as much as he does. But then his hazel eyes soften with concern. “I just worry about you getting hurt down there. I’ve heard stories. Chilling stories.”

  The memory of staring down the dark barrel of that MC’s gun floats in over our healthy start breakfast. No…I can’t blame Jonathan for worrying about me.

  I’m tired, I decide, pushing down my irritation. That’s why I feel so prickly.

  The only reason….

  But then another memory replaces the gun. His hand rough and callused, waiting for mine.

  Angel, hold my hand….

  “How is your brother?”

  Jonathan’s question yanks me back to the present.

  Dammit, I should have figured out a cover story before this moment. My reaction time is terrible outside of the Emergency Department.

  “Oh, he’s…fine.” I pick up my fork and spear a few bites of the scrambled egg whites to buy myself a few moments to cobble together an approximation of last night's events. “A good friend of his got in a fight and needed medical attention.”

  “I see.” Jonathan tightens his lips.

  And I shove the flavorless eggs into my mouth, silently pleading for him to change the subject.

  “Is this the same foster brother who also serves as the head of the DE Reyes street gang?” Jonathan asks, proving that we haven’t reached that mind-reading couples goal yet.

  I nearly choke on my eggs. “How did you…?”

  He gives me a superior smile as if my shock is some kind of reward he’s earned for guessing right. “I became curious after your abrupt departure from dinner last night. So I asked that friend of yours in the ER department. Sandy? Sheila? Sophia?”

  My stomach sinks. He didn’t have to give me the correct name. I already know who spilled all the deets. “Sierra…”

  I love and appreciate Sierra. She’s my best work friend. But she is the worse when it comes to keeping things to herself.

  “Yes, I believe that’s the one.” Jonathan nods—then frowns. “But even she didn’t know a lot about him other than his gangster status. She just said that you’ve upset the head nurse a few times by leaving to attend to one of your brother’s emergencies in the middle of a shift.”

  My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I’m not sure what to say here. He’s my brother.”

  “Your foster brother,” Jonathan edits. He presses his lips together, reminding me much of how the head nurse looked when I left my shift less than halfway through it because Ant had gotten stabbed.

  “While I admire your loyalty to people from your past, you have to be careful about these things,” Jonathan warns. “Your association with this criminal could very well be the reason you haven’t been transferred to a better department.”

  That and the fact that I don’t want to leave the ER.

  But Jonathan looks truly worried, so instead of saying that out loud, I rush to reassure him, “It’s okay if I don’t get transferred. I like where I am. I like helping patients on their worst days.”

  “Is it okay?” Jonathan arches both eyebrows at me. “What if we got married? Had children? Would you want your foster brother and his gang to babysit?”

  “Well, no…” I admit. “There are a lot of jobs I wouldn’t ask Ant to do. But he’s very loyal.”

  Jonathan’s fingers tighten around his fork. “Who cares about loyalty when he’s in a gang?”

  “You’re only saying that because you have no idea what it’s like to be alone in the world, to not have anybody in your corner when you need them.”

  The words slip out before I can stop them, as bitter and brittle as I felt when Ant got dragged away to juvie for trying to protect me from our foster family.

  I’ve made a lot of changes to be with Jonathan. Molded myself into a girlfriend befitting a promising neurosurgeon. But this is the one place where I can’t back down.

  “Ant was there for me when I needed him,” I tell Jonathan. “So, I’m always going to be there for him when he needs me.”

  Jonathan sets his fork down, his face grave. “Even if he gets you or our hypothetical kids killed?”

  “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t….”

  The memory of the MC pulling a gun on me crashes down, refuting my claim before I have the chance to assure Jonathan that Ant would never put me in danger.

  And Jonathan throws me a skeptical look. “So, you’re saying that when you envision a future with me, it includes getting called away from birthday parties for our children because your gangster brother needs you.”

  I hate the way Jonathan’s reducing Ant to a title. He has no idea about the sweet boy my brother used to be—the boy who only became hard to get through juvie.

  But I also didn’t know how to respond to Jonathan’s question. Because no…I couldn’t envision Ant fitting in with the house in Brandywine and the happy family I wanted with Jonathan.

  “I get what you’re saying. And if we got married—of course, I wouldn’t do anything to endanger our kids. But I need to be there for Ant. I just….”

  I search for and fail to find the words to spell out to someone who’s never been love-poor how much connections like these mean to former foster kids like Ant and me.

  “I just do,” I tell Jonathan, my voice weak with all of the things I can’t fully explain.

  He regards me for a long, tight-lipped moment, then lets out a sigh. “I think we should take a pause.”

  My stomach tightens. “What?”

  Jonathan shakes his head and clears his throat. “I need time to digest this new information. And you need time to think over your priorities. I believe we should take that time apart.”

  “You believe?” I repeat, the old anger rising up. “One moment, you’re talking about our hypothetical marriage and children, and the next, you’re breaking up with me?”

  Jonathan darts his eyes over my shoulder, then leans in to hiss, “Lower your voice. There are several people we work with here. And I’m not breaking up with you. I’m asking for a pause.”

  He has a point about our co-workers. Gossip is the only thing we have to do hospital-wide between patients.

  But still, I have to whisper-ask, “Does this pause include dating other people?”

  Jonathan picks up his cup of coffee and takes a stiff sip before answering. “Yes, I believe it would benefit us both to explore our options for a month or two. Then after that time, we can decide if this is the relationship we want to prioritize.”

  Ice shards sprout in my stomach. Jonathan, my best hope for making all my dreams come true is asking for a pause.

  “This relationship is a priority for me.” I can’t act cool and reserved like him—he’s punishing me for things I can’t help. Things I can’t change. “Meeting someone like you—marrying someone like you—that’s everything I ever dreamed of, believe me. You’re amazing, and I really like you. I want to make this work.”

  Jonathan’s expression softens. “I really liked you too, Amira. But I’m not sure it can work. I need time to think. Surely, you can understand why it’s taking me a moment to digest this bomb you dropped on me at my birthday dinner.”

  Don’t think I don’t notice that he’s calling me by my full first name and talking about how much he liked me in the past tense. Panic sets in. The dream…it’s slipping away.