Page 3 of Vengeance (Ruthless MC 4)
That way, I’ll be debt free when I finish my residency in June and sit for my boards in July. And for the first time in my life, I won’t owe anyone anything. I’ll be able to cherry-pick a job that dovetails nicely into my next five-year plan of finding a husband and starting a family while I work reasonable hours at a small practice. Yay for future me.
But working here for four weeks straight means I’ve lost easy access to the Nashville Baptist on-call room and all of my other secret crash spots at the hospital.
And that conversation with Nestor was a too-close call. Lately, I’ve been sleeping and studying in one of the empty upstairs rooms when I’m done cleaning the makeshift brothel on the second floor. But with Nestor suspicious of me now, there’s no way I’ll be able to get away with that without getting fired by the man who only wants to be my uncle when I’m doling out ten percent of what I make slinging coffee at the bar.
I work my way down the list of other options.
Hotel, until my supply closet at the hospital opens back up? Too expensive.
Outside at one of the Latham County campgrounds? Too cold. And I’m not sure there are even buses that go that far outside the city. I have to walk for twenty minutes to the nearest stop and take two buses just to get to my place in Nashville.
A women’s shelter? It’s in the low 30s this weekend, so the shelters will be overrun. Plus, there’s probably an assessment to get in, and there’s no logical way to explain why a resident would choose a shelter over a hotel room.
I could lie about my background. But Nestor was wrong about me. I’m not like my mother. I refuse to tell lies just to get what I want.
This is my pride. My issue. My own fault for trusting the wrong family member. And the thought of taking a bed from someone who really needs it—no, I can’t do that.
But I also can’t stay at the roadhouse. Or justify the expense of a hotel. Or go home. What am I going to do?
That question echoes through my mind as I pull Hyena’s coffee—light roast French vanilla—off the Keurig stand. And it feels unanswerable.
Which is why I nearly drop the cup when Des-E asks, “Hey, you need a place to stay?”
CHAPTER 2
DES-E
She’s going to lie to me. I hate wasting words, and she’s going to lie to me. I know that as soon as she pauses, like a deer caught in my scope. I spend so much time looking at her. I’ve come to recognize every shift in her expression.
When she’s happy because she’s aced some test before she came in for her shift or got to sit in on a case that fascinated her.
When she’s still smiling but secretly irritated with the indecisive guys who change their beer order four times before admitting a complicated girly drink is what they really want.
When she’s overwhelmed with bikers wanting drinks but doesn’t complain—just pulls the butt-grazing extensions Nestor makes all the roadhouse girls wear back into a ponytail and commands the thirsty MCs to stop yelling their orders at her and get in a single-file line.
When she’s sad—or just plain wrecked.
If it was up to me, she’d never haul herself in here on her day off after back-to-back twelve-hour shifts—or at any time during her ER rotation. But it’s not up to me.
She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be our woman. Won’t come upstairs. Won’t accept gifts—only tips for the drinks we order. Wouldn’t even consider it when Hyena tried the date route and asked her if she wanted to come see a movie with us or something.
I can feel her looking at me when my back is turned, but whenever I try to catch her gaze, she refuses to be caught.
And now she’s going to lie to me.
I curse myself for talking. That’s not my job.
I don’t talk. I shoot. I beat to a pulp. I end, if that’s what it takes. Whatever Vampire tells me to do on behalf of our MC—that’s what I do.
But I don’t talk. Especially to Doc. Vampire warned me once, and Hyena on several occasions, that talking to her would only make it worse. That we should all leave her alone. Let her be. Direct order.
And I followed it. At least I tried to until I overheard that argument with her uncle.
Why was she sleeping on the bar’s floor? Was she homeless now? What happened to that house of hers? The thought of her without shelter sets my brain on fire.
I’m a good soldier. The best Reaper at following orders, according to Waylon and Hades, both our MC prezzes. But all those possessive instincts Vampire told me to tone down flare right back up as I wait for her response.
