Page 6 of Vengeance (Ruthless MC 4)
Telling them anything else feels like asking for more attention than I want from them.
So, I hand the coffee off to the biker and answer Hyena, “Like I told Des-E, I’m good. Totally fine.”
Des-E didn’t look like he believed me earlier, and Hyena doesn’t look at all convinced himself.
Hyena’s a real fun-loving guy. Full of jokes. Almost always smiling—usually evilly. Hence the name. But he’s not smiling now.
He dips his head and hits me with a serious look. “If you need something, if you’re in trouble, you need to tell us.”
I look at him. Then glance to Des-E and Vampire. They’re hanging back at the Reapers’ usual table, but their eyes are trained on me like they can overhear every word I’m saying to Hyena. Maybe they really are some kind of hive mind.
Still, I insist, “I’m fine. I swear.”
I hate lying. But it’s not like he’d understand, even if I told him why I was currently semi-homeless. Or like he’d offer to help me without any strings attached. Three sets of them that I could in no way handle.
“But that’s so sweet of you to worry about me,” I say to distract him from asking any more questions. “Here, let me get you a cup of coffee on the house.”
“Now I know you’re full of shit. You don’t ever offer us anything for free.”
It’s true. Every exchange in the roadhouse is purely transactional, and I always keep that at the top of my mind while doing my job.
But a slimy feeling rolls over me. Like, Accuse me of being exactly like my mother without actually saying I'm exactly like my mother.
I harden my tone. “Fine, pay me then. I don’t care.”
The harsh look on Hyena’s face softens a little. “Doc, I’m only trying to—”
“She said she was fine,” the Bandit says to Hyena before he can finish. “And hey, Whisper Tits, you forgot my creamer.”
Bee Stings, Teetles, Low Self-Esteem, IBT (short for itty-bitty-titties). Those are just a few of the charming nicknames that bikers have come up with as punishment for me daring to work at a roadhouse with A-cup-sized breasts. But I’ve never heard Whisper Tits.
Before I can decide whether to be annoyed or impressed, Hyena gets up in his face. “What did you just call her?”
The creamer becomes a non-issue when he knocks the cup of coffee out of the Bandit’s hand.
“Hyena, don’t—” I start to say.
Hyena’s fist connects with the biker’s face before I can even finish that sentence.
So, this right here is why I don’t truck with criminals.
I make more money than usual on the coffee service that morning, but that fight will add another fifteen minutes on my cleaning shift.
I know from way too much experience that’s how long it will take to wipe up the blood and dispose of all the teeth from a Reaper beatdown.
Nestor is ecstatic, of course. There’s a five-thousand-dollar fine for all fights and kills, so Hyena has to pay up for knocking the biker unconscious.
My stepuncle loves easy money like that. But he’s also a little confused when he comes down to collect the wad of cash Vampire tossed on top of the unconscious Bandit.
“Hyena fought over you?” he asks, as if someone fighting over my small-breasted self defies all laws of physics.
“Hyena decided to create more work for me,” I correct.
Hyena gives me a guilty look. “Doc, I wasn’t trying to upset you. I was only trying to—”
I don’t let him finish. I just head to the back locker room. I’ve learned the hard way to completely disassociate when I’m at work. Dr. Allie Snow runs toward incoming traumas like she’s on a hospital show when she’s at her residency at Nashville Baptist.
But Doc has to step over hurt and dead bodies and clean up the messes these violent criminals leave behind like she never took an oath to do no harm.
Focus on the plan, I remind myself. Just a few more weeks, and I’ll be free.
In the back, I ignore the other roadhouse girls asking what all the commotion was about as I pull on my scrubs and pull my weave into a manageable ponytail.
I’m not due back to the hospital until after the New Year, but real talk, scrubs are designed to be everything’d in and they’re easy to wash—so basically perfect for the hazmat-level work of cleaning out all the sex rooms. Other than the cowboy boots, I look exactly like I do when I’m at my real job of helping and caring for people.
But I try not to think about that. Focus on the plan. Focus on the plan. Focus, focus, focus….
I’m exhausted by the time I come back downstairs to take care of the last clean-up job at the bar. But I’m grateful it won’t require a blacklight to do properly.
However, to my surprise, the Bandit is gone, along with all the scattered teeth and bloodstains.
