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Grayson’s in danger. From some wannabe crime lord or prison gang. And he’ll also be in trouble with parole. They’ll accuse him of associating with other criminals or something. Probably throw him back inside. I can’t let that happen to him.
The club. Could he get in trouble with his brothers? Will they punish him for working with another gang behind their backs? As much as they seem to respect Gray, their brotherhood always comes first.
My job. I’m probably going to get fired, when Trish puts two and two together and comes up with I slept with a patient.
My life. I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t stay at Grayson’s. I can’t even go to Emily’s house. I’d be putting her and Libby in danger. Oh my God, what if he saw Emily earlier today and threatens her next?
My head really, really hurts.
“How’d this happen, Serena?” yet another paramedic asks.
I explain what I remember, leaving out the parts of the conversation that involve Grayson.
He asks me a series of questions. In the back of my mind, I understand he’s trying to assess my cognitive function.
A cop shows up to take my statement. He’s nice enough but questions me until my temples throb.
“Easy, officer,” the paramedic grumbles. “Back away.”
As he’s finishing testing my reflexes, there’s a commotion at the door. Loud voices. A blur of people blocking the entry.
“I’m here for Serena.”
I recognize the deep, menacing voice.
“It’s okay, Trish,” I call out weakly. “He’s here for me.”
Gray promised to send someone.
And he did.
Teller’s big frame slides through the cluster of people, worry and annoyance creasing his brow. His bright blue-green eyes scan everything in his path before landing on me.
His scowl deepens.
Yeah, well, you’re not exactly my first choice, either.
His irritation seems to transform into concern as he crouches next to me. “What happened, hon?”
“Is he your ride?” the paramedic asks me, stepping away from Teller. “You can’t drive.”
“Yeah.” Teller stands. “I’m here to take her home.”
I shake my head. I can’t go home. But I don’t want to say that in front of everyone.
The paramedic explains that I probably have a concussion and since I won’t go to the hospital, I need to go home and rest for at least one to two days. “Can you make sure she does that?”
“She’ll be taken care of,” Teller promises.
Not exactly reassuring.
“Work,” I protest. “I have—”
“I’ll cover your appointments,” Trish says. “Just go home and take care of yourself.” She touches my arm and spears me with a meaningful look. “We’ll talk in a couple days.”
Great, something to look forward to. Getting fired.
“Come on.” Teller helps me stand. I almost scream as pain slices through my skull. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” he asks.
“I hate hospitals.” I stuff all the information the paramedics gave me in my purse.
“I hear that,” he mutters, opening the door for me. “Let’s get out of here.”
His truck’s parked with two tires up on the curb. “Lot was jammed.” He flashes a tight smile.
“Hey, that’s what trucks are for, right?”
He chuckles. “Which one’s your car?”
I point to my hatchback.
“We’ll have someone grab it for you. Bring it up to the clubhouse.”
Tears of relief roll over my cheeks. “You’re not taking me home?”
“Fuck, no.” He holds out his hand to grab onto, boosts me into the truck and slams the door shut.
I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes.
The truck starts with a deep, throaty rumble and I hurry to buckle the seat belt. Bile crawls up my throat as the truck’s stiff suspension rocks forward and we bounce off the curb.
“Sorry,” Teller mutters. “Trying to take it slow.”
“It’s okay.”
He reaches behind my seat, grasping for something, and a few seconds later pushes a bottle of water into my hands.
“Thanks,” I whisper, uncapping it. “Why are you always the one driving me home after I get smacked around?” I take a shallow sip of water.
“I don’t mind giving you a lift,” Teller sighs. “But I’d rather not have you get smacked around at all. By anyone.”
“Me too,” I mutter.
“I came because I was in the area and closest to the hospital,” he explains.
“Oh.” Better Teller than Murphy. This is awkward enough.
“Grinder didn’t want you waiting for a ride,” he explains. “He’s gonna meet us up at the clubhouse.”
“He can’t be there. What time is it?”
“Don’t worry about that.” He glances over. “You give the cops an accurate description of the guy who did this?”
“Yeah,” I answer carefully. While I glossed over the details of the why the guy attacked me, I told them what he looked like. Doubt they’ll do much to catch him anyway. Some woman got attacked, who cares?
“Wanna tell me what happened?” he asks.
I study his profile for a second. While he has the good looks of a handsome, carefree athlete—someone you’d find shirtless on a beach tossing a Frisbee during the day and nailing chicks in bikinis all night—if you stare at him too long, the ruthless predator in him shines through. He’s a longtime member of the club—the treasurer—and I know damn well he didn’t earn that patch by being warm and friendly.
