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“What the hell you doing here, Doc?” Fat Mike growls, making his way to the bar and grabbing a bottle of beer.
Never taking his eyes off Stress as he pulls another piece of glass from his cheek, Doc clicks his tongue. “I’m fixing up your club members. Making sure they’re okay.”
“Why?” He glances at Dodger and Stress with a look of contempt. “They’re the ones who didn’t do their job. Let them bleed. Maybe they’ll learn to shoot first next time. Instead of standing there like the worthless bastards they are.”
Doc slams his tweezers onto the table and glares at Fat Mike as he grabs bandages. “My job is to take care of these men, regardless of how or why they get injured.”
He turns back to Stress, voice softening. “I got all the glass out. Make sure you keep the cuts clean and let me know if they get infected.” At Stress’ nod and whispered thanks, Doc reaches for his bag.
“You’ll treat, or not treat, whoever I fucking tell you to. This is my club. If I want one of the members to learn a lesson, that’s what’s going to happen. You got it?”
“As long as I work for this club, I will take care of these guys. That is what I was brought in for. I’m not about to change now.” Doc stuffs the last of his supplies into his bag, his anger and frustration evident. “If you won’t allow me to do my job, I’m not going to be here.”
“If that’s how you feel, Doc,” Fat Mike sneers, “don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Stunned silence descends over the room, everyone shocked. Doc has been helping us for years, no questions asked. What are we going to do now? How will we find another doctor like him?
Doc’s eyes narrow, jaw clenching as he stares at Fat Mike, who takes a swig of his beer, acting unconcerned.
After a few more minutes of glaring at each other, Fat Mike takes one last drink and slams his bottle onto the bar, looking at his men. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand to be in this room right now.”
His followers laugh as they trail after him like the good little lambs they are.
Doc stands there for a moment, staring at the door they’d just walked through. Then he sighs and turns back to us. “Sorry, guys. You all know I’d do anything for you. I just… I can’t do this anymore. Not with him in charge.” Grabbing his bag, Doc looks around once more before making his way toward the door. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, then slips outside.
I meet Storm’s eyes. “Talk to him, Maverick. Tell him to give us a little time.”
Nodding, I stride to the door and swing it open, stepping out into the chilly night. I look around, seeing Doc placing his bag into the trunk of his car and slamming it shut.
I pick up my pace. “Wait, Doc.”
He turns, a resigned look on his face. “Maverick, I know what you’re going to say, but–”
I hold up my hand. “Just let me get this out.” At his nod, I sigh. “Look, I know things have been shit lately. And we both know who is the cause of most of the problems. We just need you to give us a little time.”
“Time?”
“Yeah. We have some things in the works. Don’t give up on us just yet.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling every one of my forty years. “I don’t know how much time, but it won’t be long. I promise you. The club will be different soon. Better.”
His eyes search mine, as if looking for some answers. He finally gives me a nod and squeezes my arm before getting into his car and pulling out of the parking lot.
Sighing, I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Could this day get any more stressful?
The thought had just left my mind when my pager vibrates in my pocket. “Dammit,” I hiss.What now?
I pull it out, pausing as an unknown number flashes across the screen. I normally don’t call numbers I don’t know, but something urges me to call this one.
I walk into the garage and close the door, then make my way to the back and grab the phone. Punching in the number, I wait, listening to the ringing, as I try to figure out who it could be.
“Hello,” I respond when the call connects. “I got a page from this number.”
“Maverick?” the deep voice growls. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. “It’s Brick. We need to talk.”
Shit!
I lean back against the workbench. “Yes, we do,” I answer simply. I have no idea why he’s calling me.
“Can I trust you not to pull any of the bullshit that happened today?”
