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"That's what Gage, um, Dr. Bronx said," I say. He swore that if anyone could save Scout's life, this man could. He was confident of that fact. I've known Gage since I started working for Troian two years ago. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
"He said I was a stubborn bastard, didn't he?" Dr. Grimes asks, his grin growing.
"Maybe."
The deep rumble of his laugh washes through me. My nipples tighten as a frisson of heat dances in my lower belly. His voice is incredible but that laugh?Wow.
"Come on," he says, leading me toward his desk.
Only then do I realize he's still holding onto my hand. He doesn't look like he plans to let it go, so I follow behind him, quickly trying to smooth my hair into order with my free hand. It probably didn't do much good. I didn't come dressed to impress today. I came prepared for another long day of meetings and sitting around the hospital.
Maybe that's for the best. I don't need to impress Dr. Grimes. I need him to save my niece. Anything beyond that is out of the question. My entire life just changed. The last thing I need is to complicate it by falling for a doctor in Texas, especially one who looks like this. He probably has women beating down his door trying to get a date with him. I haven't been on a date since Thad Porter took me to Prom my senior year of high school four years ago.
Our date ended with him puking in the bushes after drinking half the flask of bourbon my mom gave him. He spent the next two weeks avoiding me anytime we passed each other in the hallway. And I moved out of my mom's house as soon as I graduated. If she wanted to drink herself to an early grave, I wasn't going to stay and watch it happen. I just didn't expect it to happen so soon. I wasn't even gone a full year before she wrapped her car around a light pole.
Siobhan came home for the funeral. It was the last time I saw her.
"Have a seat," Dr. Grimes says.
I drop down into the seat across from his desk, folding my hands together in my lap.
He circles around to the other side and pulls out his chair.
"Tell me about your niece," he orders me, reaching for a folder on top of the desk.
"Her name is Scout Lansing," I say. "She's seven and a half weeks old," I explain her diagnosis to him the way it was explained to me…the fact that she only has one vessel leading out of her heart instead of two and the hole between the bottom chambers of her heart. "She, um, she's not doing well."
"Why wasn't the initial surgery performed earlier?" he asks, glancing up from her file.
"They didn't know about the defect until recently," I say, glancing down at my hands to avoid his reaction. I've seen a thousand variations of it over the last week. "She wasn't born in a hospital."
"It didn't show up on prenatal screenings?"
"There weren't any prenatal visits after the first trimester."
Dr. Grimes is quiet for a moment. His silence speaks volumes, the same volumes I've been reading all week from every other man in a white coat I've sat across from. Siobhan wouldn't have cared what any of them thought about her. She never did. It's the only thing that's kept me from shouting out the truth this week. But this time, I find myself unable to remain silent while stones fly at Siobhan's memory. I care what this man thinks, though I'm not sure why. Because he's Gage's friend? Because I actually like him? I don't know.
"My sister was a good mom," I whisper, my throat raw with emotion. "She loved Scout. But Scout's father was in a motorcycle club. My sister found out the club was trafficking women. She…um, she was helping them escape and the club caught her. They kept her under guard after that. She managed to get Scout out a little over a week ago to get her help but…" I trail off and swallow hard, unable to finish the sentence. "Before you judge her or her situation, you should know that much about her."
"Look at me, Samara," he says, his voice soft.
I reluctantly lift my gaze to his.
"Your sister was a fucking warrior," he growls, his eyes glittering with sincerity.
"Thank you," I whisper, biting my lip to keep from crying.
He watches me for a moment, his expression soft. "You said Scout's father was in an MC?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think all motorcycle clubs are like his, Samara? That they're all outlaws who hurt women like your sister?"
"At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, does it?" I ask, not sure why he cares what I think. Until recently, I never put much thought into MCs or the kind of men drawn to them. Now though? Well, it's hard to look compassionately on the kind of men who killed my sister and orphaned my niece. Had Siobhan not risked her life to save her daughter, it would have been Scout's funeral we attended last week instead of my sister's. They would have let an innocent baby die just to keep my sister from spilling their dirty secrets. If those are the type of men who cling to MCs, they aren't men at all.
"Answer the question," Dr. Grimes says.
"It doesn't matter if they call themselves outlaws or not," I say, holding his gaze. "Whether they run drugs or guns or women or pretend to play by the law, they're willing to kill—and die—for a patch on their vest and a brotherhood that ends as soon as one steps out of line. They're cut from the same cloth, regardless of how they try to neaten it up."
