WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

“That’s a mindset thing.” Jonathan slides the hardback with his smiling ex-girlfriend on the cover closer to me. “There’s a section in the book about that too. Please, just read it. For me?”

He gives me a pleading look. “I really want my parents to like you.”

My boiling anger begins to dissipate.

I really want his parents to like me too. And I’m aware that’s not necessarily a given. Jonathan and I couldn’t be any more different on paper.

He grew up the only son of a stay-at-home mom and a doctor father, who was himself, the only son of a doctor. Jonathan comes from a distinguished line of Delaware doctors. A few older attendings jokingly referred to him as Dr. Jonathan Kershaw the fifth because even his great-great-grandfather was a doctor.

On the other hand, I was abandoned by a mother whose face I can no longer remember when I was six. Plus, I was a bit too old and too angry to be placed in a home with loving parents. So, I bounced around the Wilmington foster system until I aged out.

Jonathan’s life had been pre-ordained from birth. Of course, he’d gone to Princeton, then John Hopkins for medical school before landing in the residency program at Wilmington St. Joseph, where we both work. But if a thoughtful school guidance counselor hadn’t pointed me toward the hospital’s nursing program, who knew what would have happened to me?

Actually, I knew exactly what would have happened to me. I get a glimpse of that alternative life whenever I see the pretty but rapidly deteriorating women who hang out with my brother and his crew. And it never fails to send a shiver down my back.

I take the book. It seems easier than arguing with Jonathan, and maybe he’s right. Maybe Missy can teach me how to become the kind of woman rich parents approve of their son dating—the type of woman worthy of a doctor husband and a nice house in the suburbs.

“Thanks.” I squeeze the word past the jumble of confused emotions in my throat.

“You’re welcome,” Jonathan answers, his voice taking on a magnanimous note. “I might order dessert after dinner since it’s my birthday. Would you be willing to share it with me?”

Jonathan is a huge keto guy, so agreeing to eat anything with added sugar in it is almost as big of a deal as him asking me to meet his parents. I’m pretty sure he’s only offering to share a dessert with me to smooth over the argument we almost had.

“Sure…” I start to say as I put the book in my orange faux leather Target tote. But I trail off when I see the phone I tossed in there before climbing out of Jonathan’s Mercedes Benz. Several missed call notifications from an unknown number are splashed across my home screen. And one text message.

Unknown Number: SOS

My heart stops. The last time I received a message with those three letters, I found my brother at the house he keeps in Hillside, nearly bled out from a stab wound.

“I have to go.” I jump up from the table and yank my bag over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s a family emergency. My brother needs me.”

“Your brother?” Jonathan stands up himself. “I thought you were an orphan. And dinner hasn’t come yet!”

“He’s my foster brother. It’s a long story—I have to go. Sorry! Sorry!”

I rush out of the five-star restaurant without any further explanation than that. There’s no time to explain why I never volunteer to anyone that I’ve got a brother. Ant needs me.

I can only pray I make it to him in time.

CHAPTER 3

“Hey, hermanita, wassup!” Ant pulls me into a huge hug at the door of his row home. He and his gang, the DE Reyes, keep an entire block of them in Hillside.

I return his hug, relieved to see him in one piece.

But then I immediately pull back to ask him, “What the hell, Ant? Why did you text SOS if you’re okay?”

“I mean, I’m okay.” He rakes a hand through his thick black hair, then scratches at his tattoo-covered neck. “But I got caught up in some Chinese-on-Chinese crossfire shit. And now I got an associate in the basement beat all the fuck up.”

I tip my chin down. “You texted me SOS. for an associate?”

I’m used to being Ant’s first text when one of his guys needs patch-up work. But he’s only supposed to use SOS, our agreed upon code for “drop everything and get your ass over here” when it’s an actual emergency and someone’s on the brink of death.

Otherwise, he’s just supposed to text, “Visit?” And I make it over as soon as I can, usually after my hospital shift. Or, in this case—after I gave Jonathan his long-awaited birthday sex.

As cocky as Ant can be—or at least pretends to be around his crew—a hint of apology creeps into his dark brown eyes. “Wasn’t sure it could wait.”