“What the fuck happened?” I shout into the room.
“This little thing shot her. And she’s going to fix it. Aren’t you?” I hear Savage say behind me.
Turning around, I get ready to rip apart whoever shot my sergeant-at-arms. But when my eyes lock on Izzy, I stop cold.
“You!” we both say at the same time.
3
Izzy
I stare at the man who has been single-handedly driving me crazy for months. I’ve never wanted to get away from someone faster, yet at the same time want to kiss them. He makes me nervous and excited all at the same time. I dreaded and loved seeing his name on the appointment schedule at the clinic. He would bring his little bulldog in for any reason. It was cute, and that had started to warm me a bit to him.
How someone could be this hardened motorcycle club President and at the same time be so attentive with their dog was surprising. That had to mean something, right? But right now I’m not feeling all warm and excited. Nope. Nervous and scared shitless is more like it.
He’s way out of my league, and I was completely shocked when he’d asked me out weeks ago. It’s almost laughable to think of us together. He’s handsome in a rough kind of way. With his short dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he always seems to have a little bit of scruff on his face. Between the scruff on his face and the tattoos, he’s really playing to the whole motorcycle thing. He probably carries a gun and punches people who look at him funny. I can barely make eye contact at times, and the only weapon
I’ve ever used—besides my grandfather’s revolver—is a staff in Warcraft. Not that that’s anything to shun. It is, after all, a legendary.
“Let her go,” Lucias says. The giant, scarred-up guy named Savage releases my arm quickly, like I’m suddenly on fire, but Lucias’s tone didn’t give much room for argument. I reach up and rub the spot, not from pain. I’m just happy to be free. Well, not really free.
“Where the fuck are her clothes?” Lucias’s eyes roam over me, locking on my legs.
“Wasn’t real worried about her clothes at the moment, Pres,” Savages answers.
Lucias pulls his eyes away from me and over to Casper, who’s been moved from the pool table to a sofa over on the side. When I got in the truck, I’d cut her jeans away, and I’d done a few quick stitches and bandaged her on the drive over. I had to use what was in the truck because Cas just wanted it stitched fast and over quickly. Something about not wanting her man to see it. She didn’t even jump when I started on her. She just cursed and kept checking her phone. I did the best I could with my kit in a moving vehicle. It should be fine, as long as she doesn’t get an infection.
“Cas.” Lucias just says the one word.
“No. I’m not alright. Vincent is going to fucking kill me. I’m never going to hear the end of this. Ever.” She picks up her phone once again, typing away, not seeming to be in pain. More annoyed and agitated than anything. She actually didn’t even seem mad at me that I shot her. More pissed at herself. Or whatever this Vincent was going to do.
He walks over to her, looking down at her thigh. He pulls the bandage back to look at the wound before reapplying it, shaking his head.
“You did this?” He looks back over at me, and this time I can’t read his face at all. Holy shit, I’m standing with no freaking pants on in the middle of a motorcycle club after I shot one of their people. I pull at the bottom of my shirt, trying to make it longer.
I’m not sure if he means the bandage and stitching, or the shooting, so I just nod because, hell, I did do both.
“Someone want to tell me what happened?” He looks around the room at everybody, and it’s then I notice there are a few other men who have joined us. I go to step back, but bump into Savage, which makes me jump. Jesus, he takes up all the freaking space around here.
“What happened is Vincent is never letting me out of the house again. He already follows me around. I’m shocked he hasn’t scented my blood and isn’t here already,” Cas half-whines before dropping her head back down onto the sofa, ignoring Lucias’s question.
“Went to find Pinch. He wasn’t home, but his bitch was,” the man who had been carrying Cas and drove us here says.
I scrunch my face at his word bitch. For some reason, out of everything, that name seems to be the straw that is about to break this camel’s back. I feel the lump start to grow in my throat, but I try to hold it back by biting the inside of my cheek, hoping the pain will halt it.