Malcolm (Henchmen MC Next Generation 2)

"How do you feel?"

"Well, the medicine they gave me numbed things just enough to tolerate," she explained. "I asked that they didn't give me anything too strong. I have to get back to the diner and then drive myself home later."

"I will wait around and take you back to your car."

"You've done en..."

"Holly, let me drive you back to your car," I insisted.

To that, she took a deep breath. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Can I do anything else while you wait for your test results? Get you something to drink? Eat?"

"Can you just... sit with me?" she asked, gaze on the floor again, like she was embarrassed to ask. Like anyone would want to sit alone and hurt and scared in a hospital room, waiting to hear what the doctor had to say.

"I can do that," I agreed, moving over toward the bed, sitting down on the space to her side. "Not leaving you much room," I said when her body touched mine from shoulder to calf.

"That's okay. You're warm," she said, leaning a bit into me whether she intended to or not. "Is there a rule that says hospitals always have to be so cold? I've spent a lot of time in them the past year, and I've never once felt like the temperature was comfortable."

I wanted to ask why she'd spent so much time in hospitals, but it felt like too personal of a question.

"Want me to track down another blanket?" I asked, since she had the one from the room draped over her legs already.

"No. Stay. You're like a furnace," she declared. One of my cousins would have had some flirtatious response to that, something about her thinking they were hot or something. But I just sat there in awkward silence until she broke it again. "My boss is going to be so mad about my uniform."

"You're fucking with me."

"What? No. Why?"

"You got beaten behind his restaurant because you were trying to take out trash that shouldn't be a part of your job to begin with, and he is going to be mad about some cheap-ass uniform?"

"He's a, ah, cheap-ass man," she said with a sigh. "I might be able to get the blood out, though."

"Pre-soak in cold water and detergent, wash with that oxygen cleaner shit. Then if it is still there after, a quart of water, teaspoon of laundry detergent, and a tablespoon of ammonia. Let it soak, then pre-treat and wash again."

"Are you, like, in the laundry business?" she asked, angling her head back to look at me with her one good eye. "Good" didn't exactly mean much, though, when the bruise under it came damn near halfway down her cheek.

"What? No," I said, chuckling. "No. Just had to clean some blood out of my clothes before," I told her, tapping the badge on my chest.

"What does one-percenter mean?" she asked, and it was actually pretty fucking charming that there were still people around the area who didn't know much about my club and what we did for a living.

"It means I'm a biker. And I've gotten into some fights," I hedged.

"A biker. But don't bikers, you know, ride bikes?"

"I do. On the nights that I'm not carting my cousins around. Or my dogs."

"Oh, you have dogs! What kind?"

Gotta love the way a woman who liked animals could forget all about their pain and fear and stress when one was mentioned.

"English mastiffs," I said, reaching for my phone to bring up a picture. "One of my cousins got them for me for a gift. Then got herself the last one."

"Well, she couldn't just leave it there alone," Holly said, zooming in on the picture to look at the wrinkly faces of my beasts.

"That's exactly what Chris said," I agreed, smiling.

"What are their names?"

"Tommy and Chuckie."

"Wait... like... from The Rugrats?"

"Yeah."

"That's cute. Are they guard dogs?"

"Sure. If someone was trying to attack the couch. Maybe. But they'd have to actually move to do that, so probably not."

"I love how stereotypically mean-looking dogs are always the biggest softies."

"Do you have dogs?"

"I wish. I couldn't at my old place. And now I just don't have the time."

We didn't get to talk for much longer, though.

Because the doctor came back to talk to Holly about her concussion, about what to look out for, about how to take care of her swollen eye, her ribs, urging her to lay low, take it easy.

She'd agreed with him, but I noticed that her ears turned beet red as she did so. Because she was lying. Because she was planning on somehow going back to work the next night. Despite her pain. Despite what was going to be limited mobility because of her side. Despite the fear she must have had about going back to the place where she'd been attacked.

Then, just like that, she signed her papers, then fell into step beside me as we made our way out into the parking lot. "Here, let me help," I said when she struggled to get herself up into my giant truck. "How about I take you to the all-night pharmacy to fill your script before I bring you to your car," I suggested.