Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

Abby pours us both another shot. “Do you love him?”

I stare at the glimmering amber liquid in my shot glass. “I’ve always loved him,” I whisper. It’s true, because I have. I’ve loved him my whole life. Only that love has worn many different faces over the years. Now, it’s something deeper, something special, and being in each other’s world isn’t enough anymore.

I want all of him.

“I’d like to say you get used to it, but you don’t,” Abby says.

I give her a puzzled look, not sure what she means.

“Being in love with a biker,” she says. “But you learn how to ride out the hours between them leaving and them coming home safe to you.”

“I’m not sure he feels the same way as I do.”

She smiles and it’s warm and kind. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. He feels the same way.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because in all the years I’ve known Jack, I’ve never seen him look at another woman the same way he looks at you.”

Her words are comforting, and when they mingle with the alcohol in my veins, I feel warm and hopeful.

Before I can say anything, Doc walks in with Dakota Joe and Paw, so I stand and brace myself for bad news.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“Yes. He’s resting.” Doc gives me a reassuring squeeze on the arm. “You did good today, darlin’.”

Inwardly, I relax but only a little.

I try to smile, but my nerves are too fried.

“How is he?” Abby asks.

“He was lucky. The bullet missed his organs and lodged in soft tissue. He’s on some pain medication and antibiotics so he’ll be out of it for a while.” He looks at me. “You can relax, sweetheart. He’s out of the woods.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath and exhale deeply. “Can I see him?”

“He’s unconscious because of the drugs and needs rest. But I guess I can’t stop—”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says because I’m already on my way to his bedroom. When I reach it, I pause at the door and take in a deep breath to steady my crazy emotions.

Inside, Jack is unconscious on his bed with the sheet pulled down to his hips and his arms resting beside him. He’s shirtless, but there’s a bandage wrapped around his chest, holding a dressing in place over the bullet wound.

Beside him, a heart monitor records his heart’s steady beat. Next to that, an IV line drips antibiotics into his veins.

I kneel next to him and take his limp hand in mine.

Then, without warning, my tears break free and stream down my face.

JACK

I’m hurting like a motherfucker, but I’m going to live. Floating between being awake and unconscious, I live in a weird world of fractured thoughts for a week. I’m delirious and high, my brain splintered and spangled with kaleidoscopic images of things both real and unreal. I have conversations, imagined and actual, while my body fights the bullet’s path of destruction through my chest.

I’m fucked up.

But I’m also healing, and by the end of the week, I’m able to open my eyes long enough to have a conversation with Doc that actually makes sense.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” Doc is changing a saline bag tethered to my arm by an IV. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” I say, trying to sit up.

Doc helps me. “You’re a lucky sonofabitch. Bullet missed vital organs and got lodged in soft tissue. You’ve had a bit of a fever from a mild infection but nothing too damn serious. If I were you, I’d buy a damn lottery ticket.”

“I don’t feel fucking lucky,” I reply, closing my eyes as a wave of nausea weaves its way through me. I’m dizzy as fuck.

Doc checks my wounds and changes the dressings. “You’re healing well. You’re a fit motherfucker, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s all the fucking practice.” I’ve been shot three times in my life, so I’m getting good at it.

“I want to get you out of bed and walking about today.”

“Great,” I say pushing back the blankets. My legs feel like cooked spaghetti, and my head feels like mush, but I’m itching to find the motherfucker who did this to me. “I’ve got some payback to serve up.”

Doc pushes me back toward the pillows. “Whoa there, cowboy. I want you up walking, not gunslinging your way through any plans for revenge.” He gives me a look that tells me he means business. “Today you walk, tomorrow you do whatever it is you need to do to make this right.”

I hate being told what to do, and I’m an impatient asshole. But if the pain on one side of my chest is anything to go by, Doc has a point. I need to rest, so I sink further into the pillows.

“Besides, you have a visitor,” Doc says, a small smile toying on his lips. “She hasn’t left since you were brought here.”