Page 4 of Property of Brute & Axl
“Wasn’t about to be responsible for you fucking that up.” He nods to my work, admiring it. I’ve done the paint jobs on every club member’s bike except Brute’s. He can’t decide what he wants, so it’s a blank slate for now.
“Appreciate that.” Rinsing out the paint canister, I set it aside to dry. “Where are we going?” I watch my friend for any clues while I wipe my hands.
“Jackson.” He bites the word out like he’s chewing on a tough piece of jerky before walking away.
I hop on my bike and follow him towards the highway. The three-hour drive flies by as we ride nonstop into the city, stopping first at a department store to pick up some supplies that Finleigh might require. Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the trauma center she’s been admitted to and lie our asses off to gain access to her floor.
Skeptically, a nurse guides us to a step-down unit where Finleigh has been given a private room. After being warned not to bombard her with information and to keep her calm or we’ll be asked to leave, she opens the door.
“Jane, I have some visitors for you.” The nurse goes from strict to perky in a flash, but she’s quickly forgotten when Finleigh’s physical state finally sets in. Her head is wrapped with bandages, and bruising in varying stages of healing mar her face, neck, and arms. She has a broken wrist, her other arm is in a sling, and stitches cinch multiple skin lacerations. Her gown and covers likely hide even more as she sits up in bed.
Tears stain her cheeks as she tries to scoot away, her eyes flashing between us like a frightened rabbit being hunted by predators. “Do I know you?” she asks in a hushed, fearful voice. Nothing like the confident woman we met that night in the bar.
“You do,” Brute responds, giving nothing away.
“How?” Fin asks.
“Yes, how?” The nurse is less impressed with our non-committal answers used to get us in here.
Allowing my friend to take the lead on this one, I place the shopping bags on a chair and begin unpacking them, moving toiletries to the bathroom and leaving the folded clothes on the end of the bed near her feet.
“We picked some things up when we got into town.” I wave a hand at the garments, trying to break the tension in the room.
“Thanks,” she musters, hardly able to take her eyes off Brute, as she waits for his answer.
“We’re your partners,” he finally says. After that surprising claim, you could hear a pin drop from a mile away.
“Partners?” Fin chokes out as the nurse makes a weird noise. “Both of you?” She glances at me for confirmation.
“Both,” I affirm.
Her slightly swollen eyes widen as much as they’re able before resting her head back into the pillow and closing her eyes.
“Can you go?” Brute orders the nurse, unconcerned with how rude he sounds. Her eyes narrow as she silently warns us that she’ll be keeping an eye on us before leaving the room.
The steady beeping of the machines our girl is hooked up to is the only sound until she asks, “Do you know what happened to me?” Her eyes remain closed.
We share a look before I answer, “No. Only that you were found shot in Bay Springs.” The news wouldn’t reveal any more information, and the nurse wasn’t forthcoming with anything new, either.
A fresh tear leaks from the corner of Finleigh’s eyelid, and she sniffles as it tracks down her cheek. We take a seat beside her on each side of the bed, waiting for her to look at us. That’s when I notice it, the bump in her belly, and glance around to the machines until I find the one monitoring the baby’s heart rate.
Brute is stunned. I don’t think he ever gave much thought to kids. Hell, I know he hasn’t. Showing interest in a woman is new for him.
“How long have we…?” Her eyes open, glossy with unshed tears, causing them to sparkle and dance like a shimmering creek bed.
“Four or five months, give or take,” Brute replies after a long pause, as I move a hand to rest on her belly.
I haven’t been around many pregnant women, but I’d guess her to be about that far along. Which means this is our baby.
Chapter 3
Finleigh
These two don’t say much. Even when I ask questions, their answers are clipped and to the point. It feels weird that I’d be attracted to that, but I wouldn’t know either way because I don’t even know my own name.
The hospital has been calling me Jane Doe, ma’am, sweetheart, or the worst yet…honey. I don’t want cute nicknames; I want my name, and these intimidating men, clad in leather biker vests, more black ink than is visible, and scowls etched on their faces, claim to know who I am.
“Are we going to share names here, or is this a guessing game?” I finally say, the exhaustion and fear, making me cranky. I don’t want to be stuck in the hospital, but until now, no one has laid claim to me. I’ve tried not to focus on that too much because when I do, it’s depressing. The realization of meaning nothing to no one is a revelation I can live without.