Four Score

Nine

I’ve dreamed of this moment for over six years. A reality where Jase and I could be together again. In my imagination, this was perfection. This was the culmination of years of longing and loss, of patience and distance and blood. I thought I’d be relieved. I thought I’d be absolved, that we’d live happily ever after, the end.

And now that it’s here, I don’t feel any of those things. I don’t feel relieved, or content, or absolved of my sins.

I’m just afraid.

Afraid of so many, many things.

I feel completely powerless. I don’t know what’s going on with Jase, my only lifeline to the club—my only lifeline at all, for that matter. Over the three days that pass after the bomb blast, he comes and goes from the apartment several times, never really telling me what’s going on. Each time he leaves, I can tell he’s reluctant to be away from me, which is both a comfort and a worry. Is he reluctant to let me out of his sight because he misses me?

Or does he want to keep tabs on me because he doesn’t trust me?

I suspect both are equally true.

And really, he’s justified in his suspicion. I can’t help myself. The first chance I get—the morning after we first sleep together again—I wait until Jase leaves the apartment. As I listen to the roar of his bike fade into the distance, I hurry to the bathroom, a fresh pair of blue contact lenses in my eyes in a matter of seconds. A quick shower to wash any trace of our night together away, a change of outfit from the suitcase Jase thoughtfully grabbed from the clubhouse for me, and suddenly I am Sammi once again.

I take his car keys, slam the door shut behind me, and drive to the private hospital where I know Dornan’s been transferred.

I want to see his pain. I want to see just how close to death I brought him.

When I arrive at the hospital, I enter the large foyer and immediately recognize Dornan’s wife talking on her phone in the corner. I duck behind a large potted fern, praying she hasn’t seen me. Sure enough, she appears oblivious, ending her call and returning to the elevators nearby. I watch as she punches the button to go up, and wait patiently as she steps into the elevator. The doors close quietly behind her. Above the doors, the numbers count upwards, pausing for a moment on five. Level five—that’s got to be it. A large board says that the ICU is on level five, which makes sense. I snicker to myself as I imagine Dornan hooked up to machines and breathing tubes.

Whatever damage he’s sustained? I hope it fucking hurts.

I jog to the stairwell, trying to stay out of sight. I don’t really care if any Gypsy Brothers see me—after all, I am the obsessive club whore who never leaves his side unless I have to. But I don’t exactly want Dornan’s bitch of a wife to see me and start a smack down.

Five flights of stairs later, I’m panting so hard, my chest is wheezing. I used to be so fit, I think to myself as I catch my breath in the stairwell. With sex my only exercise of late, it’s no wonder I’m woefully out of breath.

I let a few moments pass before I steel myself. I’m nervous, my stomach in knots, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Jase. Jimmy. There are two reasons right there. I wonder if anyone suspects me of anything yet.

I enter the hospital corridor, plastering a look on my face that’s aiming for concerned girlfriend.

I glance down at what I’m wearing, pleased that I had something Sammi-worthy to wear. A black T-shirt that clings in all the right places and dips to show off my cleavage, paired with dark denim jeans and plain ballet flats. It’s not as whorey as normal, but it’ll have to do.

Thank goodness Jase thought to grab my suitcase from the clubhouse. I don’t think turning up in his sweatpants would really work.

As soon as I step into the corridor, I know which room is Dornan’s. Halfway up the long hall is a doorway flanked by three Gypsy Brothers, who look ridiculously out of place in a hospital. At the same time, they look like you wouldn’t want to mess with them. Which I suppose is the whole point.

I hang around just outside the stairwell, waiting for one of them to notice me. Sure enough, within about three seconds, the shortest of the three heavily tattooed guys makes a beeline for me, his bald head shining under the artificial light.

I smile gratefully as he approaches me. “Hi.”

He smirks. “What are you doin’ here, darlin? Prez is still out cold.”

I nod, squeezing a tear out for effect. “I don’t know what to do,” I say desperately. “I’m so worried about him.”

The dude thinks on something for a moment and then glances at the room he’s just come from.

“Look,” he says. “It’s meant to be family only.”

“I know,” I say dejectedly. “I just—if he wakes up … I don’t want him to think I wasn’t here, worried about him, you know? But I don’t want to upset his family.” I put my hands to my face, acting upset. “Can you help me?”

I bat my fucking eyelashes for all I’m worth, and the guy buys it. Men are idiots sometimes. In this case, it’s to his detriment.

“Stay here, doll. I’ll let you know when his old lady leaves.”

I smile gratefully, watching him as he heads back to the room to stand sentry with the other two bikers. They’re all about Dornan’s age—all would have been in the club with my father when he died.

Traitorous bastards, the lot of them. If it were up to me, if I had the energy and the resources, they’d all be dead as well.

My patience pays off. About thirty minutes later, I see Dornan’s wife head back to the elevator and disappear inside. Moments after that, Baldy crooks a finger, beckoning me.

He gestures for me to enter the room, but as I pass him, he lays a hand on my shoulder. It takes everything within me not to throw it off and punch him in the face.

“He’s messed up pretty bad,” he says to me in a loud whisper. “You sure you wanna go in?”

I nod. I’m fucking gagging to see what’s become of him.

“Okay,” the guy says, taking his hand back. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

I nod, squeezing past him and entering the private room. Even here, in a coma, Dornan’s been afforded every luxury: a private suite that overlooks the Hollywood Hills and a band of merry men to guard him from further attack.

I should’ve brought some kind of poison with me and finished off the job. Silly me for not thinking ahead.

I approach the bed at the far end of the large room quietly and with caution. I don’t know what to expect, only that it’s bad.

As I get closer, my eyes take in every detail of the horrors that have marred Dornan’s face, neck, arms, and hands. I assume the rest of him is similarly injured, but I’m not about to lift the sheets and find out. Not yet, anyway.

A few more steps and I’m close enough to reach out and take his hand, gently avoiding the deep cuts that litter his skin and the drip tube that’s embedded in the top of his hand.

I can’t help it. A satisfied smile spreads across my face as I see the damage the shrapnel from Elliot’s crudely fashioned bombs have wreaked upon the man I want to destroy. It’s not as good as if he were dead, but it’s pretty fucking great.

He’s hooked up to a morphine drip, the same kind as the one I had when I woke up from death six years ago. They’re impossible to overdose, which is unfortunate, with only a measured amount delivered intravenously every fifteen minutes.

Well, if I can’t kill him, I’ll make sure he feels every goddamn thing that’s happening to him. That works for me, too. I locate the needle underneath his skin and push back on it firmly, just enough that it stays underneath his skin, but out of his vein. With any luck, he’ll not only be in pain from the morphine not reaching his bloodstream, but the fluid will also collect under his skin, causing more discomfort.

I lift the sheets back and tuck him hand underneath, patting the blankets back over.

Before I leave, I plant a lingering kiss on his bruised lips.

Karma’s a fucking bitch sometimes.