His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia (11 page)

“They took them to the jailhouse,” the waitress answers. “But they didn’t take any statements, so you know they won’t be keeping them there long. Least not the bikers. Pretty sure they got that whole department on their meth payroll.”

“Man, did he put up an unholy fuss when they took him out of there!” Monty tells me with a shake of his head. “The two bikers went without a word, but that John Doe was yelling about how he couldn’t leave you here. It took three officers to get him in the car!”

“Don’t call him that. He hates being called that,” I snap, unable to keep the rather unprofessional peevishness out of my voice. Hey, I’ve already been caught out on a date with one of the hospital’s former patients, why not exacerbate it with unnecessarily bitchy commands?

I grab my Virkin from a patron who was nice enough to hold it for me while I was resuscitated by an off-duty paramedic. Then I dart back to the table where I find John’s backpack exactly where he left it, stuffed up against the window.

“Thank you,” I call out to Monty and the waitress, but not necessarily to the huge crowd gathered around them.

“Dr. Dunhill, I’m off-duty so I don’t have to report this to work,” Monty says as I head toward the door. “But I should ask you a few questions before you leave—”

The diner’s glass door closes, the bells ringing over Monty’s due diligence. He’s right. I just fainted and I should let him, at the very least, check me out. But I can’t think about myself in that moment; my thoughts are only for poor John as I rush back to the same police station where I dropped him off earlier.

T
here are
a lot of great ways to spend a Saturday afternoon. Waiting around for hours for the police to release your amnesiac boyfriend from jail is not one of them.

The waitress is right about the police not pressing charges. Both bikers come out less than an hour after my arrival. Luckily the waiting area is toward the back of the station, and the men don’t notice me tucked in the corner as they stride out through the station’s front doors. They’re both glowering, and the president’s nose is swollen in a way I’d definitely insist on examining if he were anyone other than the racist asshole who landed John in jail.

The guy at reception tells me they won’t be pressing charges. However, they keep John in there for hours, ignoring all my questions about due process in the meantime. Only after I threaten to call a lawyer do they finally release him.

I expect John to look as miserable as I feel when he comes through the door that separates the station from the cells in back, but all he looks is frantic.

“Doc!” he yells, running across the station to me. “Thank fuck. Are you okay?”

I nod and he gathers me tight in his arms, knuckling my cheek and kissing my temple like he hasn’t seen me in a century. “You sure? When you fainted, I just about lost it. And they wouldn’t let me stay with you. I’ve been going out of my mind. Thank God you’re all right.”

He holds me close with no self-consciousness at all. But I can feel the frost of all the eyes staring at us. Judging. Wondering.

“Let’s just go home, okay?” I whisper.

This time I get no argument whatsoever. In fact, he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the station without so much as a backwards glance over his shoulder.

As all about me as he was in the station, he’s on high alert as soon as we’re back outside. We’ve been here so long, it’s pitch black out and the night has grown frigidly cold, letting me know winter hasn’t completely let West Virginia go. It’s probably 80 degrees in California today, with a low of “
maybe
you’ll need a cardigan.”

But now I’m shivering in the zip-up fleece I wore for what I thought would be a simple errand run and lunch. John isn’t wearing anything but a zip up hoodie, but he takes it off and puts it over my shoulders, even as he continues scanning the distance.

I want to tell him to keep the sweatshirt, that I’ll be fine, but something about his demeanor tells me to keep quiet. That he wouldn’t welcome a distraction right now.

So I let him lead the way and don’t even argue when he deposits me in the passenger seat of my car and walks around to the driver’s side. I’d had the sense he was barely tolerating my driving when we headed into Meirton, and my suspicions are confirmed by the way he easily depresses the start button, even though the first time I’d driven him home from the hospital he’d said, “That’s new.”

But he must have been paying attention, because he pushes down the brake and puts the car into drive without a hitch. We’re smoothly on the road back to my place in a matter of minutes, no navigation system required.

So he knows how to drive, too
, I think to myself.
And fight. And easily disarm a man with a gun.

My cop theory is becoming more and more prominent. Maybe even FBI. But that definitely wouldn’t explain why his fingerprints aren’t in the system.

I make a mental note to call my best friend, Sola, as soon as I can. I haven’t been exactly thrilled to tell anyone I’m embroiled in a relationship and living with a guy I’ve known less than two months. But today has made me realize just how far I’m in over my head.

And while I don’t want to call her Russian husband, Ivan, and his family of “legitimate businessmen” shady, he did make a point of giving me his card before their wedding.

“Sola considers you family,
da
? So if ever there comes a time you are needing something or you are in any kind of trouble, you will call me.”

Back then, after defying my family to get my medical degree while living three thousand miles away from them on my own, I inwardly bristled at the idea of needing anyone other than myself to solve a problem.

But I’d taken his card. And not only that, I’ve been carrying it around with me in my wallet ever since. Almost like I knew I’d need it someday.

And on the silent drive home, I consider making the call I never thought I’d make. Because if anyone has the resources to get to the bottom of John’s mystery, it’s Ivan and his powerful Russian family.

“Stay here,” John says as soon as we pull into one of the parking spaces beneath my second-floor apartment.

He gets out and takes his time coming around to my side of the car. And I don’t think it’s a southern gentleman thing. Instead, I get the feeling he’s doing an even deeper scan of the distance beyond my apartment building than he did when we left the police station.

He does eventually open the door for me, but he doesn’t relax until we’re inside my apartment.

“Nobody followed us,” he says. “That’s good.”

I open my mouth, but before I can get words out, he says, “Hold on, Doc. I know you got questions. But give me that backpack. I got something to show you that I think might answer a few of them.”

The backpack…I’d almost forgotten I still had it. But there it was, strung over my shoulder, right along with my Virkin.

I hand it to him silently, and he takes it, but hesitates before opening it, his intense gaze softening a little as he says, “No lies. That’s what I asked you for and that’s what I know you want from me. I was trying to figure out how to tell you about this at the restaurant, but them bikers showed up...”

Then he unzips the backpack and holds it wide for me to see what’s inside.

My eyes saucer even wider when I see what it is. Money. So many stacks of bills and nothing else but money nestled in a simple black backpack.

I stare at the bounty, trying but failing to process what I’m looking at. And when I finally give up and look to him for answers, his face is grimmer than I’ve ever seen it.

“There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars in there, according to the police. That’s why they kept me so long for questioning, even after they questioned me twice at the hospital. They finally let me go. But them bikers showing up at the diner is a little too coincidental, if you ask me. I’m thinking they were tipped off. I told them a few times I had to go meet you at the diner. Maybe one of those officers questioning me told those bikers exactly where I was going and what I had on me. They probably had it all planned out. The big one would distract me, while the little one stole the backpack, but that wasn’t exactly how it worked out.”

I lower my eyes back down to stare at the money. Everything he says makes complete sense, except, “Why were you carrying around this much money before your accident? And in a backpack of all places?”

He shakes his head, looking as mystified as I am. “I don’t know,” he answers. Telling me the stark truth, just like he always has since the moment we met.

But right now, even the frank truth isn’t enough to allay my fears.

“You should let me drive you to work and back on Monday,” he mumbles. “I didn’t give the police your address, and I don’t think those guys were a real threat, but I want to keep you safe, Doc.”

I have no idea what to say to that. What to say to any of this.

“Who are you?” The words tumble out of my mouth, choked and angry. I don’t realize I’m so close to hyperventilating until I’m barely able to squeeze out, “Who the hell are you?”

He immediately drops the backpack, so much money ditched like a trash bag on the floor so he can snatch me up in his arms. Hold me, comfort me, until the wave of panic begins to subside.

“I’m sorry, Doc,” he says when I finally start breathing normally again. “I know this is scary. And I’m sorry I scared you back at that diner. But I figured them guys out from the door. They weren’t old. I didn’t know either of them. But something about them felt... familiar. Like I knew what they were about, knew they’d be nothing but trouble. I was trying to keep you safe, but I made you faint instead. You don’t know how sorry I am about that. There ain’t enough apologies in the world.”

I can only shake my head into his chest, both comforted and confused by his heartfelt apology. “You moved so fast. Are you, like, a cop? Or some kind of special forces? Like Jason Bourne or something?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers into my hair. “And I can’t explain it. He pulled that gun, and it was like I went on autopilot.”

“But the things you said to him.” My stomach flips over, threatening to eject my breakfast and lunch at the thought of it. I don’t want to say it, but I find myself whispering into his chest, “I think you really would have killed that guy if he hadn’t apologized. The look in your eyes…”

“Look at me now, Doc.” He takes my face, cupping it between his cast and his hand so I have to look into his eyes, which I find shining with emotion. “All I know is I was sure they were there for the backpack and they might hurt you to get it. Then I just...I can’t explain it. If I could, believe me I would, if only to take that look off your face. But you look at me now, Doc. You believe me when I say I would have done anything to them to keep you safe, but I would
never
hurt you. Not in a million years. And that money…” His eyes dart to the backpack on the floor.

“That ain’t my money, it’s
yours
. Do whatever you want with it. Pay back your student loans, give it to the hospital, put it in the bank—I don’t care. It’s yours. I’m yours. Everything I have is yours. If you don’t believe anything else out of my mouth, believe that. Please believe that.”

It’s so crazy. But I do believe him. And I’m just about to say so, when instead of words, my earlier meals come spilling out as I throw up all over the man I unequivocally love.

M
ASON

M
ason’s
not surprised when the president of the New Rebels calls him two days short of the month deadline he gave those failed abortions.

Ironically, he calls during a board meeting about next steps now that it’s been four months since D. disappeared with the money. The burner Mason bought in West Virginia goes off just as he’s thinking of saying out loud that none of this makes any sense.

SFK has used D. for bigger sells than this one. $100K just wasn’t enough to stay in hiding for as long as he’d have to stay in hiding to avoid SFK’s wrath. Either D. was a lot more stupid than he’d ever let on, or something else was at play here. That was exactly what Mason was thinking about saying when the West Virginia burner started beeping in his jacket pocket.

“All phones are supposed to be left outside on the table,” Mason’s father, the club’s vice president, says with a hard look at his son.

“Not this one,” Mason answers, unafraid in a way only a sergeant at arms of an infamous MC can be.

Mason ignores the disapproving stares from the other board members, flips open the burner, and says, “Yeah,” as he walks out of the meeting room. He’s prepared to hear some serious begging from the New Rebels prez. Begging he plans to ignore.

But instead of begging, the prez says, “I think we found your guy. I wasn’t sure at first for a bunch of reasons. But he has the black backpack the old sarge said he gave him, and he took me and one of my guys down so quick, I’m sure it had to be him.”

Mason stops in his tracks, all plans to kill this fake motherfucker completely forgotten. “Where did you see him? When? Tell me everything you know right fucking now.”

T
he hours
after I throw up all over John are mostly a blur. But there a few moments that I’ll remember forever—perfect and clear.

His lack of upset that I’d vomited on him for one. He simply whipped me up into his arms and carried me to the bathroom.

I remember him putting my twisted curls in an ouchless ponytail holder and telling me he’d be right back. Him leaving the room, then coming back in his boxer briefs, his soiled clothes deposited somewhere unseen.

“Tell me what you need, Doc,” I remember him saying as he pressed a glass of water into my hand.

I remember how good the water tasted in my foul mouth. How I immediately felt better after the first sip.

I remember the sight of him bent down next to me, blue eyes filled with remorse.

“Not your fault,” I tell him. “It’s probably a…”

These are the moments I remember most: trailing off because my inner-doctor is throwing down a big red flag in the back of my mind.

She’s saying that other than fainting, I’ve felt fine all day. Healthy and happy. Usually you see a stomach flu coming before you throw up. Also, I have no fever or any other indicator of a viral infection. In fact, I can’t keep myself from eyeing John’s now naked torso, regretting that I’ll definitely have to sleep on the couch, which means none of the amazing sex we’ve been having every single night since he moved in four weeks ago.

I freeze. Not because of the medical implications of being so sex-crazy that I’m actually resenting a stomach flu for keeping me out of John’s arms tonight, but because of the “every single night” part.

How is that possible? My period has always been like clockwork, and my last one ended a couple of days before John moved in.

Now my stomach is rolling for a different reason. Or maybe for the same reason it’s been upset all along. What happened in Meirton. How it was so weird for someone who’d grown up in Compton, with a man who regularly bragged about his body count, to faint like that. Even weirder for someone who’d put herself through med school and managed several ER rotations without fainting once.

Then I think of that old Facebook meme, “See I knew I wasn’t a weak-ass bitch!”

But I don’t chuckle. I can’t chuckle.

And I ask John to bring me my phone.

More blurring after that. Phone calls. A ride to the hospital, where I’m assured the on-call OB will be waiting for me with an ultrasound machine.

The sac, clear as day on the monitor screen. Then the decision that has to be made.

So much happening all at once. But all I can really remember is the look on John’s face when I come out to the tiny waiting area that’s usually reserved for non-spouses waiting to hear about the arrival of their newest family members.

I remember him standing up as soon as I step foot into the room, as if he’s been staring at the door and waiting this whole time.

I remember thinking I’ve got another letter of apology to write to Shonda Rhimes now, because is there dramatic music playing in the background of my head at this moment? Yes, there is.

Until there isn’t.

Until somehow John’s closed the gap and I’m back in his arms.

Until everything goes quiet. And there’s only words. The only words I remember from the blur that was Saturday night.

“What’s going on? You all right, Doc?”

“I don’t know…the ultrasound…it said I’m pregnant.”

The expression on his face going from worried to stunned. I remember that.

Then me babbling on for a while about how it was uncommon to get pregnant on an IUD, but not impossible. One of the first things we learn in medical school. Even if a drug has a huge success rate, every doctor has to go in knowing there’s no guarantee any given patient won’t be in the remaining small percentage of people it doesn’t work for. Someone has to be one of the less than eight out of every thousand women who get pregnant while using an IUD.

John’s only answer to this explanation is to shake his head and say, “You were on birth control, but you’re pregnant. You’re pregnant with my baby?”

“Yes,” I remember answering, still in a daze. “But…but…I had them take it out.”

The way he freezes after I say that. The look of absolute horror on his face. I’m so confused until I realize, “Oh…no…I had them take the device out. So it wouldn’t hurt the baby. I’m still…” I have to stop and catch my breath before finishing the sentence, “I’m still pregnant.”

Then I wait to see what he’ll say next.