Prologue

 

 

 

Bellamy

 

The whooshing and pounding of my heartbeat in my ears and the faint voices surrounding me have me on high alert. The struggle to open my eyes and clear the dust from my throat has me panicking and choking. The more I cough, and my inability to open my eyes has me tossing and turning on the hard ground, rolling over in an attempt to crawl blindly to safety.

 

“Breese.” The sound of my name muffled from far away is on steady repeat.

 

In a blink of an eye, the pounding disappears, and my name being yelled burst through my eardrums causing my body to react. My eyes fly open, and the sight of the six-six adonis hovering over my face has me relaxing for a second before I realize we are in the middle of devastation. Debris and crumpled buildings surround us.

 

What was supposed to be a normal transport from one camp to another ended with our Humvee’s back tire rolling over an IED and the rest is history.

 

“Peters.” I whimper.

 

A slight smile appears as he cradles me in his strong arms and I gaze into his penetrating emerald eyes as he rushes me to a medic. With every bump, twist, and turn of his movements and the dissipation of adrenaline, the pain radiates from my head to my left thigh.

 

He sets me down underneath an awning with our medic, Sandstoe, hurriedly probing every inch of my body. When she presses on my upper thigh, I shoot up and scream out at the hellacious torture she’s causing. Timed out in my haze, I glance to the offending extremity and become dizzy. My cammies are covered in bright red and brown as my blood has seeped and began to dry.

 

I watch mesmerized as she rips open the thigh of my cammies and ties a tourniquet. She shakes her head as her stethoscope roams for a pulse in my leg and gives Peters a grim look. Before I can respond, the light leaves my eyes, and my world turns black. Not even the jerking and jostling of my body can coax me awake.

 

I wake with a gasp covered in a cold sweat and the constant tingling under the scar on my thigh tangled in the sheets. It doesn’t matter how many times I run into Lawson. It doesn’t matter if the encounters are full of passion, irritation or fright. I still dream of him every time I see him. I could pass him driving down the street, and just that glimpse of him promises a nightmare to follow.

 

The dreams change with the mood of our run in. This particular dream was brought about by seeing Lawson at the Southern Chaotic’s Clubhouse after three of the members were attacked. I’ve learned over the years what to expect. If there’s blood involved, I dream of the day I was injured. Whatever encounter is slightly similar to a moment in our history, I dream about it that night.

 

Lawson Peters is my kryptonite. He can drive my body crazy with one touch and light my temper with one word. I used to believe my granny when she’d go on and on with her words of wisdom that opposites attract, but the longer Lawson and I played our games the worse the oil separated from the vinegar. It was getting to the point that it didn’t matter how much it was shaken, it wasn’t meshing.

 

Our passion came from emotions that not once involved love. It started off as lust-filled eighteen-year-old recruits trying to survive boot camp. It turned into random run-ins when we were stationed at the same bases. Then it finalized when we were overseas in Afghanistan looking for an interruption in the mundane routine we participated in every day.

 

The day he cradled me in his arms in the sandpit six years ago was the last day I heard his voice or felt his touch. I was transported to Germany. He remained in Afghanistan. I was sent to the states for rehab. He remained in Afghanistan. I dealt with the possible devastation that I might lose my leg. He was transferred to a unit in California.

 

I learned that it didn’t matter how close I thought I was to Lawson, I’d never be more than an unchaste encounter and as time went on, I accepted that fate. I accepted that I needed someone in my life that didn’t tell me ‘I got it,’ but had lived it and understood it.

 

A year after endless physical therapy on my left leg, I could finally breathe and figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life since my military career ended. Nursing had never been on my radar until I had my stint in the VA. Watching the nurses care and assure the soldiers of their recoveries and the appreciation they gave in return to the nurses settled in my mind and the idea grew.

 

I spent the next four years learning about human anatomy, chemistry and how to puncture a vein. I spent another year getting my feet wet in the Emergency Room at Northside Hospital – Forsyth where I met Maggie or Magenta. Maggie was a force to be reckoned with at five-four and petite with her cocoa-colored hair pulled into a professional bun with one bright pink streak in the back.

 

The day I’d met Maggie had been a long and gruesome day filled with a construction worker shooting his hand with a nail gun, an intoxicated elderly woman thinking she’d entered the mall instead of the ER and a little boy who came in black and blue with an even more bruised up momma.

 

The little boy hadn’t been my patient until Maggie came storming out of the room wanting answers about all his scans. The worthless head RN, Deidra, was nowhere to be seen, so I stepped up and took over. The little boy, Simon, had multiple bruised and fractured ribs, a slight concussion and a broken arm. Instead of Deidra pushing to get the little boy comfortable and have Orthopedics check him out and cast his arm, she’d decided to go to lunch.

 

Within twenty minutes, I had Simon asleep comfortably and Dr. Andrews meticulously casting his arm bright yellow. Simon’s mother was in complete denial that her husband had abused them until Maggie started showing her pictures on her phone of battered women and children that ended with a picture of a small coffin being lowered into the ground.

 

With the go-ahead, Maggie had her sister, Mauve at the hospital with paperwork to file for divorce and the promise of a restraining order. The only stone unturned was where Simon and his mother, Tia were going to stay. It took me only a second to realize that I had my spade in my pocket and I made quick work of texting Razz and getting her to the hospital.

 

As I left the hospital that day, I wasn’t exhausted like I was most days. I was elated. I’d been a part of something much bigger than myself. I’d watched as Razz ushered Tia and Simon into her SUV with the promise of safety. I’d watched Maggie, and Mauve get shit done in a matter of minutes. I’d spent my afternoon surrounded by the most independent and fearless women I’d met since being in the Marines. I felt at home, but I, also, felt as though something was missing.

 

Hitting the unlock button on my remote with a grin on my face, I was interrupted by the sound of pipes vibrating through me. I watched as Mauve and Maggie approached me on their motorcycles, and I couldn’t help the exhilaration that thrummed through me. Not only were these bad women bitches, but they were also badass bitches who didn’t give a shit about social formalities. They wore their black and pink kuttes with pride and one of the lost pieces in me clicked.

 

Sisterhood.

 

That was the day I handed over my trust and respect to the Pretty Pinks MC.