Doc: Devil’s Nightmare MC Read online

  Doc: Devil’s Nightmare MC

  Lena Bourne

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Also by Lena Bourne

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Anne

  “Where were you yesterday?” he snarls in that cold, threatening voice that cuts deeper than a newly sharpened knife, hurts worse than his fist grabbing my hair, worse than the hot coffee that spilled from the mug in my hands and scorched my legs, as he pulled my head back.

  I didn’t hear him walk into the kitchen. Didn’t hear him moving in the house when I woke up. I thought he was already gone for the day when I came downstairs. Just another drop in the sea of things I’ve been wrong about.

  “I went for a walk,” I answer quietly and tonelessly. He doesn’t like it when I show defiance. That’s one mistake I don’t make anymore.

  He started showing me this evil, monstrous side of him slowly, in tiny bite-sized portions, and before I could put all the pieces together into the scary whole that is my life with him now, it was too late. I was trapped. A prisoner in my own home, with no job, no friends, and no money of my own.

  He huffs, but I didn’t need to hear that to know my answer displeased him. His fingers tighten in my hair, the pain sharp but distant. Just like everything is distant, including my soul most days, let alone the voice of the woman I used to be—fierce, independent, wild and always ready to fight for what’s right, wherever, whenever. I’m not that woman anymore. I hardly even remember being her.

  “You went for a walk?” he scoffs. “It was pouring rain all day. Who did you go and meet?”

  “No one,” I say breathlessly.

  He pulls my head back even further by my hair, bending my neck back and forcing me to look up at him. I don’t like looking at him. Don’t like the reminder of how much I once enjoyed looking into his face, into his warm eyes brown like chocolate, which are now two hard black stones. In the beginning, he’d take me on lavish vacations, dinners and romantic weekend getaways, each place we visited more glamorous and picture-perfect than the last. He’d also gift me lavish things and tell me how perfect, how smart and how beautiful I was. In the beginning, our married life together was picture-perfect too.

  Before I met him, my life was just one long string of failed relationships. So I mistook all that for love—the kind of love not everyone was lucky enough to find. The kind of love that lasts a lifetime. And I held on to that dream for a long time after he started insulting me and, eventually, hitting me. Too long. So long that I forgot who I was, lost myself in the dream that wasn’t, got swallowed up by the nightmare that was.

  Looking into his face now feels like looking down a deep black well I’m about to fall into with no chance of avoiding it. I’m already falling, down, down, down, through the darkness, dreading what must come when I hit bottom, but hoping it comes soon to end all this. The woman I used to be is less than a ghost in my mind. She’s more like a wisp of smoke. On most days, I don’t even see the monster he is. It’s just there, something to be wary of, but impossible to escape.

  “You have nothing…no one to be jealous of,” I tell him in a very quiet voice. My voice is just a wisp of smoke too.

  “I don’t believe you,” he says. “You’ve always been a conniving, dishonest woman underneath that righteous facade of yours. You better not be cheating on me. For your sake and his. And you better be home when I get back today.”

  I nod and he finally releases my hair, the pain he caused receding in a wave of tingles back into the fog and smoke that comprise my mind now. It means that I’ve disassociated mentally from my reality. I know the term, and the phenomenon, from my old life where I was an ER nurse and a champion for abused women. It doesn’t help to know it, just as it doesn’t help to acknowledge the irony of me being one of those women now, unable to fight for myself just like them. It just is. I just am. And that’s all.

  He smooths down his tie before buttoning his jacket, his movements cold and methodical, not a hint of the threat he just uttered in his benign actions. The scene is surreal, it seems like we’re just a happily married couple enjoying a cup of coffee before he has to leave for work. The fog in my mind swallows and accepts this too.

  “I mean it, Anne,” he says, the cold bite in his voice the only reminder that this isn’t a pleasant morning ritual between two people who love each other. “Don’t test me. You won’t get far if you try to run from me.”

  “I know,” I choke out as I nod. It’s not what he wanted to hear, I can read that clearly from the cold glint in his eyes. He wants to hear that I’ll never leave him, that I’ll stay with him forever. But I can’t say that, even though it’s exactly what I’m doing.

  His twisted face relaxes, as he tells me he doesn’t have time to deal with me anymore this morning, because he’s working a big case. He’s so proud of his job, of his achievements there. I wonder what his co-workers would say if they knew he got pumped up for the day by hurting his wife. Maybe they’d say nothing. People like to mind their own business. I was never like that, always ready to help anyone in trouble even when it wasn’t my place to do so. Now look at me. I can’t even help myself.

  He leaves and my whole body relaxes, slumps down like an empty sack of potatoes, or a well used sofa cushion. When he gets back, he’ll want to talk more about where I was yesterday, but first I get eight to ten hours of being free of him. Maybe he’ll even bring flowers and apologize when he returns tonight. He still does that sometimes. Rarely though. Not as often as when he first started showing me his true self.

  I told him the truth. I did go for a walk yesterday, but had to take shelter from the rain in the library, where I just sat for hours, surrounded by books and comforting silence, interrupted only by the turning of pages, muffled footsteps, and whispered conversations. I lost track of time. Hours flew by without carrying my memory along with them. It’s what sometimes happens to victims of abuse. I’ve seen it often before in others. It’s normal. I’ve grown used to it.

  It’s happening right now. I have no idea if he left the house minutes ago, or if hours have already passed. All I know is that he’s gone. I wish I could leave too. I wish I could be gone too.

  But the woman who had the strength to leave, the woman I used to be, is less than a wisp of smoke. Even if I could find the strength to run, he’d find me easily.

  My husband is an FBI Special Agent, no resource he’d need to find me is out of his reach. He can even bend the law if he wants, because he’s a lawman. He’s told me plenty of stories about how he did just that to get his arrests, so I know it’s a fact. If I try to run he will find me, and he will kill me.

  He’ll kill you eventually if you stay.

  I barely recognize the voice in my head telling me this truth, and it’s faint besides. Soon it will fade completely, just like the one telling me that he’ll never change, that the beatings and insults will only get worse if I stay, eventually did.

  I have nowhere to run.

  1

  Three months l
ater

  Anne

  “When will you be back?” I ask my husband Benji.

  He looks up sharply from the suitcase he’s packing, leaving me feeling like he had just sliced me open with something sharp. But the pain is faded as though it’s already in the past.

  “Why? Are you looking forward to me being gone?” he asks calmly, in that oozingly friendly way that’s always a complete lie with him.

  He’s never friendly. But he always sounds like he is. For a long time I believed that lie, even after I no longer had any reason to. I still find myself believing it, but that will fade too.

  I’m frozen. Paralyzed by the knowing that I triggered him, but unable to fix it. Unable to escape what’s coming. For a long time, I didn’t even want to fix it, or escape it. I just wanted it all to end. I think sometimes I triggered him on purpose, so the end would come sooner. But why did I do it today? Do I want to stay?

  “Or are you thinking of leaving too?” he asks, the friendly grin on his face widening as he walks over to me.

  He grabs the sides of my head and bangs it against the doorframe of our bedroom, my vision swimming like I’m looking at the world from underwater, pain exploding in my head as he hurts me twice more.

  How can he know?

  I don’t feel my knees colliding with the hardwood floors once he releases me, but I do know I’m on my knees. That’s where I’ve been for a very long time.

  I hear the zipper of his suitcase close, hear his feet pounding the ground as he walks back over to me.

  “I’ll see you soon, Anne,” he says. “If you don’t behave while I’m gone, then the next time, I will lock you in the basement.”

  That threat always makes me shiver, and it’s no different now. When we bought this house, the basement wasn’t finished yet, and despite promising he’ll fix it up he never did. After he showed me his true face, he often threatened to lock me in there, but he’s only done it once so far. It was after I threatened to go to his office and tell everyone what a monster he is. Once was enough. I never want to end up locked in that dingy, dark place again.

  He chuckles, probably noticing how his threat made me shiver. “Good, I see you understand.”

  He’s not even telling me not to leave, not even threatening me that I better stay or else he’ll track me down and kill me, the way he used to do for a long time after he showed me his real face. It’s because he’s certain I’ll be here when he gets back.

  He doesn’t know.

  That thought keeps me conscious after he leaves the house, even though my head feels like he split it open.

  I get up slowly, my legs shaking as I walk to the bed and sit down to wait for my vision to clear completely.

  About a month and a half ago, I finally clawed out of the fog and smoke that’s been my mind for the last three years of our marriage, and contacted a counselor I met years ago. She helped me make a plan to escape and get my life back.

  I sold all the jewelry he’s given me over the years, when apologizing and trying to make it better was still a thing in our marriage. Lucky for me, most of it was expensive. Most of that money when towards buying a used car, but I still have enough to start a modest life somewhere far away from here. The car is waiting for me in my counselor’s driveway about two miles from here, complete with a suitcase in the trunk. I packed that suitcase slowly, painstakingly, over a series of daily walks, never daring to take more than a sweater or a pair of jeans at a time from my closet at home. But it contains all the essentials I need to start fresh.

  My head’s not split as I feared, but the bump on the back of it is as big as an egg by the time I finally feel able to walk again. I’ll put some ice on it and it’ll be fine. It has to be.

  Because today I’m taking my last walk from this house to the car and then I’m driving away forever. It would be a lot easier if the bastard didn’t just give me a concussion as a parting gift, but I’ve had worse, it’ll be fine. It has to be. This is my best chance to get away. He’ll be working in California and Nevada for a couple of weeks. As I found out by listening at doors while he spoke on the phone with the office, this is the biggest case of his career. He’s investigating a very dangerous underground crime organization, which will involve undercover work and lots of radio silence.

  In other words, he’ll be very busy for awhile. Too busy to worry about where I am. He’s sure I’ll be right here, in this house, which is so perfect, yet so terrible I can’t wait for its door to close behind me for the last time.

  I can make it down to Mexico in two days if I drive all the time. If I have to do it with a concussion then so be it.

  And from Mexico I can disappear forever.

  * * *

  Doc

  Roxie is by the stove, clearing away the leftovers from dinner, while I pack some food for the weekend.

  “Do you want to take the rest of this stew?” she asks, already holding a large Tupperware container and looking at me questioningly.

  Life at Sanctuary is a lot different now that she’s taken over the running of the kitchen. It’s only fitting she did so, since she’s the MC President’s old lady. Before she came along, a host of club hoes used to get the job done in here, some better than others. Sometimes the food was excellent, at other times inedible. Sometimes the place was clean and at other times downright disgusting, not to mention unsanitary. Now that Roxie is in charge here, the food is always excellent and the kitchen is always spotless, but it’s not just the kitchen she’s in charge of now.

  She’s also lady of the manor around here, which can get annoying. The brothers and me enjoyed doing things our way, but nowadays things are more or less “her way” across the board. It only got worse after she gave birth to Cross’ son. I like Roxie very much, she’s one of the kindest and most able women I’ve ever met, but I like to do things for myself too. Like right now, when I’m packing up some food to go enjoy the peace and quiet of the woods for a couple of days.

  “Doc?” she asks in an annoyed voice, shaking the container at me.

  I shouldn’t be annoyed with her. All she’s doing is trying to be helpful and kind, but my anger is always just beneath the wafer-thin surface of my everyday thoughts. It’s been like that since my second war, and it only got worse with the third. I’ve tried and failed to get rid of that particular side-effect of being a field doctor for years, so I lost almost all hope that it’ll ever get any better. Lucky for me, I work with a bunch of gruff men now, so my own irritable nature is barely noticeable.

  “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks, Roxie,” I say and even manage to force a grin.

  “Glad to help,” she says tersely and starts ladling the stew into the container.

  I kinda want to apologize for my flash of annoyance, but there’s nothing to actually apologize for, so it’d just come across weird. Which would piss me off even more. So I just stand there, waiting for her to finish filling the plastic container, thank her again once she’s done and place it on top of the other food already in my pack, then leave the kitchen.

  “Doc, are you abandoning us to enjoy the simple life again?” Tank asks as I walk into the dining room. The sarcasm in his voice is thick and something that will never cease to piss me off, no matter how Zen I get.

  He’s sitting at a table with a couple of brothers finishing their dinner, and a few of them snigger, knowing what comes next as well as I do.

  “Yeah,” I mutter and keep on heading towards the door, wishing Tank’s not gonna pursue this conversation any further. But that’s a fool’s wish, and I knew it as such before he even opened his mouth again.

  “What I’ll never understand is why you need a cabin in the woods,” he says. “Don’t you get enough peace and quiet right here at Sanctuary…or our own private Garden of Eden, as I sometimes like to call it.”

  The guys sitting with him chuckle, even though I remember clearly that Ink, who’s sitting at his left, heard him make this same joke a couple of weeks ago, right before my last tri
p up to the cabin. I’m slowly counting to ten in my head, which is supposed to help keep my anger from rising, but I only get to three.

  “For me it’s hard to get peace and quiet in a place where I’ve had to stitch most of you up, elbow deep in blood ,at one time or another. Or where I failed to save Bear less than a month ago. He died on my table. Not sure that’s something you’d understand, though,” I snap.

  I went too far. I can see that even in Tank’s face, not just in the faces of those with him. Bear was in his fifties, an old-timer, one of the few that make it to such a ripe old age in this club, and a living example that it’s possible to survive what we do.

  “Now if there’s no more questions, I’ll head out,” I add, wait a split second and start walking again.

  A chair screeches against the floor, and Tank calls me to wait, but I don’t. He catches up to me by the front door.

  “I didn’t mean to rile you up, Doc. Seems like you’re in a fouler mood than usual.” He’s not wrong, but I manage to keep quiet instead of proving him right some more. “Bear’s death hit us all hard, especially since it was dumb and purposeless,” he says just as I’m about to walk away again, and I think this is he apologizing. I can’t be certain, because it so rarely happens. “Getting into a bar fight with a guy half his age…at his age. And over nothing at all too. If only he’d died saving some old lady in distress or something. That’d make it easier to swallow.”

  He shakes his head like he still can’t believe it happened. That makes two of us.