Page 2 of Ruthless Son

The crowd of men took up every available seat, and some even sat on the floor, thick veiny forearms resting on denim and leather, their stoic masks alternating between watching my interaction with the nurse and the doors of death.

But none of them made a move to leave, they sat there like stone statues without a care for the end of visiting hours. “Why aren’t you telling them to leave too?” All heads turned toward me, their eyes pinning me against the desk as the nurse’s eyes flickered with a hint of fear. I was used to seeing that emotion in A&E, it was a prominent feeling that was easily recognizable if you were used to seeing it all the time.

But I was too lost in my own self-righteousness to recognize the animosity that drifted off some of them in waves. Why were they allowed to stay but I was being told to leave? Why was I unable to see my own sister when all of these people couldn’t be immediate family of whoever they were waiting for, especially considering none of them looked even remotely similar to each other; though they were all clearly together with their matching vests and… were they brands?

Finishing my perusal, I turned back to the woman, her face pale and devoid of all emotion. “Who’s your matron or head nurse? Whatever you call them over here, can you get her?” And though framed as a question, I definitely wasn’t asking.

Her eyes flickered to the crowd behind me and back again, not reaching for the phone that sat next to her. “You’re not from around here, are ya,” she muttered, fingers tapping against the desk in a rapid movement with no rhythm.

Hair on the back of my neck stood on end, a puff of air that breathed gently against my ear. The feeling of someone behind me was only confirmed when Nurse Ratched’s eyes widened and fixed firmly on something over my shoulder.

I hadn't heard anyone get up. Brushing my long ponytail over my shoulder, I looked behind me and came face to chest with what could only be described as a barricade between me and the rest of the room. The black cotton that covered the wide chest of the man before me seemed to stretch for miles, and the leather vest that rested across his broad shoulders told tales of his life. I wasn’t stupid, I’d watched Sons of Anarchy; I was among the masses of women who cried when Opi died and had images of Jax Teller stored in my Rub Club.

Shockingly enough, I had to raise my head to look him in the eye, which was unusual for me when most men were the same height as me. It was hard getting a date and being able to wear heels which took my normal 5’10 to over 6’0; this generally had men not wanting a second date—this guy had to be at least 6’3 for me to have to crane my neck.

His sexy smirk was waiting for me when I finally reached his face, a tip of his lips on one side that had his deep-brown eyes glittering down at me.

“Finished looking, darlin’?”

His drawl was deep and honeyed, an accent that sounded nothing like the scratchy sounds of the nurse behind me.

“Do you work here?” I kept my face neutral, determined not to show him that I was slightly uncomfortable with his looming presence. Especially because his hefty size had snuck up behind me without even a rustle of fabric.

Squaring my shoulders, I looked him directly in the eyes, his smile stretching wider and his straight white teeth on display. “Do I look like I work here, sugar?”

Sugar?

“I don’t want any trouble, I just?—”

“You have the sexiest accent, where ya from?”

“Back the fuck up, Sly. The lady don’t need ya sniffing around. She’s in the hospital for a reason, you dumb son-of-a-bitch.” The new voice was deeper, rougher than the intruder into my personal space. And if I thought this twinkle-eyed playboy was tall, new guy was taller by at least an inch, and wider in build. He must have to turn sideways to get his shoulders through doorways. A gym rat if I’ve ever seen one!

Black lines crept from the neck of his grey T-shirt toward his jawline, covering most of the skin in a swirl of patterns that didn’t seem to have any direction, and matched the geometric design that covered both his arms, except for a bare patch of skin around his left bicep. The skin there looked raised, eerily similar to the other guys, dark pink scar tissue that circled the muscle of his left bicep.

Sly—that’s what new guy called him—slunk off to join his friends, perching on the plastic arm of a chair to laughter and back slaps. He didn’t seem too cut up about being told to fuck off.

“What’s your problem, princess?”

Princess? These guys loved a nickname. First I was sugar, now I’m princess! “I just wanted some information on my sister?—”

“And you thought you’d march in here giving orders.” He sneered down at me, ignoring my tight fisted grip now on the handle of my suitcase, ready to wheel it the hell out of here and get away from the gang of men watching me with eagle eyes. But his words cut into me. I’d come here for only one thing, and I was being berated for trying to find out what was happening to my sister only for every door to slam closed in my face.

My shoulders slumped and my eyes closed in defeat, shutting out the vision of the cold faces staring at me. Not one person was willing to help, despite me practically begging. Tears pricked behind my closed lids, my breath stuttering as I drew air into my lungs to try and calm myself down. How could people be so unkind? “I-I just wanted to see my sister… I’ve been traveling all day…” My throat clogged at the pain in my voice. I never got this upset, but clearly the stress and the lack of sleep was getting to me because as I spewed my tale of woe—from getting the call about Millie, rushing to get here and having no help from anyone at this damned hospital. A single tear coursed down my cheek, its trail silent yet attracting attention from everyone in the waiting room.

Shuffles of men jumping to their feet and stomping over to hustle around me drowned out my sniffles.

“Hey, man, you’re upsetting the lady, back up Rex.”

“I didn’t fucking do anything, bro,” the sneering man replied. “She just started crying.”

“I didn’t make her cry, jeez, you shoulda let me just handle the lady.” The first guy—the one who had called me sugar—elbowed his way past to stand in front of me. “I’m sorry about my brother, sugar. He's a prick.” His elbow cocked toward me, an invitation to slide my hand into the crook of it. “Come and sit with us, tell us everything, darlin’, we’ll sort out whatever you need.” His voice was cajoling, softness that belied the size of him.

Various shades of eyes watched me with curiosity and a touch of worry, I stared at his thick arm holding firm toward me, waiting patiently for me to walk toward him.

“Don’t worry, princess, we don’t bite,” Rex muttered, his bright blue eyes zoning in on my tear-stained cheeks, “and stop crying, you’re making us uncomfortable.”

A spark of anger lit a fire inside me. “Oh, I’m so sorry my tears make you uncomfortable,” I spat. “Like all of you giant-arsed men crowding me doesn’t make me uncomfortable either—but who cares about my feelings, right!”

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