Page 59 of Doc's Decision

She's settling in and he wants to check on her.

So, here I am, sitting on the back of Doc's rumbling Harley, my arms wrapped tight around his waist as the desert scenery whizzes by in a blur of ochre and burnt orange.

The wind whips my hair into a blonde tornado and the vibration of the bike thrums between my thighs in a way that makes me think of last night, when Doc did his signature move.

When his head was buried between them. God, that man eats pussy better than a woman and I’m not even kidding.

We pull into the parking lot, kicking up clouds of dust.

Doc cuts the engine and helps me off, his big hands warm on my waist even through my leather jacket.

I follow him inside, my boots clicking on the polished linoleum.

The receptionist eyes us skeptically over her bifocals as we approach the sign-in desk.

I guess we don't exactly look like the typical visitors—Doc in his cut with the Reapers Rejects emblem on the back, and me in my ripped jeans and tank top.

But she slides the clipboard over without comment. "Names and IDs please," she drones nasally.

We both fish out our licenses and scrawl our names.

Amanda Blake.

I can’t even remember the last time I wrote my legal name out.

Doc's real name still catches me off guard sometimes too—Darren Nixon.

It doesn't quite have the same ring as Doc.

The receptionist buzzes us through the security doors with a click.

"All right, she's in room 118, east wing."

Doc's jaw tightens as we walk down the antiseptic smelling hallway.

I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his.

I squeeze his hand. "Hey. You okay?"

He exhales heavily through his nose. "Yeah. It's just...hard. Seeing her like this. She still thinks I'm fucking fifteen," he grits out.

My heart pangs for him.

I can't imagine how gut-wrenching it must be, your own mother not recognizing you, frozen in time.

Forever looking at you like a ghost.

"I'm right here with you," I murmur, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. "We'll get through this together."

He glances over at me, eyes glinting emerald, and lifts my hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "I know, darlin'. And I can't tell you how much that means to me."

We reach room 118.

Doc pauses with his hand on the doorknob and draws in a deep breath, steeling himself.

Then he pushes it open. "Hey Ma. I'm here."

The room is spartanly furnished, just a hospital bed, a nightstand with a few framed photos, and an occupied wheelchair by the window.

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