Page 5 of Jasper
He pauses for a moment and adds, “I would also remind you that you waited almost a year for an appointment with our clinic. If we were to transfer the case prematurely, and something were to go wrong, it might take even longer to start the process again. Our clinic is currently booked solid for the next year and half.”
Mr. Whitmore’s hand immediately comes out to rest on his wife’s arm. “We understand. Thank you for explaining these complexities to us. Naturally, we wouldn’t want to do anything to throw our timeline off.”
His wife responds tightly, “My husband is right, of course we want to ensure the viability of this pregnancy and preserve our open slot in case anything unpredictable happens. Now, the implantation took place fourteen days ago. How often do we need to come back before the transfer can take place?”
“The blood draw taken upon arrival this morning verified the presence of the pregnancy hormone hCG. Typically, appointments are scheduled every four weeks until twenty-eight weeks, every two to three until thirty-six weeks and then every week thereafter. Since you’re eager to transfer the case to Monarch Medical, we’ll schedule two more visits. If everything’s going well, we’ll transfer the case to Dr. Krauss at the ten-week mark.”
Mrs. Whitmore opens her mouth, I guess she wants to argue for the transfer to happen at eight weeks, but her husband clamps down on her arm.
His voice is calm and professional, “That will be fine. When we started this process, we agreed that the decision would bemedically driven, not based on our emotions or eagerness to speed the process along.”
Mrs. Whitmore’s open mouth snaps shut in a heartbeat. I glance over at Mr. Whitmore, while I don’t particularly like him, at least he seems to be the voice of reason in the relationship.
We go back and forth with a few more questions and then thankfully part ways. And not a moment too soon.
Chapter 3
Jasper
Idon’t knock on the clubhouse door. Just shoulder the damn thing open like I own the place. Because one day soon, I will. Heads snap up, gaping at me like I’m some kind of swamp creature. A growl springs forth from the back of my throat, meant for no one in particular. I stalk back to the club president’s office, angrier than I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time.
My old man looks up from behind his weathered desk, and for a half-second, the lines on his face deepen. Not with concern for me so much as with worry about what is in our immediate vicinity that could mess up his strongest son this badly. He knows it has to be something pretty damn bad, ‘cause I rarely take damage at the hands of our enemies.
His eyes roam over me. He takes in the blood soaking the upper part of my jeans, the dirt smeared on my face, the torn sleeve, the limp I’m trying to hide. Yeah, I look like a fuckin’ mess and I know it.
After that, he leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “You look like roadkill,” he says bluntly. “Ain’t seen you lookin’ this bad since you first started ridin’.”
“I’m fuckin’ fine,” I growl, dropping into the chair across from him, biting back the groan that wants to claw its way out of my throat. At this point, my thigh’s on fire and blood’s soaking through the denim. It’s high on my leg. Too damn near my balls for comfort.
“What the hell happened?” he demands.
“A three-man crew ran me off the fuckin’ road, near the scenic lookout on I-80. It was some Latino MC I’ve never seen before. They rode fast, maneuvered like they knew how to handle their motorcycles, and were highly fuckin’ aggressive.”
His eyes narrow on me and his hands ball into fists. He’s waiting for the piece of information that makes this whole situation make sense.
I don’t make him wait, because our club president is not a patient man. “The cuts said Hyenas MC. Bottom rocker read Cedar Falls.”
I can feel the blood runnin’ freely down my leg, so I press my hand over it to stem the bleeding.
My old man is reaching for the intercom button almost the second I do that. “Get Stitch down here,” he says, tightly. “Right now, Rob.” He has his own private prospect that does his bidding. Always has, always will. My old man doesn’t like wastin’ time texting or calling people. He’s old school that way.
“They’re clearly not just passin’ through if they’ve got our fucking town name on the back of their cuts,” I tell him, statin’ the obvious. “They’re here to fight for our territory.”
My old man’s mouth presses into a flat line. “You sure their cuts said Cedar Falls and not Cedar Rapids or some such shit?”
“I’m sure. They were on me the minute I passed them. They boxed me in and didn’t stop until they ran me off the road. I thought they’d stop afterward to gloat or try to take my cut, but they took off.” Pausing to give him a tired grin, I add, “Of course, that might have been because I flipped one of their bikes and they had a brother needin’ medical attention.”
Snatching away my momentary glory, he shoots back, “It also might have been because they jumped into a fight without the approval of their Prez.”
I ease my leg down into a more comfortable position and keep on pressing down on the gash. “Yeah, maybe their club officers didn’t want us tipped off to their presence quite yet. If that’s the case, they fucked up badly.”
The door creaks open and in walks Stitch, our medic. He doesn’t talk or ask questions. He usually doesn’t speak unless he needs to. He sees the way I’ve got one bloody hand pushing down on my leg and kneels down beside me, unzipping the black duffel quickly and efficiently.
“Drop the jeans,” he says flatly. “I need to get to that wound.”
“Fuckin’ awesome,” I mutter, working my belt open and easing the denim down past my thigh.
My old man watches the whole thing like he can’t wait for me to get stitched up so we can get on with business. I don’t even blame him. This is some serious shit.
