Page 15 of Flint

“Why? I can start on the gate, and we can get this chick out of here,” Flint protests while I, for once, keep my mouth shut.

“Because I owe her a debt. She saved my woman. Even if I hate saying it, the club did shit to protect her, myself included.”

“Babe, it’s fine. I’m fine.” His lady curls around one of his arms and holds tight.

“No it ain’t, Lady. The club already owes you as it is, and we just fucked up. Again. If she wasn’t here, not sure what would have happened. The club owes you, and now the club owes her.” He turns his attention away from his woman and back to Flint, who’s a fuming angry ball of fury right now. “You want my forgiveness? See that she’s taken care of. She got amnesia? Fix it.”

“Fix it? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? General said this shit could take weeks, months even, if not years.”

“Don’t care. That’s my price. You fix her, and you fix us.”

Flint glares, but Bulldog takes it with an air of superiority. Maybe I am a kitten, because I’m licking my paws wanting to know this little backstory. Of course, I also see I’m being used here, and while the jackass is getting more tolerable, I’m not sure I want him around for long periods of time.

I raise my hand. “Um, does the crazy helpful girl who saved everyone get a say in any of this?”

“No.”

Well, at least they all agree on something. Now it’s my turn to pout.

“Fine, but I still want a Diet Coke,” I huff as I stomp—okay, limp with a boot—around the car. “Shotgun,” I yell as I get into the passenger seat.

I lean my head back and close my eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. I feel drained and oddly energized all at once. If I could get a zap of what I had earlier, I think I would feel a million times better. Maybe the good doc has some more of whatever he shot me up with last time. Got a feeling it was adrenaline, but would he give that to a brain injury patient? Better question might be if a doctor who’s also a full-fledged member of a group of bikers that are nonfriendly to anyone they consider an outsider and has no problem threatening to kill would give a damn about the side effects of something like that.

“Go away.”

Pretty proud that I didn’t jump when someone knocked on the window and just spoke to them without opening my eyes. I’m getting better at not moving my body and causing it more harm with things that startle me. Even if the ball inside my brain is bouncing around.

I sigh as the door opens and I feel the slight breeze on my face a second before I open my eyes and roll my head to the side to see who disturbed my slumber.

“What?”

“You’re in the back, sweetheart. If I ride in a car, I’m not going to take bitch seat,” my suede stalker and soon-to-be bestie says.

I pout. “But I called dibs first.”

“Don’t matter. Get in the back.”

I turn at the voice behind me and glare as Flint takes off his vest and slides into the driver’s seat.

“Fine, but let it be noted that there will be no tip for this drive. I’ll even consider giving you only a one-star review, maybe two if you stop and get me something to eat. I’m thinking burgers. Which of you is buying?”

Thankfully, the guy who refuses to be called Gator—but is because I have no idea what his real name is—helps me out of the front seat and directs me to the back before shutting my door. Then he also takes off his vest, folding it in his lap before he closes us all in.

“Why did you guys take those off?” I ask.

“You don’t let anything cover your patch. Sign of disrespect,” Gator says as our driver just grunts.

Flint might be a jackass, but at least the other guy knows some manners and can answer questions.

“Huh.”

Flint grunts again as he pulls out of the compound. “Spit it out, Kitten. You ain’t the type to just take something and say ‘huh’ without more going on in that brain of yours.”

Wow, color him observant. What the hell? I’m curious, and the only cure for it is asking.

“Okay, so what happens when a guy gets the patch like a tattoo? Does he have to wear sleeveless shirts or just go bare chest? What about if he gets it on his back? Does he put the cut on?”

“Good job on knowing the proper name for it,” Gator compliments offhandedly.

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