Lost Kings MC.
Your past always catches up to you.
Grinder
I don’t like doctors.
I prefer the company of people who don’t judge and aren’t stuck up.
I like honesty.
Physical therapy isn’t quite the same as a doctor’s office visit. No one grabs my balls and asks me to cough. Or looks at my ink and gives me a suspicious eyebrow raise when I answer “no” to their “do you smoke, abuse alcohol or drugs” questions.
The moment Serena touches me, my reservations about the appointment recede.
Such soft hands. Probing, strong fingers, though. I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scream when she hits a certain spot.
For a brief moment, her body freezes. Her gaze locks on the Lost Kings tattoo on my arm. Is it fear in her eyes? Or the scorn I expected all along?
Whatever it is, it disappears.
She slips into clinical mode.
The longer she studies me, the more my muscles bunch in annoyance. Why’d I bother? Physical therapy didn’t do me any good in prison. What made me think it could help now?
Besides, this…this girl is supposed to be my therapist?
She looks like she belongs in a bikini on a Florida beach, not in shapeless pants and a preppy polo shirt with a clipboard in her hands. Is she even old enough to be a physical therapist? Or was I assigned someone’s teenaged assistant, or intern, or whatever they call ’em nowadays?
“Mr. Lock, why don’t you tell me what your goals are for physical therapy?”
God, her voice. Relaxing and calm. Every word that passes her lips is like a balm soothing my jagged nerves.
“What are you hoping to achieve from our sessions?” she adds when I don’t respond.
I flex my fingers, pretending to twist a throttle. “I’d like to be ready to ride my motorcycle by spring.”
A slight wrinkle forms between her eyes. Yeah, yeah, she probably wants to lecture me about how unsafe it is to ride. Injuries. Risk of death. Blah, blah, blah.
“As your therapist, I’m obligated to mention how dangerous riding can be.”
There it is.
I open my mouth to tell her she can shove the lecture up her pretty little ass.
“But riding’s a great way to feel alive,” she continues, closing her eyes as if she’s savoring the wind in her face. “A little motorcycle therapy always clears the mind.”
Damn, she nailed the reason I love it so much. I haven’t known a lot of women riders. Somehow, I can’t picture her commanding a big machine. “You ride?”
“Me?” Her eyebrows crawl halfway up her forehead. “Only on the back. But not in a long time.”
I can definitely picture her on the back of my bike.
Now my dick has something he’d like to add to our list of goals.
“Why spring?” she asks.
Club rules—you have to ride a minimum number of hours every year. Exceptions exist, of course. Rock would give me a pass, no doubt. He’d consider this injury related to “club business” since it happened while I was serving time for the club.
Am I going to explain that to the pretty stranger? Hell no. “Something to look forward to when the weather’s nicer.”
“Well, I can’t make any guarantees. But we’ll try.”
I like how she says we—as if she has some sort of stake in this, too, and I’m not random patient number one-oh-one on her list. “Thank you.”
She rolls my shirtsleeve down and picks up my file again.
As she studies the pages, I study her expression. Serious. Bright, inquisitive eyes—dark blue, like the night sky I’d missed so much inside.
A slight frown wrinkles her brow. Bet she got to the part about my injuries coming from a fight in prison.
Great. She’ll assume I’m some lowlife criminal and won’t want to help me. Maybe do the bare minimum like the joker I saw at the prison.
Coming here was a waste of my time.
“Hmm. I wish these were more detailed,” she murmurs.
Big surprise. Sounds like the prison therapist put as much effort into my notes as he did my therapy.
My gaze travels over her again. Fresh-faced. Doesn’t look like she bothers with makeup. Pretty Cupid-bow lips. Her long hair’s gathered in a neat, shiny ponytail. A few loose wisps frame her oval face.
Why the fuck am I hellbent on studying her like someone’s going to quiz me on my way out the door? Pretty faces are everywhere. If I need female companionship, there’s plenty of that to be found at the clubhouse.
Once I figure out where I stand with Rosie.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in right now?” she asks.
“A three.”
She scowls.
“Maybe a four.”
Besides the desire to ride once spring arrives, Wrath went to the trouble of lining up a job. I’m no freeloader. If I’m collecting a paycheck, I plan to do the work. And to do the work, I’ll need this shoulder to be functional.