Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series (13 page)

“Dominic?” I whimper. “Dominic, can you hear me?”

Using all my strength, I roll Colt off of Dominic and
frantically feel for breath, for a pulse.

“Please, please, Dominic, please still be beating.”

There it is, his pulse - faint, but present.

“Thank god,” I murmur.

But he’s unconscious. This isn’t good.

In the dark, it’s impossible to see where he’s been shot.

“Flashlight,” I remember. He had a flashlight.

I grope blindly along the dark ground, shards of glass cutting
my already bleeding hands. It takes what feels like a lifetime, but I finally
find the flashlight and switch it on, pointing it at Dominic.

He’s covered in blood and I almost vomit before reminding myself
that it might not be his; Colt bled out all over him.

Scrambling closer, I rub Dominic’s skin gently, trying to
find a wound.

“Please, baby,” I beg.

His head is ok, but there’s bad swelling on one side from
being hit. His neck is fine too. I can’t find a bullet hole in his chest, but
it feels like a rib or two are broken. Finally I find a wound in his shoulder
and one in his thigh, close to the hip.

There’s so much blood.

“Jesus, please, no,” I pray, using my hands to try to plug
the wound. I can feel his blood oozing between my fingers. “No, please god,
no.”

Like an answer to prayer, I hear the sound of salvation:
motorcycle engines just outside the Depraved Club warehouse, roaring closer
every second. It must be the Sons.

“Help!” I scream.

I can hear men’s voices, and I recognize Dirty and Charlie
Foxtrot’s shapes in the doorway. Of course Dominic would have called the club
to meet him here. Of course they would be coming, just in time.

“Over here!” I shout, desperately. “Dominic’s shot, bad!
Hurry!”

Chapter Fifteen

Harper

The clock on the wall is torturing me. I’m convinced the
second-hand is telling hours or days, not seconds. Time stopped when Dominic
went in to surgery.

Peering through the blinds, I see that darkness has fallen
outside. It’s at least midnight. In spite of the stress and the waiting my
stomach growls to remind me that I’ve had nothing to eat all day. As if I could
possibly eat.

I’ve given up fidgeting and pacing. Now, I’m draped over a
waiting room chair like a limp rag, helpless to speed up the grim march of
time. Literally all my fingernails are chewed off and I can’t feel my face from
crying.

When the door to the makeshift operating room opens I spring
up from the chair, almost afraid to find out the results.

“How is he?” I hear myself whisper.

Charlie Foxtrot, Grindhouse Gus, and Dirtbeard rise to stand
too, towering at either side of me like bodyguards.

They look almost comical here, their huge bodies too large
and too muscular to be in this tastefully decorated private practice suite. I’m
amazed Dirty’s weight didn’t snap his chair like a matchbox.

Their Sons of Lucifer colors, leather jackets, and tattoos
are a jarring juxtaposition with the fine art on the walls and the slender,
mid-century waiting room furniture. This should be the poster for a reality
show or something—motorcycle clubs meet the old money set.

The thought almost makes me laugh, but as funny as the MC
guys look here I can’t manage to smile; they are just as scared as I am, just
as pale, just as desperate for Dominic to pull through. Grindhouse Gus is
holding his bandana in his hands, twisting it anxiously.

The doctor blinks at the club-members with piercing blue
eyes full of suspicion and distrust. With a weary sigh, he pulls the mask off
his face and smoothes his moustache back in place.

“He’ll live,” the doctor announces.

There’s a collective collapse as all of us breathe deeply
for the first time in hours.

Grindhouse crosses himself, drawing a raised eyebrow from
Dirty. Charlie is nodding, his face rigid in an attempt to hide emotion. I
can’t feel my cheeks, but I’m vaguely sure they’re stretched in a smile.
Dirtbeard gives my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

“Luckily, the bullet in his shoulder passed through cleanly.
And the bullet in his thigh missed the femoral artery,” explains the doctor. “However,
that bullet did manage to lodge in the femur and cause splintering and internal
bleeding. A fasciotomy put that to rights and the bleeding has stopped, but the
wound is serious. Otherwise, he’s stable but badly beaten. Three broken ribs, a
cracked radius, and a minor concussion.”

Holy fuck.

“He’s young and in good condition,” the doctor concludes. “With
proper rest and physical therapy he should make a full recovery.”

Charlie Foxtrot drops back into his chair with a groan of
relief. “Thank god we don’t have to find a new president,” he says, trying and
failing to lighten the mood.

Dirty smacks him over the top of the head.

“Ow,” Charlie complains.

I shoot Charlie a look and get back to business, giving the
doctor a wan smile. “How long do you think his recovery will take?”

The sharp blue eyes fix on me with a flicker of disdain,
their cool intelligence both tired and irked. I feel his judgment deep, deep in
my bones.

“Oh, a few weeks,” he says. “Months, maybe. Depends on the
level of care and patient cooperation. If you’ll excuse me.”

He turns his back to me, and I gather my courage.

“Dad,” I gulp, halting him. “Can I come in with you and talk
to you, privately?”

The doctor gives me a cool, sidelong glance over his
shoulder before shrugging and walking ahead of me, propping the door open
behind him with his foot.

“Guess that’s a yes,” I mutter, following.

My father’s private practice is small, only three exam
rooms, a hall, a reception area, and a waiting room. He’s only there two days a
week, when he’s not at Moutainview Hospital or board meetings, but he still
dropped everything to open his doors and convert the place to an emergency
surgery for Dominic. He didn’t ask why we couldn’t go to the hospital: he just
did what I asked.

He answered my desperate call to help. He just saved the
life of the man I love. But he seems to be having trouble looking at me.

Reminding myself of this, I take a deep breath.

“Dad…”

“You’re covered in blood,” my father comments, his back to
me. “His?”

I don’t answer, instead pulled toward the patient’s bed. The
tiny exam room is unrecognizable to me: everything’s been sterilized and moved
around. In the middle of the room, Dominic is laying still on a hospital bed,
sleeping peacefully. His thigh is wrapped and raised, his eyes closed. A huge
bandage covers his shoulder, but his bare chest rises and falls with steady
breath.

The sight of him pricks my eyes with tears, and I can feel
my face crumpling as I brush my fingertips over his lips.

“Sit down, Harper.”

My father’s voice is soft but firm and I react habitually,
seeking to obey. There’s a steel chair in the corner and I plant myself in it,
watching while my father and his nurse continue to clean up and put the room to
rights.

Once everything’s been stripped and changed and cleaned, my
dad waves the nurse away and we are left alone. He leans against the sink,
staring at me.

For a moment, neither of us seems to know what to say.

“Doctor Augustus Rothschild Sinclair,” I manage, “Thank you.
I can never thank you enough for what you’ve just done.”

“No, I suppose not,” my father replies coldly. “But perhaps
you could favor me with an explanation: gunshot wound, gang members. Tell me
what this is about.”

“I think I’d better not,” I say.

His moustache is twitching the way it does when he
disapproves, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he rummages in the
cabinet behind his head for some supplies.

“Let’s see to those hands of yours.”

My hands—I’d forgotten about them. I hold them out for
inspection and my father removes the Band-Aids I’d slapped on, examining the
cuts I received from the glass at the Depraved Club. Without comment, he douses
them with iodine. It stings like a motherfucker.

Then he reaches for a needle and thread.

“Woah, stitches? No painkiller?” I object.

Surprising me, my dad pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the
cabinet.

“I didn’t think whiskey was approved by the American Medical
Association anymore as an anesthetic, Dad.”

He surprises me even more by taking a swig himself before
passing me the bottle. I drink, aware of his sharp gaze on me all the time.
When I set down the bottle he takes my hands in his, studying the cuts.
Something drips onto my skin, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s his
tears.

“Dad,” I whisper. “What is it?”

But far be it from a Sinclair to answer a direct question.

“Your brother told me about your confrontation the other
day,” Dad says. “The gentleman he described as your client, is that this
fellow?”

I swallow and nod. “Dominic, yes. He was my client.”

“Among other things?”

When I don’t deny it, it’s a heavy moment and I try to shift
the focus. “We settled the case yesterday, Dad. A huge success. Next, my firm
will be taking down one of the largest crime corporations on the eastern
seaboard, largely thanks to Dominic and his work.”

“Your brother mentioned this person and you have a history.”

So changing the subject didn’t work. “My brother is an
asshole. But, yes, that’s true. A history, and a future.”

The statement hangs between us while Dad makes the first stitch
in my skin.

Gritting my teeth through the pain, I can’t stop my own
tears from falling.

Dad’s eyes flicker up to my face before returning to his
work. “It doesn’t seem wise, Harper, your involvement with this type of man.
What kind of scum gets himself shot and beaten in the middle of the day, and
drags my daughter into it? It’s unforgivable.”

“Dad, he saved my life today.”

“I’ll be damned if I allow my only daughter to permit
herself to sink into an abusive situation while there’s breath in my body to
fight against it.”

At that, I jerk my hand away and hiss, “You’ve got it wrong,
Dad. Dominic is not scum! He’s brave, and just, and strong. He’s done more good—god,
you don’t even remotely know what type of person he is! You’re just like Haden,
judging people based on their bank accounts. It’s not right!”

“Harper, I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t know him, his courage, his loyalty. I love him,
Dad. I’ve loved him since I was eighteen, and now I finally get to be with him,
and I almost lose him. You don’t know how scared I was today. You have no idea.”

“Harper, let me—”

But I’m on a rampage now and can’t stop to listen. “I’m so
grateful you saved him, Dad. I am! But I’m afraid today is probably not the
end. We won our case, but there’s another case we were working on together—taking
down an international human trafficking syndicate, dangerous people. They’ll be
after him, after us. But Dominic isn’t dangerous. At least, not to me. Dominic
would never abuse me. He saved my life today, Dad. He saved me.”

My father sighs and raises his eyebrows, gently taking my
hands back and silently wrapping them with clean gauze. When he’s finished, he
holds my hands lightly in his.

“It seems to me, you’re the one that saved Dominic,” he
says.

We stare at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.
Finally, Dad’s shoulders soften. “Harper, you’re an adult. I can’t tell you
what to do with your life or force you to confide in me.”

“I know, father.”

He seems to pick his words carefully. “You don’t know how concerned
I’ve been, these last months, with everything going on in your life: the
horrible business with Danny dying, you disappearing and then showing up again
with that lawsuit out of left field, hearing from your brother about this new
man in your life.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know I’ve gone a little off the approved
Sinclair path.”

At this Dad surprises me again. “Your mother and I raised
you the way we knew how, preparing you for the kind of life we understand. But
clearly, that’s not what you want. All of this you’re doing is out of my
experience, Harper. We always wanted to protect you, to keep you safe. I still
want to protect you. But I don’t know how to protect you if you won’t tell me
what’s going on.”

Inside, I’m in turmoil. Is he really willing to loosen the
grip my family has held for generations, willing to let me choose my own way?

“Harper,” Dad says, “Tell me how to help you.”

“You mean you want to help
us
? Me, and Dominic? We’re
together, Dad.”

Dad frowns, his jaw tightening, but he nods. “Fine. Yes. I
want to help you, and…Dominic.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

I stare deep into his eyes, eyes that look so much like mine
that I melt a little. The man behind those eyes must be more like me than I
realize, must have some of the spark and passion for justice, for truth and
freedom that has burned inside me all these years, the hunger for love and
warmth and realness, the frustration with a gilded cage. He must have loved my
mother the way I love Dominic, once. He must be able to understand.

Maybe I can reach him, maybe I can make him see.

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll tell you everything, Dad. But
promise me this stays between us—and let me finish the whole story before you
say anything.”

“I promise.”

Taking a deep breath, I dare myself to trust him. I dare
myself to let my father in the biggest secret I’ve ever kept, to let him really
see his daughter for the first time.

“Well Dad, Dominic and I are in a little trouble now. And
I’m not sure what to do next. But you’ve got to know the whole story to
understand what’s going on. It actually started almost ten years ago, when you
let me go to that camp in the Adirondacks…”