Opal (Rugged Skulls MC Book 2) Read online

  Copyright - Copyright© 2020 by Amy Davies

  Editor- Stephanie Farrant

  Proof-reader – Heather Woodman

  Cover design – Designs by Dana

  Formatting by – Jessica Ames

  Photographer - Eric McKinney

  Cover model - Mark Somsky

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced without express written permission from the author. This book is the work of fiction, and the product of the authors imagination and used in a fictional manner. Any similarities to any real-life event or person, dead or alive is pure coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Opal

  2. Jodie

  3. Opal

  4. Jodie

  5. Opal

  6. Jodie

  7. Opal

  8. Jodie

  9. Opal

  10. Jodie

  11. Jodie

  12. Opal

  13. Jodie

  14. Opal

  15. Jodie

  16. Opal

  17. Jodie

  18. Opal

  19. Jodie

  20. Opal

  21. Jodie

  22. Jodie

  23. Opal

  24. Jodie

  25. Opal

  26. Opal

  27. Jodie

  28. Opal

  29. Jodie

  30. Opal

  31. Jodie

  32. Opal

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Amy Davies

  About the Author

  One

  Opal

  Lights flash behind my eyelids and my head pounds like a fucking bass guitar. The annoying fucking beeping noise isn’t helping. The light hurts my eyes as I rapidly blink a few times, but I push through, wanting to know what the hell I did last night to warrant this kind of hangover.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I try to think of what happened last night. Lifting my hands to my face, I’m stopped by something tugging one back. What the hell?

  “Oh hey, brother. Stay calm, yeah. Let me get a nurse,” a voice says. In my groggy state, the voice sounds distorted.

  Blinking again, my vision becomes clearer and I take in the room. Pale green walls, a huge window to my left, TV on the wall. Looking above my head, I see machines and an IV drip, the solution travelling from the bag to my hand. What the hell happened?

  “Well, hello Mr. Bryant. Nice to see you awake. How are you feeling?” an older lady dressed as a nurse says as she sidles up to the side of my bed.

  She looks over the machines and checks the IV bag, before bringing her attention back to me. She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer.

  “What happened?” I look from her to Magnum, who is standing at the end of the bed, gripping the frame. He looks pissed but concerned.

  “You were run off the road, brother. You said you wanted to go for a ride, go check out a property, something for the club,” he explains. I drop my gaze to his hands, which are still wrapped around the end of the bed, and see his knuckles turning white with anger.

  The memory comes back to me. We were looking at transforming the club into a more legit business, and Risky was looking for a property to start her animal foster center. While on a drive one day, I saw a potential property and an idea came to me, but I wanted to check it out further. Estelle, my estate agent, was meeting me there.

  Fuck, I hope she heard about what happened, and that she keeps the property for me.

  “Do we know who?” I ask him. With a nod, he gives nothing away.

  “Okay, Stefan, can you tell me how you are feeling? I need to get the doctor to come and take a look at you.” I bring my gaze back to the nurse.

  “I ache and my leg hurts like hell. What’s my injuries?” I ask her, then bring my eyes back to my President.

  “You have a concussion and have been out of it for two days. You sprained your left wrist and broke your ankle, which needed surgery to have a pin put in it, but with some physio you should get back on the bike in a few months,” Magnum tells me, and my anger builds. The fucker who did this will fucking pay.

  “What’s your pain level at, Stefan?” It sounds fucking weird to hear the nurse using my government name. I have been Opal for years now. Tearing my eyes away from Magnum, I look at her and give her the answer she needs.

  “About a seven. But I don’t want the heavy painkillers in that.” I jerk my chin to the IV. With a nod, she turns and looks over my chart before exiting the room. As soon as the door closes behind her, I snap my head in the direction of Magnum, who is breathing heavily and looking like he wants to murder someone. Very slowly.

  “Who?” Like I really need to fucking ask. The motherfucking cunt will be six feet under when I get my hands on him.

  “Omen,” is all he says. The machine beeps above me, registering my blood pressure rising. I’m usually the calm member of the club. I keep my head in the game and think rationally.

  “Fucker. He needs to be put to ground, brother,” I grind out, hissing when pain shoots up my calf from my ankle. It’s propped up on a bunch of pillows—I would imagine to help with the swelling and circulation.

  “He will be, man. I can guarantee that. His time will come, believe me. Now for the worst part, brother,” Magnum spits, his face a mask of fury. His lips are thinned, pressed together tightly, his nostrils are flaring, and his shoulders are bunched up. It never crossed my mind until now. My baby.

  “Oh fuck, give it to me. How bad is she?” I scrub my uninjured hand over my face. With my eyes closed I hear a faint chuckle coming from Magnum.

  “All the left side is fucked, and it’s scratched up to shit. Needs damage control, brother. Slide and Sarge have it hooked up in the garage and will get it up and running, purring like a bitch in heat for you, for when you are ready to ride again,” he tells me, smiling. I nod but don’t say anything, hating the fact that my baby, my 2008 Dyna Street Bob, is mangled and needs as much repair as I do.

  Omen will pay with his fucking life for taking me out and hurting my bike. You don’t touch a man’s bike. You be a fucking man and fight him face to face, not take the chicken shit route and run him and his bike off the road.

  “Any clue—” My words are cut off by a very lively Risky storming into the room. She looks good considering what happened to her. She is a fighter, a tough chick, I can tell you that. She took so much from the prick, Hancock, he is lucky that he’s dead.

  All her bruises have faded, and her cuts have healed, leaving behind some faint scars that I know she wears with pride; proof that she survived him. Her rose-gold hair is piled up on top of her head, there’s not a lick of makeup in sight, and she still looks beautiful. My president is a lucky fucker. He did good calling dibs on her.

  “Oh good, you’re awake. Thanks for the update, fuckface,” she snipes at Magnum, which only causes him to smirk at her and pull her against his body.

  “You running that mouth again, baby?” he says into her neck. A pang of the big old green-eyed monster hits me square in the chest.

  I love that Magnum pulled his head out of his ass and claimed Kara. I had to hear him piss and moan about wanting her but not being able to touch her for years because he wanted to sow his oats before he settled down, then one day she was sent to our club and boom, the fucker went down.

  I want that.

  I can charm the panties off any woman, and believe me, I did, but over the years I have pulled back, only fucking a Reg when the itch got too much to bear. Dezi has been my go-to Reg, but even having her from time to time is weighing on me. I want more, and she isn’t it. Even though I can see in her eyes that she wants more from me.

  “So, when are you
busting out of this joint?” Risky’s voice brings me back from my thoughts and into the room. She sets a bag down on the table next to the bed and starts pulling out random boxes of food.

  “You feeding an army there, Risk?” I nod to the food. She smiles sweetly at me and goes to speak but the doc walks into the room.

  He glances at Magnum and Risky, checking out their cuts, and doesn’t seem fazed that they are in an MC. Risky wears that cut with pride every day and has done since Magnum gave it to her, that and her skull necklace.

  One can only hope that I get to give a woman my club patch and necklace, which seems to be an additional factor when becoming an old lady now.

  “Good afternoon Mr. Bryant, I’m Doctor Coast. It was good to hear that you decided to join us. How are you feeling?” he asks while looking over my chart.

  “I’m good. Aching, my foot is sore, but it is what it is. When can I get out of here?” is my reply.

  “Let me take a look at your ankle and we can go from there, okay?” I nod and he gets to examining my ankle, where they needed to place a pin to stabilize it. It’s still swollen, looking red, with a layer of yellow from the iodine.

  I hiss when he touches a sore part, but he keeps looking it over, touching my toes, checking for blood flow. He talks to the nurse, and she notes things down before he brings his attention back to me.

  “How’s the head? You suffered from a concussion and you were unconscious for two days. The one good thing was that you were able to breathe on your own.”

  “Head is banging, and my neck is sore, but I’ve had concussions before, so I know what to look out for, so do my brothers. When can I leave?” I ask again. I want out of here. I want to be able to relax in my own damn bed.

  The doctor looks at Magnum and Risky, causing Magnum to growl when the doc’s gaze stays on Kara a little too long for his liking. I chuckle, shaking my head, then moan as dizziness takes over.

  “Mr. Bryant, are you okay?” the nurse says, rushing to my side. Closing my eyes, I take deep breaths, slowly letting the air out of my lungs until the nausea eases.

  “I’m good. I shouldn’t have shaken my head like that,” I tell her with a smile I know makes the ladies weak at the knees, no matter their age.

  “Oh, well okay. Take it easy then.” I give her a small nod and don’t get dizzy again, thank fuck. Having a concussion is no joke. It can cause so much shit and a lot of people don’t take it seriously.

  “I’d like to keep you in for one more night, maybe two. We’ll see how you are looking tomorrow. I am very happy with how the ankle is looking and you seem alert. We need to make sure that you have help at home. You will need someone with you at all times.”

  “He will have round the clock care, doctor,” Risky pipes in, giving the doc a sugary smile and risking her ass being spanked later, going by the look on Magnum’s face.

  I bite my lip to stop the laugh that is trying so fucking hard to escape. She loves to push his buttons, risking her perky ass in the process. He has spanked her in front of us before now because she did some shit that he told her not to.

  “Well—well that’s good. He needs it. Take care, Mr. Bryant. I will see you tomorrow for rounds.” With that, he exits, taking the nurse with him.

  Risky yelps, then laughs when Magnum pulls her back against his body. He wraps his arms around her waist, holding her tight to him. The look on her face—the dreamy eyes and slack jaw—shows that she loves being there, right against him.

  “Push the buttons, baby. Run that delectable mouth of yours and see what happens. You know I have plenty of things to do with your mouth, and this,” he says as he runs his hand down her stomach and cups her pussy.

  These two are never shy about their sex life. Thank fuck we don’t actually fucking see it. Don’t get me wrong, over the last month I have walked in on them fucking, but damn, it is not something I want to see all the time.

  “Later, babe,” she tells him, pulling away from him. She looks at me and winks, the little minx. I know full well that she will be happy to take the punishment from Magnum later.

  We sit and chat for a few hours. Magnum brought me my cell phone and I was able to message Estelle and explain things. She was good enough to hold the three properties I want to check out.

  Estelle is a great girl. She’s looking at pushing her company to prove to her parents that she can do it on her own, even though she is pregnant. From what I hear around town, her parents are some pompous assholes and so is her baby daddy, who dumped her when she got pregnant. Her parents took the fucker’s side, blaming her for ruining his career. Cunts.

  When I’m alone, I get to thinking about how badly this could have ended for me. I am lucky as fuck that I only got the injuries that I have. I know that I’m facing some PT when I get out of here, but damn I will do whatever the fuck is needed to get me back on my bike.

  Reaching for my phone, I scroll through my old Army contacts and pull up an old buddy of mine—well, the club’s from back in the desert days. It rings three times before he answers.

  “Opal, how the fuck are you, man?” comes his gravelly voice from years of smoking.

  “I’m not too bad, Preach. Laid down my bike, in a fucking hospital, and need a PT when I get healed up. You got someone in mind?” I ask him. He coughs and gives me the information of a friend of his who just moved to town.

  I settle back onto the bed, letting the painkillers do their job, and fall into a deep sleep in which I dream about cutting Omen in the right places and watching as he slowly bleeds to his death.

  Two

  Jodie

  I take a long sip from my second coffee of the morning because I freaking need it. Moving here was a great idea, but damn it was hard. Taking my son out of his school was the hardest part, but I know he is a well-adjusted kid and will find new friends in no time.

  “Tucker, move that ass of yours, kid. I have a new patient arriving soon and I have to drive you to school,” I yell to him for the third time this morning.

  “Coming, Mom,” says my eight-year-old son.

  Tucker is my world. Everything I do, I do it for him. I did two tours as an Army Medic before I found out I was pregnant. That’s when I decided to stay stateside and help injured soldiers. During that time, I found that I loved the personal training side of it.

  So, I did the relevant courses to help me with that side of my new career choice and here I am. I discovered that most soldiers don’t want to be seen as weak, so I saw a lot of soldiers in private and away from the main hospital. But the room I used was really small, and then my ex decided to cause me some trouble, so Tucker and I moved here.

  In the long run it was a better choice, because now I have the space out back to see more soldiers in private. They can relax and heal without extra eyes on them, watching their every move. I even have a room set up so they can nap if they are too drained to leave straight after their session. I was lucky enough that the house came with a pool, which is perfect for water therapy.

  My ex-husband wasn’t happy that we moved, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He is a part-time father to Tucker, so I didn’t even inform him of the move until he stumbled upon us packing up the truck. Some may say I am a bad mother for taking a son away from his father, but once you know Roy, you will know why I did what I did.

  His father is a total d-bag. He didn’t want to be a father in the beginning, but when Tuck turned five, he decided that he wanted to be in his son’s life, coincidently after the baby period was gone.

  He now sees Tucker whenever he wants, which is fine with me because a kid should know their father, even if it is for short periods of time. It also shows Tucker the type of man I don’t want him to be. Roy cancels all the time, but when he does actually bother to turn up, he does things with Tucker that he loves. And Tuck is at the age where he forgives him no matter what. One day, however, he will not, and Roy will be out of the picture.

  “I’m here,” he says, running into the livi
ng room of our new house. It’s larger than we need, but it has an old guest house out the back which I have turned into a private therapy room for my patients.

  “Come on, eat up. I need to run you to school and get back in time for my appointment,” I say, pushing his breakfast toward him. He digs in with gusto. My boy loves his food.

  I watch as he stuffs the food into his mouth, not like a savage but like a hungry eight-year-old. He likes his food, just like his uncle. I smile when I think of my brother, Archie. He is still in the Army, a sniper, and I am very proud of him.

  “Love this, Mom,” Tuck says around a mouthful of eggs. I smile at him, sipping my coffee.

  “Good,” I reply. “Are you looking forward to the game this week?”

  “Yeah, I mean it could be good. I just hope Coach plays me and Davy doesn’t throw a tantrum again.” He shrugs.

  Tucker plays basketball. He is a point guard. He is damned tall for his age, which he got from his dad. Roy is six-foot-four and built like a line-backer. I fell for his handsome charm many years ago, as well as his swagger. He had it all. He played football in college and wanted to go pro but blew out his knee, so he decided to coach instead. Let’s just say that he wasn’t impressed when Tucker became interested in basketball.

  “That boy needs to learn that the team winning is what counts, not how much his daddy donates to the school so he gets more court time,” I tell him, ruffling his surfer looking hair.

  A thing Tucker took from his dad, along with his need to play sports, surf and eat whatever food he sees.