by Breck, A. R.
I’m not fucking proud of it.
But I’m alive. I have a strategy now. I buckle down during the day, find some place to hideout and rest. Whether it be an abandoned building, in an unused alleyway in town. Wherever it may be, I find it. I fucking hate it, to be honest, but it’s not safe to be out during the day. The closer I got to the border, the more worried I was that people were looking for me. Santiago’s men.
At night, I walk.
I’ve made it to the border. My feet hurt, my head pounds, and my chest feels like it has ten bricks sitting on top of it with a sharp pain every time I inhale.
I stare at the tall bars in front of me, all connected to make a massive wall that separates one country from the next. Scaling the wall seems impossible, but it’s my only hope. If my estimation is right, Tijuana is about forty miles west. If I hop the border and go straight north, I’ll hit Pine Valley, California. Eventually.
And I’ll be home.
With as big of breath as I can handle without curling over in pain, I toss the purse over the gate. It makes it high enough, but I didn’t arch it enough to make it over, and it falls back down, nearly cracking me in the head.
It falls to the ground with a thump. Picking it up again, I throw it even harder. This time it makes it over, falling to the ground on the other side of the fence.
One down, one to go.
I flex my grip, feeling like there’s no way in hell I’ll make it over.
I grip onto the bars of the barrier and start climbing. The moment the soles of my feet hit the bars, I slide back down to the ground.
With a sigh, I fall to the ground. I don’t have enough effort to bend down to take my shoes off.
On the ground, I roll over in the graveled, rocky terrain and grab my laces. I pull at them quickly, which much more realistically was probably slow and sluggish. I peel my shoes off and my socks that have already worn holes in them.
The sight of my feet make me gag.
Bloody and purple. My feet have developed blisters that have developed blisters. Those blisters have popped and worn down until sores grew in its place. The bottom and sides of my feet are littered with bruises, whether it’s from walking or the terrible fucking shoes, my feet are in rough shape.
I contemplate throwing them over so I can slide them back on for the rest of the way home but decide against it. I’d rather walk barefoot and develop more sores than stick my feet back into those pieces of shit.
After sitting for nearly thirty minutes, I roll over and push myself to a stand. Grabbing onto the bars yet again, I start climbing up. I wince in pain as my feet press against the bars, but there is much more grip this time. I’m slow, but I’m able to make it to the top without any more slips. Once it’s time to slide down the other side, I lose my grip and fall. My ankle twists unnaturally and I instantly know I fucked up.
My back slams against the ground, the wind knocked out of me. My head slams against a rock that makes stars flash in front of my eyes.
The oomph I let out is silent, because the pain is too much to even make noise.
At least I’m on US territory.
I would sleep here if I could, but border patrol is ruthless.
Once I gain my breath, I pick up the purse and make a run for it. One step in and I fall on my face.
My ankle is definitely broken.
Fuckkkkkkkkkkk!
I know I don’t have time to sit and wallow, so I get up again, and much slower this time, I hobble away from the border.
I’m almost home.
* * *
Fuck.
Of course, I break my ankle when I’m almost home. Which should have taken maybe three days has turned into a week. The pain in the beginning was so unbearable I had to find another abandoned building to hunker down in. The pain became so excruciating, my ankle swelled up like a fucking balloon. There was no way I could walk on it.
I should just ask someone for help. I’m in our territory now, I should be safe.
But I’m not. I’m fucking paranoid and untrusting of anyone around me. I won’t feel safe until I’m within the gates of my clubhouse and surrounded by my men.
It took days to find the abandoned building. Then I hunkered down for a few more days. I haven’t had any food since Mexico, and the tiny water bottle I found in a trash can before I made it to the border ran out the other day.
I’m seriously close to being so broke down physical that I won’t make it, but I fucking have to.
The closer I get to home, the cooler it gets. Now I wish I had the suit coat I left in the desert right in the beginning. The white shirt has worn down and feels threadbare. My bare feet freeze, and I wish I’d at least taken the socks.
I’m almost home.
Hefting myself up, I walk.
And walk.
And fucking walk some more.
Within a few days, I make it to the bottom of the mountains.
I’m home.
I’ve made it to civilization. Every time there is a car or person, I hobble off to hide.
I don’t trust anyone.
I limp up into the mountains, loving the seclusion of trees. The cloak of branches makes it easy to hide. I can breathe easier.
My ears perk up when I hear a stream. Forgetting all thoughts of cleanliness, I rush over to the source of the noise as quick as I can and fall face first into the small creek. I take large swallows, groaning as the cold water moistens my throat. I can feel myself absorbing the water quicker than I can drink it.
Once I’m full of water and drenched, I crawl out, gripping onto the roots of a nearby tree to pull myself out of the water. My ankle throbs. My stomach rolls. My mouth opens and the water I just guzzled down comes back up and onto the fresh covered snow.
“Ughh.” I groan, rolling onto my back.
A part of me wants to give up.
Call it quits.
All this fucking agony would go away if I just let myself die.
But as I close my eyes and wish death upon myself, a blonde haired, blue eyed girl shines in the shadows of my thoughts, with a small, curly, brown haired three-year-old holding her hand as she looks up at me with those pure eyes of hers.
I roll over and push myself to a stand, walk-crawling my way up the mountain.
I’m coming, Ivy.
* * *
I know where I am.
The surroundings are familiar.
I’m close.
I walk up a steep hill and see a brown house in the distance, my heart stuttering when I realize where I am.
I’m home.
I stumble, overcome with too many emotions. I want to drop here. Wait for someone to find me. But where I’m at, I’m hidden by the cluster of pine trees.
So close.
I use the trees, roots, and rocks as leverage as I pull myself up the hill. By the time I make it to the top, my foot is screaming in protest and I start coughing, a splat of blood spraying on the snow in front of me.
Shit, that hasn’t happened since Mexico.
I crawl towards the path that I’ve used many times, half crawling, and half walking towards my house. The purse weighs so much, I’ve wanted to drop it a million times.
A promise is a promise.
The pain in my chest is sharper with the cool air. It’s like my lungs are freezing, giving away and dying even as I take a breath.
I’m only steps away when my body slows down. It knows I’m almost there and is refusing to go any further.
I make it to my front step, my chest squeezing tight.
My bad foot presses on the top stair, and the pain makes my ears start to ring.
I grip onto the unfamiliar chair and try to use it as leverage.
If I can just make it to the door handle, I can get inside.
The chair moves, too light to be used as a weight.
I try one more time, pressing my hands into the snow-covered porch and push myself.
My arms give out, and my face slams onto the porch.
And I finally give in to the pain.
24
Ivy
“Aziel?” I ask, confused.
I touch the body, which is cold and the clothes are crunchy from being half-frozen. I lift the shoulder and see a face that looks so familiar and a face that looks startlingly unfamiliar.
“Aziel?!” I cry out.
It’s him, I realize. The white shirt and black dress pants are what he wore over two months ago. Around the edges of his face are traces of the face makeup we wore at the party. This is definitely him, but there are some things that are very, very wrong.
His lips are tinged blue, his slender face hollowed out and thin. His lips are peeled and cracked, blood constantly pooling within the creases. He is clearly dehydrated.
His clothes are wet, and freezing cold, all the way down to his pants. His feet have no socks, no shoes, and I realize one of his feet is bent unnaturally, a lump on the side making me think his ankle is broken.
And his feet are discolored, swollen, and freezing.
I let out a ear piercing scream, realization hitting me straight in the chest.
“Aziel!” I push into his chest, not liking the loud rattle it makes with every low breath he takes.
He’s unresponsive, but obviously still breathing.
I need help.
I run back inside, looking around for my phone when I realize I left it at the clubhouse.
Fuck!
I slide on my shoes and book it out the door, giving Aziel one last glance to make sure he’s real.
No coat, no hat, no mittens.
I need help.
I run faster than I’ve ever ran in my entire life, no thoughts or hopes running through my mind besides getting Aziel help. I don’t know what happened to him, or how he got here, but he’s in bad shape, and I don’t know how much time I have.
My legs punch the ground, my arms pumping with effort and I barely take a breath as I make my way towards the clubhouse.
He’s here.
A tear makes its way to my eyes, but I blink it away as I make it into the gate, seeing West and Cassius in the exact spot they were earlier.
I stumble onto my knees, my bare hands sliding in the snow.
“Shit, Ivy! What the hell?” West barks.
I get up, not caring about the fall or how ridiculous I look. “Aziel…” I breathe, completely out of breath.
West gets a heavy line between his eyes, sadness, and confusion in his stare.
“What, Ivy?” Cassius steps in front of West, knowing it’s almost as touchy a subject to West as it is for me.
“Aziel…” I point behind me, trying to find the words to say. “He’s…” I let out a huge cough, more people starting to come out from the mechanic’s shop and from the bar area. Haley included, with Lilah on her heel. Lilah is about to run up to me, but Haley holds her back. “Aziel… he’s here! He’s at the house! Please! Get help! An ambulance! Now!” I don’t stand around to see their expressions, I turn around, booking it back the way I came.
I run as fast as I can, and soon I hear the rumbling of motorcycles behind me. They haven’t ridden them with snow on the ground, but with what I just spilled, they probably didn’t have much choice.
Suddenly, an arm wraps around my waist and I’m hauled in front of West. Then he speeds up, riding too quickly through the snowy mountains down to the house.
We pull up quicker than I would have been running, and I see the same body lying on the porch, in the exact same position I left him.
Please don’t be dead.
Everyone jumps off, leaving me on the motorcycle to fend for myself. Lynx is the first one on the porch, pulling at his son and yanking him into his lap.
“Aziel!” Lynx slaps at his son’s cheeks. “Wake up, son! You’re home!”
Aziel doesn’t move or say a word. The only sound coming from him is that unsettling rattle in his chest.
“Something’s wrong. He needs a hospital!” I cry.
Cassius pulls up with his motorcycle. “Haley called an ambulance. They’ll be here soon.” He says as he runs up to us. “Holy shit.” He says with wide eyes.
“Did you talk to him, Ivy? Did he say anything to you?” Lynx asks, urgency in his tone.
“N-No. I just got out of the shower and heard some noises. I thought it was an animal or something. When it didn’t go away, I came to check it out and found him like this.” I point at him. “Oh God, he doesn’t look good.” I press my hands over my eyes. “Please don’t die.” I whisper.
“No, he doesn’t look good.” Pascal says. “Broken ankle, at least. Lost a bunch of weight. Looks like he’s been through the wringer.” I lift my hands off my eyes and see Pascal shaking his head. “Son of a gun survived.”
I choke on a sob. Relieved, worried, thankful, scared, are just a few of the emotions running through my head.
“What is that?” West asks, stepping over Aziel. “Is this… is this a woman’s purse?” He lifts up the destroyed bag, and I can’t help when a hint of jealousy hits me in the chest. Why would he have a woman’s purse?
He unzips it, his eyes going wide as he pulls on something. I realize it’s hair, when a head pops out of the bag.
And Santiago stares at me.
I scream, falling back and almost tripping off the porch when Jex saves me. I don’t even spare him a thank you, my eyes on the man who tormented me for years as Aziel’s voice pops in my head.
I’ll kill him, Ivy. And I’ll bring you his head.
Aziel’s words come back to me like a slap in the face. My hand goes to my mouth as a sob breaks free.
“He promised.” I cry.
“He promised what, darlin’?” Lynx asks me.
“He promised me he’d bring me Santiago’s head.” I look around at the six men standing around me, and my own man unconscious in an unknown condition. “He kept his promise.”
* * *
The constant beep, beep is all I can focus on as I sit in the sterile, white room and watch the man who hasn’t moved an inch in one week.
Not that it’s been up to him.
They put him in a medically induced coma to allow him to heel from his extensive injuries.
Broken ankle in two places.
E-coli.
Severe dehydration.
Three broken ribs.
Collapsed lung.
Pneumonia.
The list goes on and on. He had to have surgery to repair his ankle and his lung. He’s wrapped up so tightly that he looks like a mummy.
Seven days.
It’s been five days, and just an hour ago the nurse came in to stop his medication keeping him in a coma.
Now it’s a waiting game.
When asked how long, they couldn’t tell me. Maybe minutes, hours, days, could even be weeks.
So here I sit, and I wait.
The guys flood in and out of the hospital room in a constant stream, one after the next. Lynx and West are in here the most. Haley and Violet have even come by. Then I feel guilty for leaving Lilah with them, and I get up to leave.
They push me back down, saying Lilah is having fun having sleepovers with her friends every night.
So, I sit back down, and I wait.
* * *
Two more days pass. I sit, I drink water, I use the bathroom, I talk to visitors, but mostly, I watch Aziel.
The rattle is gone from his chest. His breathing is clear and finally his tube is gone.
Yet he still sleeps.
“Still nothing?” Lynx startles me from dozing on the nearby chair. He stands tall and broad in the doorway, his dark hair laying upon his shoulders. With his leather coat with their MC emblem on it, paired with a pair of jeans and biker boots, he looks menacing, even with the soft look on his face when he looks at his son.
The workers are terrified of the guys. They tremble in their bodies and in their voices. They don’t dare talk back and always are quick to do whatever they say.
�
�Nothing.” I run a hand through my blonde hair. I haven’t showered in a week.
Since the day I found him.
“He’ll wake up. He didn’t walk all the way here just to die in a fucking hospital bed.” He walks over to Aziel, checking him out from head to toe. Staring at the machine that shows the vitals. Examining everything.
“I hope so.” I whisper.
He turns to me, a stern look in his features. “Quit wallowing, Ivy. It’s my son. Who do you think he came back for? I know he didn’t travel for two months on a broken foot and collapsed lung to see my old ass.” He huffs.
I squint at him. “You’re not old.”
He rolls his eyes. “He came back for you, Ivy. Not the club, and not for his brothers. For you. Now get up. Quit wallowing. Go get some food. Maybe take a fuckin’ shower. You smell like hell.”
My cheeks pinken in irritation and embarrassment. He’s becoming more like an asshole father as the days go on. Pissing me off more and more as the days go on, too.
“I think you should stop talkin’ to my girl like that before I knock your teeth out, old man.” Come a rough voice from across the room.
Both Lynx and I look at each other with wide eyes
“Oh my God!” I cry out, rushing to the side of the bed. Aziel barely has his eyes open, his lids lowered to slits. I press my hand against his chest gently, loving the strong beating heart as it thumps against my palm. “You’re okay.” I breathe.
“You were on quite the adventure, weren’t you?”
Aziel grimaces. “Not an enjoyable one.” His voice is dry, what sounds like sand grating against his throat. I pick up my cup of water from the bedside tray, placing the straw between his lips so he can take a sip. His eyes squeeze shut as he swallows, pain apparent in his features.
“What’s wrong?” I set the cup back down.
