by C. L. Riley
Fuck if I don’t sound like an old man, preparing to die.
I won’t admit the truth to anyone, but I feel like I’d be better off dead. And what’s left of my pride keeps me from exposing the real problem, the primary issue that prevents my return to the club and my house on its property, where I could recover just as easily by hiring home-based specialists.
The issue: my brain.
It’s not working right.
I was informed early on I had suffered a traumatic brain injury when the steel beam bashed my skull. The damage required surgery; but at the time, I brushed off any possible long-term ramifications. Now that my body is healing and I’m off all the hardcore pain meds, there is no denying my ongoing mental challenges.
I’ve discovered plenty of problems with my thinking.
I have gaps in my memory. I forget people’s names. Sometimes my words slur. Processing numbers, something I’m a wiz at, takes longer. There have been a couple of days when I couldn’t even focus to fill out a simple form.
Add on all I’ve recently learned about the man who raised me versus my real father, and I’m not up to the challenge of running a motorcycle club. At least not the way I used to.
Behind the scenes, working with Demon, is difficult enough. Sitting at the head of our table, gavel in hand, while staring down a group of disgruntled bikers, sounds downright demoralizing.
My near death experience changed me for the worse. I’m a shell of my former self.
I’m not sure how to find my way back to the confident, always-in-control man I used to be before I was wrecked by raining rubble and that damn beam.
I don’t believe I can go back, but I don’t dare share my concerns with Demon. I need him to keep doing what he’s been doing these past months for awhile longer. Long enough for me to figure out where the hell I’m headed.
Adding to the lunacy of my life, it just so happens, the care center I currently reside in is a building Caleb Mills designed—the same Caleb Mills, AKA, Pyro-the-Arsonist, who was working with Ringo, my road captain, to destroy Seal’s Cove.
Those two wanted not only to demolish this town, but also made every effort to bury Olympia Olsen’s family along with the Soul Scorchers. My club was dragged into the mess somewhere along the way and used as a scapegoat.
Had I known Ringo would end up as the primary partner-in-crime with Pyro, I would have killed him when I had the chance. But my feelings for Olympia Olsen and the horrors she endured under Ringo’s command had made me soft, clouding my judgement. I wanted Olympia to embrace her revenge and failed to deal with the situation the way I would have without her influence.
Because of my mistake, more lives were lost at the barbershop, and Bones will never walk again.
Fuck.
The Grim Reaper should have taken me when he had the chance.
At least he was able to drag Pyro and Ringo to Hell, I just fucking wish he would have gotten to them sooner. At least the timing made for a marvellous Merry Christmas. I’m pretty sure Seal’s Cove enjoyed the two men’s demise more than any other gift.
With those two finally gone, the town is slowly returning to normal, but it will never be the way it was before Pyro’s rampage. Now with Crusher sniffing around, things are bound get interesting. At some point, I’ll need to deal with him.
Boone will no doubt want in on whatever goes down with Crusher too. I don’t blame him. Crusher fucked things up with Olympia and Boone’s relationship while acting as a mole for our club, before he went AWOL.
“Boss, you spaced out.” Demon’s pacing stops.
I don’t acknowledge his observation, and as expected, he continues with his proposal, “I promise I will make sure you have the medical attention you need at the clubhouse. The guys are getting restless. They think you’ve climbed in Boone’s back pocket. If they find out you two are related—“
“But they won’t, will they? They won’t because you are the only Guardian who knows.”
Demon glances down before meeting my gaze. “What’s really going on? I’ve known you long enough to know you aren’t telling me everything. There’s more to you hanging around here than the oceanfront view. Is it Olympia Olsen? If it is, you need to move on, man. She’s with your brother.”
I shake my head and swallow my scalding reply. Pissing off Demon won’t serve my interests.
Besides, he’s wrong.
I am over Olympia.
That dream died the first time I saw her with Boone in my hospital room.
We talk all the time now, as friends only, and lately, I’ve been helping her invest money while advising her about running her start-up non-profit, Wings.
I’d been on the phone with her when Demon barged in unannounced. She’d been telling me how her ex is hooking up with one of my former club girls, Twila. We shared a good laugh over that news after wishing each other a Happy New Year.
No. Olympia Olsen isn’t the problem. My family fiasco isn’t either. It’s my inability to think straight and the fact I feel like less than a man. My sex drive has vanished along with my brain cells. From a guy whose dick used to twitch at the sight of a round ass and nice tits, to a guy who’d rather just stare out his window—I’m a failure on every front, no matter how you spin it.
I can pretend to manage life as long as I’m not in the middle of it.
Demon wants me to step out of my post-injury comfort zone and start living like I used to. He refuses to see what is right in front of him.
I am not who I used to be. I may never be.
Far more than my body was crushed under the rubble that day at Rex’s. What I suffered debilitated me both emotionally and physically, snuffing out my inner fire.
“Rowdy, come on. Tell me what’s happening here. Don’t make me call my doctor.”
His threat puts an immediate halt to my pity party. That phone call is the last thing I need right now.
Demon’s doctor is part of the Russian mafia, like the rest of his family. And I have no doubt Demon will make our agenda theirs if I don’t give him an honest explanation.
I don’t want his family interfering in my life. I contact them only when it is absolutely necessary. My health doesn’t qualify as mob business. I intend to keep it that way.
“Will you go away and leave me alone, if I tell you? Can we keep doing things the way we are for awhile longer? And, will you stop pressuring me?”
He doesn’t answer and instead gives me a puzzled look. My personality change hasn’t gone unnoticed by the giant Russian now looming over my bed. Nodding, he folds his 6”5 frame into one of the plush chairs and stares at me, waiting.
Not wanting to meet his probing gaze, I look out the window and watch a couple strolling hand-in-hand near the waves. Damn if I don’t feel a stab of envy.
What would it be like to have the loving support of a woman, one special woman? Not some whore sucking my cock, but a woman who really cared about me, regardless of my bank account balance or status as Hells Guardians’ president.
I don’t dare examine those thoughts, instead launching into an explanation for my impatient friend.
“Okay. Here’s the truth. One, my body hurts way more than I let on. Some days, even with physical therapy and medication, I can barely move my ass off this bed. If that isn’t bad enough, other days I can’t remember my doctor’s name. For a split second, I forget where I am or what happened to get me here. My vision goes blurry. I feel foggy. I’m not functioning at even half capacity. It’s like I have fucking lead in my veins and Jell-O in my brain.
“I. Need. More. Time.” My final words ring with the authority I used to wield like a weapon.
“I can live with you taking more time. On one condition. You get out of this facility and into your own place. And, you let me find a specialist who handles brain injuries and can help you recover. I’ll find a provider who will stay with you full time and speed this process up. You need to be progressing more. ”
I tilt my head back, staring at
the ceiling. His idea makes sense, and even better, it gives me the opportunity to manipulate the outcome.
Some innocent little nurse will likely become my caregiver. I will find a way to unleash my former charm and persuade her it is best for me to stay away from club duties. Maybe she can help convince Demon that running the club long distance is the only way I can function.
One medical expert to deal with will no doubt be easier, especially since the staff here is pushing so hard. They want me up and moving. I want to wallow in my guilt and stare at the waves.
Surely I can find my missing balls long enough to take charge of some caregiver if it means I can stay in Seal’s Cove. I’ve successfully managed a multi-million dollar corporation and an outlaw motorcycle club. How hard can managing one woman be, even with my brain malfunctioning?
“So?” he presses.
“Fine. You win. But make sure you hire a woman. I don’t want some man scrubbing my junk. There are still days when can’t stand in the shower long enough to get clean.”
Demon just chuckles. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
“When did you get so controlling?” I ask, half joking.
“When you put me in charge.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Good point. Now get out. It’s almost time for my New Year’s lunch.”
The meals here are mouth-watering. I sure hope my new helper cooks.
Demon grins down at me like he has a secret.
“Yes...?” I wait with impatience for whatever news he intends to drop on me next.
His reply is to spin away and stalk from my room, giving me a view of his worn leather cut, the Hells Guardian rockers proudly displayed across the back.
I used to be honored to wear our colors. Perhaps it’s time to put on my cut again. It’s definitely time to find my missing manhood. Just because I can’t think straight doesn’t make me a pussy.
“Your lunch is here, sweetie,” my favourite aide announces as she wheels in a tray loaded with what smells like turkey and all the fixings.
Sweetie?
Fuck.
If my guys could hear how these people talk to me, they’d shoot first and ask questions later.
I have turned into a major loser...a pussy after all.
It’s hard to deny the truth when I’ve got some matronly woman, tucking a napkin under my chin and talking baby talk about afternoon bath-time.
Hopefully Demon’s provider can work miracles, because I sure as hell need one.
Trina
February 12, 2016
Seattle, WA
I dart inside the nearest utility closet and let out the breath I’ve been holding.
The fire alarm I pulled blares through the building. Footsteps pound down the hall outside the door, separating me from the commotion.
Eventually Gregg, whose real name is actually Cliff, will review the security footage and see it was me who caused the current crisis.
Considering there is no fire, I have limited time to grab the file I need from his office. It helps that my employer has a very exact protocol he sticks to during fire drills. I’m counting on him not deviating from that protocol today.
“One, two, three...” I count softly before filling my lungs and releasing the air through my nose.
I crack open the door and am relieved to find the hallway now empty. Two doors down is Dr. Martin’s office.
I use the key I copied to let myself in, pressing my back against the door once it’s closed and relocked. I take another long breath, attempting to steady my nerves.
The file in question is in his desk’s hidden compartment, something I discovered when he was out of the clinic last week, skiing.
Even with my hands shaking, I make quick work of unlocking the secret drawer. I want to take the file and disappear, but I know that will send him after me sooner. So I’ll need to make copies.
Once that’s complete, I can move on to phase two—run.
I’ve wanted to run since the moment I discovered the cab company had no record of my supposed ride, let alone any dash-cam video. Instead, I stayed in Seattle, coming to work every day and performing my job with excellence, all the while, searching for something to bring my boss crashing down from his perverted pedestal.
What’s inside the file is my ticket out and Dr. Martin’s ticket in—to prison.
My car is packed, and all I have to do is pick up Scrooge from the kitty day care where I dropped him off earlier this morning.
No. Freaking. Way.
The file is gone.
Not sure what to do next, I resecure the panel and scan the office. Where the hell did he put it?
His treasured, Italian leather briefcase is on the floor between his desk and the conference table—open—something unheard of. He never leaves it unlocked.
Dropping into a crouch, I make quick work of sifting through the contents. It takes a few short seconds to determine the file isn’t inside his briefcase either.
I’m running out of options and there’s no time to linger. As much as I need the contents of that file, I need to get out of here more.
Sooner rather than later, my colleagues will be filing back into the building. But because the alarm wasn’t scheduled, they will be forced to treat it as a possible security breach, giving me just enough time to get out but not enough to search the office all over again.
Raised voices, outside the office door, put a halt to my retreat. I recognize Dr. Martin’s immediately.
“I want to know who activated that alarm, and I want to know immediately.”
“Sir, by all means, I will handle it, but right now we’re working with the fire department and assisting patients who are eager to return to their rooms. Per your policy, everyone was evacuated from the building. I need you to come outside and help us calm the more volatile patients,” William Thatcher, Brain Matters’ recently hired security chief, responds, saving my life without realizing what he’s done.
“Give me a second,” Dr. Martin protests, temporarily neglecting his patient duties.
The sound of jingling metal sends a spike of terror from my tailbone to the top of my head.
As the key slides into the lock, I leap back and slip behind one half of a thick, floor-length window curtain, praying my former obsession doesn’t decide to open them all the way. Typically he keeps the curtains parted only enough to let light in but never enough to flood the room.
Thank God I remembered to lock the door behind me.
Everyone knows he always keeps his office secured, though I wonder for the millionth time why he never upgraded his locks to match the building’s research labs. Those require a special key card to gain entrance, a couple even require thumb prints, and one uses an actual retina scan.
My guess is he didn’t believe anyone would ever be bold enough to enter his personal lair, and besides, the cameras are programmed to catch intruders daring (or stupid) enough to try.
“Fucking asshole,” he mutters, referring to William, I assume.
So much for the kind, compassionate doctor he tries to project. I know better now.
The man is a psychotic killer, a certified sociopath.
Should he find me, I’ll be next on his list, if I’m not already. I’m almost positive he knows I know, but I can’t worry about that now. I need to escape.
Struggling to regulate my breathing and avoid gasping, I work to calm my pounding heart. I swear I can hear it pumping blood through my veins. Puking is a distinct possibility.
Down bile, down. I swallow hard, forcing the bitter liquid back.
This is so not how I imagined today. I should have known things wouldn’t turn out as planned. I’ve been lucky up until now...maybe too lucky, with my research efforts.
Dr. Martin, Gregg, Cliff—whoever the hell he is, continues to mumble and complain while opening and closing filing cabinet drawers, signalling the luck I’ve relied on these past weeks has finally run out. He inadvertently has me trapped. Without William’s int
ervention, I’d be doomed for sure.
“Excuse me, Doctor. We really need to go. The fire department wants us to—“
“I’m coming!” he snaps, his search cut short, and my death sentence averted for a second time.
Two times in five minutes has to be some kind of record.
He fiddles with the desk’s hidden space before it finally locks into place, yet again. Letting out a disgruntled sigh, he marches toward the door and the waiting security chief.
Just when I think I’m home free, he hesitates.
I am certain he can somehow see my silhouette through the dark curtain.
Waiting for him to call me out, I hold my breath, becoming a statue, locked in fear’s grip.
After what feels like an eternity, there is shuffling, and then the door shuts, leaving me alone at last. I inhale sharply, allowing the fear to melt away enough I can act. I have to fight the urge to flee, because there’s no way I’m leaving without first rechecking the compartment.
This time my efforts are rewarded.
The file is back, exactly where I found it when I snuck in the first time. He even tucked it between the same folders.
Careful not to bend anything, I hurry to his personal copier and prepare to make duplicates. I’ll have more than enough evidence to put my raping, murdering employer behind bars, where he belongs. Yes!
My silent celebration is cut short, and I recoil like I’ve been shocked.
This can’t be happening.
Blank pages have replaced the file’s incriminating evidence. The sadistic photos are gone, and only the top sheet of paper has any text.
Playtime is over Number 23
It’s true. I was right. He knows I know.
With shaking hands, I back away from the copier like it’s a venomous snake and position the file exactly how I found it, and then, for a second time since entering the forbidden office, I lock the hidden compartment.
Once that’s done, and the office door is secure behind me, I make a hasty escape down the back elevator we use for deliveries and transporting equipment.
I ride it all the way to the basement level and exit through a side door that opens to a sunken stairwell. I make quick work of the four steps leading up and find myself street level, in an alleyway between buildings.
