by Kim Jones
Saylor’s eyes are open, but they are lifeless. Her body is still jerking and she has wet herself. The movements are so violent that the only way for me to prevent her from hurting herself is to climb on top of her. My arms are holding down her arms. My legs pin her legs, and I’m fighting like hell to keep my weight off her tiny body. When I hear someone beat on the door, I order them to kick it down. When I’m not sure if they can, I wonder what the fuck I’m gonna do. Then I hear gunshots, and I’m afraid that whoever is coming in might not be who I think it is.
“Dirk!” I hear Shady scream from the kitchen and I’m so relieved I let out a sob.
“Shady! Shady, help me!” I’m screaming and my vision is fuzzy. When I blink and I feel wetness run down my cheeks, I realize I’m crying. But I’m not just crying. I’m hysterically sobbing and begging for help. I’m begging for someone to save her. I’m screaming for Shady, and I don’t know why. “Help me!” I yell, and it’s so loud and guttural it hurts my own ears and burns the back of my throat.
“Dirk.” I look over to see Shady on his knees on the bed next to me, his hand on my shoulder. “Dirk, the paramedics are here. I need you to let Saylor go so they can take care of her.” I look around the room and see two men staring at me wide eyed. I look down at Saylor, whose convulsions have diminished to erratic shakes.
I move off of her and out of the way of the paramedics, who immediately begin examining her. Shady has my phone and he is talking to someone, and giving orders to the paramedics. And I’m just standing here, thinking I’m in a bad dream.
When I hear one of the men tell the other one to get her shirt off, something inside me snaps. I’m not thinking rationally. The reasonable part of my brain is telling me that they are helping her, but the other part is telling me to kill. But, before I can get to them, I feel the darkness taking over. Suddenly, the floor is coming up to my face, and it’s the last thing I see before it completely consumes me.
—
I wake up and rub my eyes, thinking how terrible this nightmare was compared to the ones I had growing up. When I reach over to feel for Saylor, my arm hits something hard and plastic. And then my senses kick in. I smell rubbing alcohol. I hear the steady beep of monitors, and when I open my eyes, I’m in a hospital room.
I sit up, cringing at the ache in the back of my head. I look over and in the hospital bed next to me lays Saylor, who is sound asleep. And very much alive. What the fuck? I go to stand, but something pulls at me and I look down to see an IV attached to my arm. I’m wearing a hospital gown. I search the room for a clock, but can’t find one. Judging by the darkness outside the window, it’s late at night. How long have I been out?
I look back over at Saylor, and let the memory of what was not a nightmare come back to life. She was seizing. Was she okay? I was gonna kill the paramedics. Did I? Shady was there. Where was he now? I hear the door open and one of my questions is answered. Shady is here.
“Hey, man. How ya feelin’?” Shady asks, stuffing his face with chips.
“What happened?” The room begins to spin so I lay back down, hoping it will still. It does.
“Saylor had a seizure. She’s stable now.” Shady takes a seat at the end of my bed and I want him to tell me everything, but because I can’t stand smacking, I wait for him to finish eating.
“It was about eight this morning. I was on my way to the store and an ambulance passed me. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling I needed to follow it. When it headed in your direction, I called you. When you didn’t answer I knew something was wrong.” Shady swallows hard and I watch his brow furrow as he relives the moment.
“I could hear you screaming, man. Begging for help. The neighbors were trying to get the door open but it wouldn’t budge. I shot out the lock and . . .” He stops, running his hands through his hair and struggling to find the right words. “I’ve never seen you like that. It scared me.”
I think back to how I’d let panic overcome me. The feeling of helplessness is still fresh and it still fucking hurts.
“I told the paramedics not to touch you. I didn’t know what you would do. So I talked you into getting off her and then called Dr. Zi from your phone. He said for them to take her straight to the ER. When they tried to get her clothes off so they could take her vitals and hook to the port in her arm, I saw the look in your eyes. I knew you were going to do something you would regret. So, I hit you.” I stare at him, unbelieving.
“You hit me?” I ask, needing him to confirm it.
“Yeah. Maybe a little too hard, but I figured you’d done something to me to justify it.” He smirks and I reach back to feel the knot on the back of my head.
“You hit me?” I still can’t believe it. Shady packed a powerful fucking punch if it knocked me out cold.
“Well, technically, the butt of my gun hit you.”
“You motherfucker.”
“What? You think I can take your big ass down with my fist? I’m barely one ninety and that’s soaking wet.” Bastard. “Look, I took care of everything, didn’t I? I insisted that they put you two in the same room. At first, they refused, but when I told Dr. Zi that if you woke up after what you’d been through, and Saylor wasn’t there that you’d lose your shit . . . well, let’s just say he made it happen.”
I look over at Saylor again, knowing Shady is right. There’s no telling the damage I would have done. I want to thank Shady, but Dr. Zi walks in and smiles when he sees me.
“Well, Dirk. Looks like you took a pretty nasty hit to the back of the head. You want to press charges?” he asks, and I don’t hesitate.
“Yes.” The doctor laughs and takes a seat in the chair next to me. I don’t like that he’s getting so close. It tells me that what he is about to say is important.
“The treatment didn’t work, Dirk.” I just stare at him and he looks down, avoiding my gaze. “We ran an MRI on Saylor, and the seizure was caused because the tumor has grown.” I think I’m going to puke, and reach over to grab the bottle of water Shady has between his fingers.
“We’re stopping the treatment, and it will take about a week for the last of the chemo to get out of her system. After that, her hair will start growing back and the other side effects will stop too.”
Hell, that’s wonderful news. I don’t understand why he looks so upset. I know they had a lot riding on this, hoping that it would work, but I can tell by the sadness in the doctor’s eyes that this has nothing to do with the loss of funding for the new study.
“Give it to me straight, Doc. I can handle it.” And I would. I wouldn’t allow myself to panic anymore. I couldn’t. It almost cost Saylor her life the last time I did.
He looks me dead in the eye, not bothering to hide the emotion in them. “If Saylor manages to live another two months, it will be a miracle, but not one we wish for. The position of the tumor is crucial, and if it grows any more, she will lose her eyesight. If it grows beyond that, she will lose her ability to communicate verbally. And beyond that, depending on which direction it spreads, it could affect her movement, her hearing, and possibly her memory.”
The thought of Saylor not being able to see wouldn’t affect me in the least. I would still get to look at her every day. If she couldn’t see and couldn’t talk, I could still talk to her and watch her smile and laugh. If she lost her mobility, I would carry her everywhere, but if she lost her memory, I would lose her.
“So, if we don’t wish for a miracle, what do we wish for?” I’m asking for his answer because I can’t bring myself to process my own.
“Judging by the rapid growth, and her health, my best guess would be two weeks before we start to notice a decline in her health.” Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. That was all the time Saylor had left to live in her current condition. And one of those weeks, seven of those days, 113 of those hours, would be enduring the fading side effects of her last chemo treatment.
There was no positive outcome in this scenario. Either Saylor lived lo
nger and suffered more, or lived less with minimal suffering. And there was no way for us to choose.
The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder, and I meet his eyes. Pain, sorrow, and pity are there. And this time, I don’t mind it because it’s well deserved. “I’m sorry, Dirk.” He stands to leave and I can’t help but cry out to him with one more desperate question.
“Is there anything we can do?” He offers me a sad smile and a one-word answer.
“Pray.”
25
“SHADY, I NEED a minute,” I say, only moments after the doctor left me alone with my thoughts. He nods and walks out. I feel the burn in my eyes and the sob building in my throat. It’s just before escaping when I hear her sweet voice.
“You know, Samson lost his vision too.” I turn to see Saylor on her side, her hand shoved under her cheek, studying me. Apparently, the anesthetic they gave her to help her rest wore off. And it did so just in time to hear the doctor tell me her fate.
“There’s nothing to be scared of, Dirk,” she says, and despite the circumstances, she smiles, bringing light to the darkness that is clouded around me. “If I can’t see, it will heighten my other senses and I’ll be able to appreciate more about you than your good looks.”
I give her the smile she deserves, and listen as she continues to comfort me when it should be the other way around. “If I can’t talk, you’ll get to say all the things I never gave you time to say before.” I laugh and shake my head, completely amazed that she has the ability to bring me joy when all I want to feel is sorrow.
“If I can’t move, then I know you will carry me everywhere we go, and there is no place I would rather be than in your arms.” I feel my smile fade, wondering what her solution is to the other problem. When she doesn’t offer it, I ask.
“And what if you forget me?” This time, there is no smile on my face. There is no joy in my heart and there is nothing she could say to convince me that this loss has a positive outcome.
“Then you will find a way to make me fall in love with you all over again.” And just like that, I’m convinced.
—
I’m signing my discharge papers from the hospital, but leaving is the last thing I plan to do. As long as Saylor is here, I will be too. Even the minutes I’m away from her to piss, or shower, are crucial minutes I’ve lost and will never get back. With that being said, I’ve cut my showering time down to about two minutes and leave the bathroom door open when I piss.
I’ve only left her side once, and it was to visit the chapel downstairs. I prayed, cried, and begged for a miracle from God, but I asked that it be in Saylor’s favor. If he was a miracle worker, then maybe the tumor would shrink on its own and we could wake up from this bad dream. I didn’t care if getting my hopes up was a bad idea or not. I was convinced that he was gonna pull through.
When I made it back upstairs, Saylor didn’t ask where I’d been, but I suspected she already knew. Maybe it was God telling me that he was listening. Maybe Saylor was stronger than what we thought or maybe the medicine was weaker than they claimed it was. Whatever the reason, in two days’ time, Saylor’s side effects were nonexistent. When Dr. Zi came in to discuss her blood work, even he was amazed at how normal everything was.
Her red blood count was perfect. Her white even more perfect and her strength was back, as was her appetite. When she scarfed down the cheeseburger Rookie brought me for lunch, the doctor and I both watched in amazement. It was as if none of this had ever taken place.
When Dr. Zi asked if she would like to undergo another CT scan to check on the status of growth, she refused. She claimed it didn’t matter one way or another. I guess she had a point.
He then informed her that she would need to come in weekly, and before he could explain why, she cut him off and thanked him for his service and that she would keep in touch, but it would be over the phone. He didn’t argue and I found his decision very wise.
We visited the treatment center, where Saylor dropped off letters for all her fellow chemo patients. It was Tuesday, and Ralph and Hershel, who took treatments five days a week, were there to tell her good-bye in person.
The nurses promised to carry on Saylor’s legacy and celebrate the life of the patients there. Dr. Marks had insisted that all the posters be framed with a gold plaque on the bottom, labeling their name, date of birth, and date of death. This seemed to please her and I felt proud knowing that this woman, my woman, had made a difference.
Before we left, she stood in the middle of the floor while everyone watched her close her eyes, extend her arms, inhale, and smile. And unbeknownst to her, I captured the moment.
We stopped at Dairy Queen, where we both got the Peanut Buster Parfaits and Saylor ate every bit of hers.
“I see you have your appetite back,” I say, looking questioningly at her. Was it possible? I thought if you didn’t eat, your stomach shrunk. I guess in Saylor’s case, it didn’t.
“I’ve always been a big eater. You know that. That’s what I hated most about chemo, I couldn’t eat. And I was always so hungry.” I feel my face frown at the thought of Saylor going hungry all those nights. I’d never missed a meal, although she never saw me eat one. Now it made me feel guilty. Maybe that’s why she never mentioned it. “But I plan to make up for it. I hope you like big girls because I’m fixing to pack on the pounds.” This turns my frown into a laugh.
“First of all, you got a lot of eating to do if you want to be a big girl. And second, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve always had a thing for big girls.” Just the thought of Saylor with a fat ass, wide hips, curves in all the right places, and tits that bulge out the top of her shirt has me nearly coming in my jeans.
“You know, there is a lot I don’t know about you,” she says, the mischievous smile on her face making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Ask me anything.” Hopefully, she would keep it G-rated.
“What is your last name?” Her question catches me completely off guard—more from the fact that she doesn’t know it.
“Dixon.”
“Dirk Dixon. I like it,” she says, letting the name roll off her tongue again and again. In the MC, I was just Dirk. I never had a reason to use my last name. And when I did have to use one, it usually wasn’t mine.
“If you weren’t a Nomad, what would you be?” Nothing, I’m sure. Talk of the MC and my position in it is not something I want on my mind right now, so I give her an answer that is sure to avert her attention.
“A priest.” She bursts out laughing, and it’s a stomach-holding, eye-watering, lose-your-breath kind of laugh that has me taking a mental picture. It’s a look I never want to forget.
“Okay, one more and you have to be honest.” I agree, and wait for her to finish laughing. “Who was your first?” That one was easy and one I would never forget.
“Her name was Harper Sloan. I was sixteen and she was thirty. Her dream was to fuck on the back of a bike and I helped her fulfill it. You should thank her; she taught me everything I know.” I wink at Saylor and she smiles at me.
“Maybe I will. Do you know where I can find her?”
“She lives in Georgia. Last I heard she was stripping at Magic City.” I watch her fidget a minute and then ask the typical question all women ask when you talk about previous lovers.
“Was she better than me?” Any other time I would lie, but this is Saylor, so I don’t have to. I grab her hand and kiss the back of it, then tell her the words I know she is expecting to hear.
“Nobody is better than you.” And it’s the fucking truth.
—
“I want to go home” are the words I woke to the next morning.
“Okay,” I tell her simply. There is no place I’d rather be than in Jackpot with her. Home. “I’ll call Shady and get him to book us a flight.”
“What about our car?”
“We’ll buy another one.” She rolls her eyes at me and sits up, reaching to smooth out her long hair that isn’
t there anymore. I noticed she did this often. I guess old habits are hard to break.
“There isn’t anything here I want to take with me. I just want to go.” I know she wants to go home, but I can hear the sadness in her voice as she looks around the place that, until recently, has been her home. “I’ve been here for six years and the only happy memories I have here are with you, or have been made since I started treatment. Donnawayne and Jeffery always insisted I go to their place. It’s a lot nicer.” Silence fills the room and I know if I don’t say something, she is likely to fall apart.
“I know this place in Jackpot, Nevada. It’s beautiful. Like the woman who lives there. And the only happy memories I have of it are with her.” She looks at me over her shoulder and smiles.
“Will you take me there?” she asks, that playfulness I’ve missed is back, and it’s promising. I don’t answer her, I just reach over and grab my phone from the couch.
“Shady, we want to go home.”
26
WE FLEW FIRST class, surprise to Saylor, but not to me. I expected nothing less from Shady. When he picked us up, it didn’t surprise me either. But the bike waiting did.
“I heard through the grapevine that someone wanted to ride.” Saylor squeals next to me and throws her arms around Shady’s neck. I glare at him when he returns the hug, and he gives me the finger.
It’s cold here, in the thirties. But I can’t deny Saylor something that makes her so happy. Shady hands her a bag and smiles. “A gift from Sinner’s Creed.” She squats down, opening the duffel and rummaging through the bag full of leathers and boots to keep her warm. I don’t know how they got her sizes, but I’m sure Shady had Donnawayne or Jeffery’s number laying around somewhere for times like this.
“I got you something too,” he says to me, and I follow him to an SUV parked behind the bike. A Prospect sits inside and offers me a nod. I give him a salute, then turn to see Shady holding a leather vest in his hand. “We thought you might like to have this.” My own cut is in the backpack on my shoulder. It goes everywhere I do. But this vest is too small so I know it’s not a replica of mine, just in case I didn’t have it. And where the triangle-shaped creed symbol with the openmouthed, fire-breathing skull was stitched on my cut, this was replaced with PROPERTY OF SINNER’S CREED NATIONAL DIRK.
