“And if he dies?” Snatcher asks, turning to stare at the man whose place he’d taken. “You know there’s a good chance Drummer will take away our charter if Stormy doesn’t come back. He doesn’t believe that with all our technical skills we can’t find him.”
Pip stares, his eyes narrowing. “Just asking for some time, Prez.” There’s no irony in the way he gives Snatcher the title. “Fuck knows where Stormy’s been or what he’s been up to, but if he’s bringing trouble on the club, it will buy us time to decide how to deal with it.”
Time’s running out for Snatcher to make a decision. On my part, I think coming clean is best—send Stormy to the hospital, then contact Drummer and tell him he’s come back. But Pip’s spent his life shrouded in the shadows. Mistrust and suspicion taints the air that he breathes, and he still holds sway with the prez.
Snatcher heaves a reluctant sigh. “We’ll play it your way for now, Pip.”
An engine cuts out next to us and the siren is switched off. As brothers step back, clearing the way to the injured man, we let the paramedics do their work.
“I’ve got a weak pulse,” one says.
“He’s bradycardic.”
I could have told you that.
The first one gets a line in and starts a drip going. “Let’s load him up.” His eyes take in all us bystanders. “I’m not sure we can save him, but we’ll get him in fast.”
“We’ll follow you. You taking him to Memorial?”
The paramedic confirms to Snatcher that they are. Once the doors of the ambulance close, the sirens restart, and it disappears away from the clubhouse.
Christ. I lean into Road. If we were ever to see Stormy again, I’d imagined him coming back, striding in nonchalantly in his arrogant way. He’d have taken his punishment like a man. I had personal experience that he wasn’t afraid of pain. I was convinced he’d have walked back in under his own steam. Or not, in which case we’d have never seen him again.
What I didn’t dream of was seeing him back like this, a man so close to death it’s hard to see how he manages to keep breathing.
I don’t know what to think or how to feel. From the looks around me, I’m not the only one. He’s one of our own, but he’s not. He chose to leave us, leave his precious cut behind. It’s he who’d abandoned us. But as Snatcher steps toward his bike, something draws us all to mount up as well and to follow to where Stormy’s been taken.
Maybe it’s just because we live on information and data, and right now, we’ve got none. The burning questions are why he came back in the way that he has, and who has beaten him? On my part, I want him to live so that I can get answers. Once I know, I’ll happily kill him myself.
Thor, as VP, rides beside Snatcher. As enforcer, I take my place right behind them and alongside Preacher. The other brothers sort themselves out with Road, as road captain, taking his place at the end of the column.
When we arrive, we pull up and park, taking over half a dozen parking slots.
It’s a Thursday, but the emergency room is busy. Thor tilts his head toward Prez. When he gets a chin lift in return, he takes the lead. I watch him disappear through the glass doors and step up to the reception desk. After a moment, he comes back.
“He made it here, still breathing. They’re working on him now. There’s a family room they said we could use.”
As we walk in I glance around noticing that quite a few chairs have been quickly vacated, with injured people and their friends shifting themselves up to make space, everyone eyeing us suspiciously. I’m not surprised, we’re all wearing our cuts, and no one wants to mess with the Satan’s Devils. I almost hear the collective sigh of relief as we’re directed to the room the receptionist had mentioned.
“They’re not going to tell us shit,” Duty points out. “We’re not fuckin’ relatives.”
“He hasn’t got any.” Friends and relatives were the first people we’d checked out when trying to locate him. It had been a dead end. Stormy, it seemed, had none of either.
“Er…” Thor shifts guiltily with a sideways glance toward me. “He has.”
Honor takes a seat and stretches out his long legs. “So who’s playing his brother. Or is Pip gonna be his dad?”
“Neither.” Thor gives a quick grin. “I told them Swift’s his wife.”
“Jeez.” I roll my eyes. “Go for the fuckin’ obvious, why don’t you?” I might not have a dick, but I’m a brother just like any one of them.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have amnesia,” Piston snorts. When curious eyes go to him, he elaborates, “If he has and he’s told Swift’s his woman, he might want to make good on that.”
“He’ll be fuckin’ dead for certain if he puts his hands near her,” Road growls, a possessive arm wrapping around me. I place my hand onto my man’s chest. When he looks down, I just level a stare at him, making him hastily backtrack. “Or Swift will just take care of him herself.”
“You bet, lover,” I say softly.
The door to the room opens. Snatcher, who’d been waiting outside for Pip to park his cage, now enters with him. Prez takes a deep breath, then asks, “He still in the land of the living?”
“For now,” his VP tells him.
The next few minutes are taken up with different conversations, all trying to make sense of what’s happened tonight. It’s futile as we go around in circles. All anyone knows is that Stormy appeared out of nowhere and crashed into the front of the clubhouse.
“Well, at least he’s back,” Pip says quietly.
“It will take the heat off, that’s for sure, when I update Drummer.” Prez seems uncertain whether we’re taking the correct action by not coming clean immediately.
Pip shrugs. “And who’s to say he’s not been beaten by another chapter?”
Pip had been our prez for ten years, though has shit going against him that prevents him legitimately wearing a Satan’s Devils’ cut. Not in our eyes, but in the view of the other chapters. The regulations are strict—if a member can’t ride, he has to turn in his patch. We’d known that, of course, which was why Snatcher had always been the outward face of the Utah club, something Drummer had seen as betrayal and another reason to mistrust us. One thing though, Pip should find that easy to understand, as he himself doesn’t trust easily. He doesn’t even trust the other Satan’s Devils chapters.
“If he’s dead, it won’t matter,” Thor says reasonably. “If he lives, well, we’ll be able to find shit out. Fuck it…” He pauses and looks around at everyone. “He may have left behind his cut, but he’s ours to punish, it’s up to no one else. I’m kind of with Pip here.”
It’s a difficult call. We’re already in enough trouble with the mother chapter. But what if Pip’s right, and another Satan’s Devil took our retribution? Glancing around, it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s angry at the suggestion.
It’s my man who tries to bring the heat in the room down, getting to his feet and asking, “Anyone want a drink? Guess we’re going to have a long fuckin’ wait.”
It appears everyone does. Honor and Cowboy volunteer to go with him, returning juggling cardboard boxes containing sodas, coffees, and an assortment of sugars and creamers. No tea on offer, though. I make do with a bottle of water.
By the time the first coffee is drunk, the door again opens. This time, in steps Grinch, Goofy and Mystic—our three old-timers who live at our old clubhouse and maintain the outward face of the Satan’s Devils MC, Utah chapter.
After going through it all again, and after another round of drinks, we settle back. There are a few conversations, but most of us are lost in our heads of what the fuck has happened to Stormy, and will he survive to tell us? My mind keeps circling back to his arrival being a forewarning of trouble heading to the club. I hate the not knowing.
A few hours pass before the door opens again. This time it’s by a man wearing a stethoscope around his neck.
“Mrs Briggs?”
Road jabs me in the side.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I’d forgotten I was supposed to be Stormy’s wife and hadn’t recognised the name we’d booked him in under. I try to put a suitably concerned expression on my face. Unfortunately, tears for Stormy are beyond me. “How is he?”
The doctor eyes me as I stand, but I can’t read his face. He looks weary. “He’s alive.” He indicates the door and is presumably suggesting that I should step out into the corridor.
I indicate Thor, ready to explain I need someone with me to hear the news about my husband, but I didn’t have to worry, it seems as an almost-widow, I don’t need to explain.
He doesn’t take us far, just a few steps outside. There, he leans a hand against the wall. “I’m afraid your husband is in a bad way. Do you know what happened to him?”
“I don’t,” I admit. “He crashed into the clubhouse, that’s all I, or anyone knows.”
The doctor looks down before once again meeting my eyes. “He’s taken quite a beating, not all of it as a result of the crash. We’re still trying to assess all the internal injuries. I had to mend a tear on one of his kidneys. We think we’ve stopped the bleeding, for now, anyway. He’s got four broken ribs—one punctured his lung.” He pauses for a moment. “You say he rode his bike?”
I nod.
He shakes his head. “Impossible. Not with those injuries. There’s a contusion on his head that could have come from the crash, and the broken left femur, but not much else was caused by him coming off a motorcycle. His right radius is broken and has a fractured collarbone.” He eyes Thor, then me, as though assessing how much to say. “He wouldn’t have been able to ride.”
“Nevertheless,” I harden my voice, “he did.”
A disbelieving sigh comes. “Some of his injuries are consistent with torture. He’s got burns all over his body, a severe concussion, and one of his eardrums is ruptured.”
“Would it be easier to tell us what isn’t broken?” Thor states drily.
I shoot Thor a warning look. “Is he going to make it, Doc?” I don’t need to fake sounding anxious. Goddamn it, Stormy. You’ve got to wake up. I need answers.
“I’m trying my best.” His eyes seem to home in on Thor’s VP patch. “I’m going to need to report this.”
Thor straightens his back. “Cops won’t be interested. He’s a member of a one-percenter club.”
“Mrs Briggs?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” I tell him. “I-I just want him better.”
“Doc?”
It’s Pip who comes out of the waiting room. Taking hold of the doctor by the elbow, he leads him away to have a low conversation. Strain as I might, I can’t hear what they’re saying. A glance at Thor reveals it’s not my deafness, but that they’re speaking so low. He also looks mystified.
When the doctor comes back, he seems resigned. “While he’s alive, I won’t report this. But if he dies…”
He’ll have to report a suspicious death. Pip raises his chin at me, and I realise he’s done his best. Last thing we need is cops prying into our business.
“Mrs Briggs, all we can do is pray for now, and hope there’s nothing we’re missing. Your husband, I’m afraid, is in a very poor state. We think we’ve caught everything life-threatening, but with such a severe loss of blood, and his overall condition, a lot has to depend on his will to survive.”
“I’m his wife,” I tell the doctor, realising I’m not showing any normal emotion of a distraught partner. “But we’ve been estranged recently. I can’t tell you where he’s been or what he’s done over the past few weeks. I need you to get him well, doc, so I can kill him myself for causing me all this worry.”
As Thor sucks in air beside me, the doctor smiles. “You know, you’re not the first wife to have said that to me.” His hand lands on my shoulder and he squeezes it. Luckily, he removes it before I follow through on my impulse to break his finger. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“Can I see him?”
“He’s in ICU right now. When he’s more stabilised, hopefully.” After his parting comment, the doctor walks away.
When we return to the waiting room, Thor sums it up succinctly. “Stormy’s a fuckin’ mess. He may or may not make it. Seems like he’s got an arm and a leg that aren’t injured, and he didn’t say anything about his liver. But everything else, well it’s broken, damaged or bleeding.” He pauses, then adds, “He’s been tortured, and it didn’t just happen today.”
Stunned faces greet us. “Knew it was bad,” Bolt murmurs.
“Should have stayed and taken his fuckin’ beatdown,” Cowboy observes. “He brought this on himself.”
As the comments fly around, I cross the room and retake my seat beside Road. All I can think is Stormy can’t escape me. I’ll pray for him to come back to good health, but only so I can beat answers out of him.
If he lives, I’ll make him wish he’d died.
He almost lost us our charter. And if Snatcher doesn’t overrule Pip and inform Drummer, there’s a chance his actions still might.
2
Twelve years ago
Stormy…
“He was interested. I could tell.” My father, all but skipping on the spot, is wearing a look on his face that’s not one I can ever remember seeing before. “Well done, Son.” He slaps my back hard. “This is all I ever wanted for you, you know?” For the first time in my life, I realise my old man’s fucking proud of me. It’s just a shame I couldn’t give a damn. Too little, too late. And for the wrong fucking reason.
Around us the stands are emptying. Spectators, some elated, some with disappointed looks on their faces, depending on which team they’ve been supporting, gather their things and start leaving. A space clears in the vicinity of me and my dad.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he continues, reverting to form as his face darkens. “I haven’t given you eighteen years of my life for you to fuck this up now. You hear me, Son?”
I hear his words and understand them only too well. A blind man would be hard pushed to miss the way his body has started to vibrate, or that his hands are fisted at his sides. It’s been a while now since he’d used those fists on my face, my back, my ribs, hell, any part of my body I was fool enough to allow within range. But he won’t hit me today, or for the rest of the time I’m living under his roof. If it’s done nothing else, today has given me a certain level of immunity. Even if he could still take me on, he wouldn’t want to upset my chances of getting a sports scholarship to one of the major colleges.
His dream, not mine.
He’s groomed me to be a football star every day of my miserable life, his focus trained on nothing but me being picked up to play in a major league, his belief that he’d ride on my coattails, and any money earned would be used to take him out of the trailer park and set him up for life. It was why he’d bothered to keep me around after my mom had walked out.
He’d never bothered to ask me what I wanted, had never given me a choice. As the fruit of his loins, I was his. I belonged to him. I owed him, and one day, it was assumed, I’d gladly repay the debt. Like fuck.
I’d been undersized for my age until I turned fourteen, but that hadn’t stopped him pushing me on. Other kids might have liked that their parents, or parent in my case, came to every game, hell, often turned up at practice as well. But not me. If he thought I hadn’t tried, my reward would be a backhander when I got home, often adding to the punishment a scrawny kid like me had already received on the field. Had it spurred me on? Sure, but not for the reasons he believed.
Football practice, physical training, all gave me the opportunity for the fitness regime I needed to follow my own dreams.
I’d been sixteen when I matched his six-foot-two height, and in the last couple of years I had gained two inches more. Now a match for him, the unspoken threat in my eyes triggers his sense of self-preservation and prevents him throwing so many punches at me. But then, he no longer thinks he has a need. In his mind, he’s achieved what he’d set out to.
My plan ha
s been thought out over years of lying in my small bed in the filthy trailer I’m ashamed to call home. Do I feel guilty that I’m lying to him, if only by omission, leading him on? Fuck no. A pro-football player life is not for me. But it dovetailed nicely with what I wanted for myself and had given me time to plan and to get all my ducks in a line.
So I continue to lead him on, pushing aside the thought I’d rather celebrate with my teammates who are still on a high after winning the game. “Coach has already spoken to me. The scout’s interested,” I confirm. That’s the truth, though personally I hold only fleeting pleasure in the achievement.
“This is a cause for celebration.” He slaps me between my shoulder blades again, a blow that would have sent me staggering just a few years back. Now, I don’t move, instead, I relish how he shakes out his hand.
His celebration not mine. Tonight he’ll go out, talking me up with his friends, boasting how he’s going to have a football player son. He’ll come home drunk, as he always does. Or rather, he’ll call me to bring him home. In the meantime, I’ll be expected to hang around waiting for him. I owe him, you see. Owe him for every minute of my miserable life.
A social life of my own? I never dared to have one. If I stayed out with friends, he’d come and drag me home. That the trailer wasn’t a complete hovel was all down to me and had nothing to do with him, but I never wanted to take anyone back there. He was a complete and utter disgusting slob, and I’d be on edge, waiting for him to lash out even at a visitor to our home.
He’s the only parent I’ve known. Oh, I had a mom, once. I turn away from him, pretending to watch my teammates gathering their stuff, amped by our overwhelming success tonight, but in my mind, I’ve gone back in time. I’m that six-year-old returning home from school.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Gone.”
My brow had furrowed. Gone? Gone where? The shops? To see a friend? His tone had rung warning bells causing a feeling of dread to grow inside. Gone forever? Unthinkable. She couldn’t leave me alone with him. She wouldn’t, would she? “Where’s she gone? When will she be back?”
Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah Page 2
