Satan's Devils MC Colorado Boxset 1 Books 1 - 3

by Manda Mellett

  “He’s a service dog,” I say with emphasis, as the vet passes by for the second time.

  “I’ve got eyes and can read,” the man who’s clearly the vet replies sharply.

  Of course he’d seen that. I hadn’t wanted to remove the harness in case it was holding something vital together.

  “You might have eyes, his owner hasn’t,” I snap back copying his tone. “She needs that dog to be alright. You heal him, you hear me?”

  James, or whatever his name is, pauses briefly. “You think I wouldn’t do everything I can? Doesn’t matter if he’s a service dog or the family pet. If it’s possible to help him through this, I will, but I’m not God.”

  “Sorry man.” Yeah, maybe I’d been a bit rough on him, but watching that accident happen? Well, it had been a shock for me. The way the dog knew danger was coming and bore the brunt of it himself. Well that takes bravery, and this biker, for one, is fucking impressed.

  “I’m taking him in the back. I’m not happy with his breathing. He’ll need X-rays. It might be helpful if I know how the injury happened. Give a summary to Vera, will you?” he nods at the nurse. “Then, Vera, I’ll need your help.”

  She jerks her head in agreement, then narrows her eyes at me. “What happened? You knock him over with your bike?”

  “Christ, no,” I snap, disliking her attitude. Then, for the second time this evening, I explain how things went down.

  Immediately her bearing relaxes, and a sympathetic expression crosses her face. “Who’s the owner?”

  “Girl called Stevie. I didn’t get the rest of her name.” I tell her the hospital, where she was taken, but that’s as much as I know. As she frowns, I realise what could be an issue. “Look, I’ll pay. Whatever.”

  “It could get expensive,” she warns.

  Fuck knows why, I wasn’t responsible for Max’s injuries, but I’ve got some money saved and if need be, this seems as good a use as any for it. I wouldn’t want him to go untreated because of the cost. There was just something about how Max saved his mistress that got to me. Loyalty like that? Can’t be ignored. “I’ll pay,” I tell her again.

  “Could be the association that supplied him might pay the bills. Won’t know the arrangements until we can talk to this Stevie. Now, excuse me, I’ve got to go back and assist James. Have you a number I can call with an update?”

  I’d promised I wouldn’t leave him, or at least not until there was news. “I’ll wait.” Before she can attempt to throw me out, I walk to a hard-plastic seat that’s far too small for my ass but ignoring that, sit. Then I fold my arms and stare back at her with determination.

  She doesn’t argue. Well, it’s not like she could move me. Her eyes flick to the door, then, with a shrug that suggests her canine patient is more important than any protest, she disappears after the vet.

  I hadn’t noticed Pyro and Pal come in. They squeeze themselves into seats one away and to either side of myself. I look from one to the other as if I’m watching a tennis ball bounce between two rackets. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “No worries.” Pyro stretches out his long legs, putting his arms over the backs of the seats to either side of him.

  “Not got anything better to do.” Pal folds one leg over the other.

  It’s Saturday night. Okay, so Pal’s got an old lady, but Pyro looks like a party type of man, in a beer and pussy type of way, of course. I suspect that they’re both lying. It warms my heart they intend to keep me company.

  “So how was the journey, Beef?” Pal asks when the silence becomes too heavy.

  “Fuckin’ long. Good to start with, but after a few hours I could feel my age.” My back twinges as I’m speaking, and I lean forward and reaching back, try to rub a few kinks out.

  “You’re not old,” Pyro scoffs. “Look about my age.”

  “Thirty-seven,” I tell him, feeling every minute of it. It’s the first time I’ve relaxed in hours, and the ride has caught up with me. “How old are you?”

  “Told you. Your age or thereabouts. Thirty-six.”

  “Christ, you two are ancient.”

  Leaning over I scuff Pal’s hair. “You’re just a baby.”

  He swipes my hand away. “I’m twenty-one.”

  “You even start shaving yet?” Pyro leans forward, peering around me and looking at our companion as if trying to see for himself.

  “Fuck off.”

  I smirk, glad they’re waiting with me. Hanging around here isn’t much different than being in the waiting room of a hospital. The smell of disinfectant seems to permeate every breath that you take until you feel your lungs are coated in it. Worrying about a diagnosis, having nothing to do, and feeling useless you’re unable to help. It’s damn ridiculous, but I’m willing that dog behind the closed door to come through. I hope the girl’s okay too. I feel for her, but I don’t want to call the number she gave me, not without any news.

  Pyro leans forward and takes a magazine off the rack, something about dogs from the cover, I think. Pal gets up and goes to read the notice board.

  “Christ! Have we wormed Bitch recently?”

  “What the fuck?”

  Pal’s turned, looking green. “If not, she could have those growing inside.” He points to a rather disgusting picture of internal parasites. “Or fleas. Hell. Never knew they looked like that.” A blown-up photo is displayed in full view. “Fuck, might ask that nurse when she comes back if we can buy some shit for her.”

  “That’s why they do it,” Pyro says sagely. “Show you all that shit so you spend good money.”

  “Bitch?” I can’t remember seeing a dog in the clubhouse.

  “Club cat.” Pal’s answer is more puzzling than illuminating.

  “Club pain in the ass you mean.” Pyro doesn’t look impressed. He raises his hand which has scratch marks on it. “She got me last night. Anything up there about declawing, Pal?”

  Now I recall seeing a massive feline last time I was in the clubhouse. It had been sitting on a couch. Alone. Perhaps the state of Pyro’s hand shows why no one had gone near it. “Demon’s worried about her now that he’s got a kid to consider?”

  “Yeah, Prez might be impressed if we go back with some shit to sort her out.” Pal still seems intent on studying the various leaflets.

  “There is that,” Pyro says as he idly flicks through the pages of the magazine he’d picked up.

  We fall into silence. As it would be with my brothers I’d left behind, it’s companionable rather than awkward. A clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, but no one appears from the back to give us an update. When the door finally opens, it takes me by surprise.

  I stand. “What we talking about, Doc?” I’m holding my breath in case he announces the dog is dead.

  “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m James Ransom. We don’t stand on ceremony here, so call me James.” Now he’s lost that sense of urgency, he seems to be an affable sort. Slightly younger than me, with sand coloured hair, cut short. “Max is doing well all things considered, but he’s got a long way to go until he’s out of the woods.”

  “What are his chances?”

  “Let me explain his condition, then you’ll see why I can’t offer guarantees.” James brushes his hand over his head. “He’s got a little trouble breathing, so we’re giving him flow-by oxygen administered using a mask. We’ve fitted him with a catheter, and he’s got a line in. I’ve given him buprenorphine for the pain.” He pauses, sees the look on my face and wryly translates. “In other words, the first thing we’ve done is to make him as comfortable as possible.”

  “He wake up?”

  “Awake, but drowsy. He’s a good dog. Used to being handled, but that’s what I’d expect from a service dog.”

  “You know what damage was done yet?”

  James looks serious. “I’ve taken thoracic radiographs. It’s possible he has a slow bleed in the chest that those don’t show which could start to affect him hours after the initial trauma. The x
-ray helps to evaluate the chest for pulmonary contusions but is only a picture of what’s happening now. He has a broken rib, but like humans, that should heal by itself. His left rear leg has a mid-diaphyseal transverse complete fracture of the left femur, but I won’t do anything about that until he’s stabilised.”

  “You mean he’s got a broken leg?”

  As if not realising he’s just spoken in a foreign language, James gives a sharp nod.

  “How long will stabilising him take?” I want to get to Stevie and tell her Max is going to be okay.

  “At least a day, possibly two, before I’d risk the necessary anaesthetic to fix his leg.” James shakes his head. “I wish I could be more positive, but the next twenty-four hours are critical. There’s a possibility of lung injuries that aren’t immediately apparent. As you will have noticed yourself, he’s got multiple abrasions on his skin affecting the dorsum and ventrum, sorry, back and belly.” He grins slightly seeing my confusion. “I’ve given him convenia, an antibiotic. You’re paying?”

  Having listened to the long list of things wrong with him, I begin to regret saying that. But the memory of long hair, wide unseeing eyes that brimmed with tears and panic together with the utter helplessness of Stevie, for some reason not immediately apparent, it seems worth anything to put the smile back on her face. “Yes,” I say firmly.

  A respectful chin raise, then James continues, “He’s on intravenous fluids, and we’ll monitor what pain control he needs and give it as necessary to keep him comfortable. He may need a light sedation if he gets agitated, but at the moment he’s quiet enough. We’re going to have to auscultate the chest every two hours.”

  “You’re going to stay with him?”

  James takes a deep breath and straightens his back. “Yeah.” He looks at me intently. “I’d do it for a normal pet, but dog like that? From what you told Vera, he saved his owner today, probably all in his day’s work, though normally he wouldn’t get hurt. I’ve got every respect for a service dog. Let’s hope this one hasn’t paid the ultimate price.”

  “What’s his prognosis?”

  James sighs. “If I can operate, I reckon I can keep him with four legs. But it’s too early to say—the next twenty-four, even forty-eight hours are crucial. All I can tell you is that I’ll do my best. I’ll also keep the costs as low as I can. I understand you were just a passer-by.” His eyes harden. “Do you know anything about the car or the driver? He should be sued for the fucking cost.”

  Good point. “It happened so fast. I wasn’t at a good vantage point.” But it might have been caught on camera, someone’s dash cam perhaps. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  James holds out his hand. First I, then Pal and Pyro, who’ve been carefully listening shake it as well. His grip is firm. “I’ll do my best.”

  Somehow I have no doubt of that. James Ransom seems to be one of the good guys.

  Chapter Six

  “You going to call the owner?” Pyro asks as we get outside. “Fuck me, but I couldn’t work out if that was good news or bad.”

  My shoulders rise then lower. “Not much different from when Heart came off his bike. A jumble of medical terms that meant fuck all to us. It seems vets and doctors are the same in that they won’t commit themselves.”

  My phone is in my cut, I make no move to take it. “Look, I think I’ll deliver what news I can in person. She cares for that dog.” Four-legged creatures can worm their way into your hearts. Something like that happened to Heart and Marcia’s dog Grunt back in Tucson? Whole fucking club would be down at the vet’s. It’s the thought of how I’d feel if it had happened to Grunt that makes me wary of delivering uncertain news via the phone.

  “You know where she is?”

  “I’ll try the hospital. If she’s already discharged, it will have to be a call.”

  “If she’s in the hospital, she’s probably already got family or friends with her,” Pyro warns.

  I think about it. “I hope she has. I can’t exactly say Max will be fine. I can give her a bit of hope, but someone will need to prepare her.” If she’s got a husband, family member or friend with her, perhaps I’ll have a word with them first. Then they can pass the news on. Then, finally, I’ll be able to get to the clubhouse, unpack my shit and have a beer at fucking last.

  “What you waiting for? Let’s get rollin’.” Pyro slings his leg over his bike as Pal gets on his.

  I look at them with my eyebrow raised.

  Pyro interprets it correctly. “You know where this fucking hospital is?”

  Of course I don’t. I’ve only just arrived.

  Without batting an eye or complaining he’s got better things to do, Pyro just indicates he’ll take the lead. “Best show you the way then.”

  Pal, yeah, I’ve known him, what, coming up four years now? He’d started prospecting when he was eighteen, patched in a year later. Sat around the table with him for nearly three years. I might give him shit, but he’s a man I call friend. Pyro? I’ve barely spoken to before. Hell, I might have removed the bottom rocker off my patch, but the significance of the top patch hits me. Satan’s Devils are brothers whatever city or state they are in.

  I don’t put my thanks into words, but a jerk of my chin conveys my gratefulness for a second time tonight.

  Pyro takes the lead, I fall in with Pal behind him. On the way I’m running through the vet’s complicated explanation in my head, while hoping to fuck that Max is going to pull through and make sufficient recovery so he’ll be able to perform his role for Stevie again.

  I hate hospitals with a vengeance, and with very good reason. Ten months ago, I took a bullet and needed surgery. That wasn’t the problem, I was healing okay from that when I developed septicaemia and ended up as close to death as anyone could be. There have been jokes that Satan didn’t want me and sent me back, but whether the Devil or God had a hand in it, in the end I hadn’t died. Much to the astonishment of the medical profession who prodded and poked me far too much, trying to analyse what I’d done to fight such a serious infection. I came through and made a complete recovery. But I’d spent far too much time in that hospital bed, and the smell of the hospital, like at the vet’s, tends to bring it all back. I’d be happier if I never had to step foot in such a place ever again.

  Although the parking lot seems to be busy, fitting in three motorcycles is easier than parking the same number of cars, and we’re soon walking toward the emergency entrance. Although the place is busy as places like this usually are on a late Saturday evening, I’m hoping there’s not been too many blind women called Stevie who have been brought in after being hit by a car.

  I take a deep breath of fresh air before stepping up to the entrance, pausing to hold open the door for a man walking out with his arm in a sling, then I step inside, unsurprised to find the waiting room crowded. There’s a bunch of youths congregating around a friend who’s holding a cloth to a bloody wound on his face, a couple of the others looking like they too have been in a fight. Not uncommon at the weekend. There’s an elderly gentleman who’s coughing a lot, and a young child wailing, and that’s just part of the selection. I spare a thought for the doctors and nurses who are going to have to deal with this lot.

  As the three of us enter, the room quiets. Ignoring the looks and the whispered comments, I start walking toward the queue at reception, the question I’m going to be asking already framed on my lips, when a nurse emerges, her hand on the elbow of a woman, leading her to an empty chair. If I wasn’t so tall and able to see over most other people, I’d have missed her.

  I recognise her immediately, she’s the woman I’m seeking.

  Changing direction, I push my way through the milling throng, making my way over to her. Suddenly quickening my pace when a drunk lurches into her. I get there in time to pull him off.

  “Get the fuck out of the way,” I snarl at him.

  Her head snaps up in my direction, but her eyes don’t find my face. If I was shorter, she’d have made a good
approximation. “How… how’s Max?” she asks immediately, her voice shakes and her lip is trembling.

  Every medical explanation goes out of my head. “Alive, broken leg.”

  “Short, and to the fuckin’ point,” Pyro mumbles beside me.

  Ignoring him, I continue, “How the fuck did you know it was me? Can you see?” Had I been wrong? Is she not completely blind after all?

  “Your voice and you smell of engine oil and leather.” Her explanation is as succinct as my assessment of Max’s diagnosis. “Is Max going to be okay?” Her voice falters. “His leg, is he going to lose it?”

  Crouching down to her level, I take both her hands in mine, squeezing them gently. “I stayed until we had news, now the vet and nurse are with him, he’ll be monitored all through the night. We won’t know much more until tomorrow or the next day. At the moment, the vet doesn’t know if there are problems that haven’t materialised yet.” And don’t I know all about those. It wasn’t the bullet that had almost killed me. “He didn’t say he’d need to amputate.”

  Her head bows, I think I hear a sob, then she does that strange looking straight at me thing again. I take the time to notice her eyes are beautiful. “Thank you. Have you got the vet’s number? Can you put it into my phone for me? Name it Max Vet?” She fumbles in her purse then passes her phone over.

  As I tap the number in, copying it off the card the vet gave me, I ask my next concern. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “I’m fine. Bruised but not broken. Oh, and a cop came to speak to me.”

  “Any leads on who ran into you?”

  “Who are you?” Her brow creases and her head tilts toward my left.

  “Pyro.”

  Now her hand reaches out toward me. For a second I’m puzzled, until she says, “Can I touch you?” As her hand traces my face as if trying to memorise the shape of it, I realise this is her way of discovering what I look like. “I don’t even know your name.” She says it as though surprised that it’s only just occurred to her.