Page 101 of Tempting Fate

There is no one as self-righteous as a recovering drug addict.

They’ve seen rock bottom and lived to tell the tale, and they’ll do anything they can to stop their loved ones from following in their footsteps.

“Who here is Everett Mayberry’s next of kin?” I’m saved from a very public dressing down by the tiny red-haired doctor who rushes through the doors on the OR side of the waiting room. Wearing clean, green scrubs and an air of quiet determination, she approaches Brutus while we all scramble to our feet to listen to what she has to say. “Mr. Mayberry? Everett’s father?”

“That’s me,” he replies in a stone-cold voice.

“I’m Dr. Beatrice Du Bois, the surgical registrar on call tonight.”

“How is he?”

“He’s out of surgery,” she tells him with a tight smile. “And I’m happy to inform you that your son is stable now. It was touch and go for a little while, but we have removed both bullets from his abdomen.”

Slash shoots me a look filled with rage and desire for vengeance.

I lift my top lip in a silent snarl to show I’m on the same page.

“Everett had serious internal bleeding when he was brought in, but we’ve contained it.” The young doctor continues. “He was very lucky that the bullets missed his major organs. His spleen was the most damaged, so we removed it. Internally, he should heal well. He’s young and obviously fit.”

At this, she pauses, the corners of her lips droop, and dread fills the room. The dark atmosphere ratchets up a notch as we brace for the upcoming bad news. Lily comes barrelling across the room to me. She buries her face in the crook of my neck, and I clasp my hands at the small of her back to press her body to mine.

“As long as he’s alive—anythin’ else is manageable,” I murmur. “It’ll be okay, sweet thing.”

Turning my attention back to the doctor, I’m surprised to find that Slash has taken it upon himself to approach her to coax out the details she seems reticent to tell us.

“It’s all right, doll. We can handle whatever you’ve gotta say.”

Dr. Du Bois slants a look at him, and her cheeks turn pink. She tucks a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, then awkwardly clears her throat. “Ah, your friend, Everett… has quite a few external injuries that will likely require intensive rehab and may leave him with some long-term debilitations.”

“What kind of injuries are we talkin’ about here?” Slash asks.

I peer at Brutus, unsure why he’s silent, only to find that he’s staring at the section of wall above the doctor’s head with a blank expression that chills me to the bone. He’s unperturbed by the knowledge his son is potentially disabled. Indifferent. Eyes devoid of worry or desire for retribution. Posture loose, he acts like he’s having the day’s weather forecast explained to him.

Joker and Bear stand with him, their seemingly permanent attachment at the hip continuing since Sander’s unceremonious arrival at the compound a few hours ago. The three men aren’t usually all that close—not with Bear being a patch over from another club and Joker’s status as a stepson rather than as a true third-generation legacy patch—yet something’s shifted recently. They’re more comfortable with each other. Chatting away from the rest of us.

Three peas in a distorted pod.

“It seems he was stabbed repeatedly in the right knee to the point where his tendons were completely severed, and his patella required a new ACL to be regrafted to save his mobility. The femur and tibia of his left leg were shattered. We inserted a steel rod to give the bones something to heal around. Three fingers on his right hand were amputated to the second joint, and both his wrists were slashed—in some places to the bone. There was extensive damage which we have done our best to rectify.” Another pause. Another deep breath that doesn’t bode well. “I imagine he will need further surgeries to aid his rehabilitation process, however, it’s hard to offer a more positive prognosis until the healing process is further along.”

“No,” Lily hisses. I squeeze her to me, silently comforting her as the news that Fret’s expert artisan skills and his ability to play guitar are likely lost to him. “Not his hands. Anything but his hands.”

The words to ease her pain elude me. Knowing Fret, he’s going to wish he was dead if he can no longer do what he loves. These injuries, for him, are akin to me breaking my back and being unable to ride again. I’d lose my VP patch, eventually my cut, and shortly after that, my will to live.

I’m a biker. Will be to the day I die.

Fret is—was?—an artisan with a prodigal talent for woodwork. Creating his own one-of-a-kind pieces has been his life since the day my dad showed him how to use a coping saw and a chisel. His guitar is much the same. Music is his voice. It helps the quiet solitary man connect with others when the right words won’t come.

“So that’s it, doll?” Slash asks when it becomes clear the doctor is letting Brutus’ menacing silence get to her.

“I prefer to be called Dr. Du Bois or even Bebe,” the doctor snaps at him.

She’s a tiny thing, maybe five foot tall, pretty in that peaches and cream way that works well with red hair, yet she shows little fear when Slash fails to hide his amusement at her reaction and leans over her to say, “I disagree… reckon doll suits you to a T.”

A scandalised sound rumbles in her throat, then she pushes past Slash to engage directly with a still-silent Brutus. I glare at the back of my best friend’s head, mystified by his behaviour in the midst of all this. Of all the times, and with his clumsy repertoire and heart-breaking history, he chooses now to flirt.

Time and a place, brother.

Time and a place.

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