Page 16 of Strider's Misstep

Jasmine’s clearly trying to digest all that I told her. I give her the space but am unsurprised at what she asks next. It’s a question I’ve asked myself and the doctors time after time.

“What causes Picks Disease?”

I give her the only answer I can come up with. “Sheer bad fuckin’ luck.” Then, after a beat, I clarify. “Maybe as simple as bad genetics, but a lot of the time, it can be caused by a TBI.”

“Had she ever had a brain injury?”

She had when she’d come off my bike. But it had been so fucking mild, the doctors dismissed it could have been the cause of it. Didn’t change what I suspected in my heart.

Anna and I were childhood sweethearts. We got married. She stayed by my side when I was in the Marines, patiently waiting until I got out. I was in fucking love with her, wasn’t I?

Shit. That’s a question I try to avoid asking myself. Had Anna not gotten ill, would we still have been together? If I hadn’t had the niggling doubt it was my action, me all but forcing her onto my bike, that could have caused it, would I have stayed with her? I’d tried so hard to give her the baby she wanted so much. But wasn’t there a part of me that was glad it had never come to fruition? No. I love my wife.

I do.

My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket. Seeing it’s Buzz, I know I need to answer.

“I’ve got to take this,” I tell Jasmine apologetically.

Jasmine looks stunned with all my revelations and simply nods. “Okay.”

I get up, walk to the door, and leave her.

What Buzz wants to check isn’t complicated and just needs a simple no or yes. I pick the right answer, deliver it, and then stand with my phone in my hand. It hadn’t been easy exposing my life with Anna to Jasmine. I feel like I’ve been through an emotional wringer.

CHAPTER SIX

JASMINE

Strider’s phone ringing breaks the tension, and honestly, I’m not sorry to have a moment alone to process everything he’s thrown at me. But I am disturbed to be left with his wife. What if she has some kind of episode? I’m completely out of my depth. While I usually think I’m an empathic person, it’s eerie sitting here with someone who looks more like they belong in the next world than in this. Her breathing is loud, laboured, and I can see the rise and fall of her chest, but otherwise, there’s no sign there’s an actual person in there.

What could it have been like for her? Did she know she was slowly becoming a living corpse? Did she understand what she was losing?And, as for Strider, I shudder and suppress a sob at the thought of watching the woman he was, and clearly still is, so in love with, simply fading away. It must have been torture each and every day.

He cheated on her.

He did. But men, women, fuck, all of us have needs. It’s obviously been a very long time since she was able to satisfy him, probably years from what he was saying. Bikers are definitely not saints, and with all the temptation around him, I can’t criticise him for not being content with using his hand. I’d thinkworse if he took advantage and got his rocks off with a comatose woman.

He read my book. And isn’t that embarrassing? Why didn’t he pick up one of the first three instead? The ones where I hadn’t subconsciously allowed my inner cravings to seep out through my words. In this one, I’d known my characters were me and him, but there didn’t seem any harm in imagining a future that I most desired. It was all in my head though. I knew my dreams were just that. Strider had pulled away and now I know with good reason. It had been therapeutic to write down musings, hopes that could never come true. Letting my fictional character enjoy what might have been. For just a short while, I’d allowed myself to dream.

Anna makes a soft sound that makes me jump, but she doesn’t appear to have moved or show she needs or wants anything.She’s the reason Strider rightly couldn’t commit to a relationship with me.At least it wasn’t something in me that was lacking, but a prior commitment on his part. I try to take comfort in that thought.

But where does that leave me now?

It’s been more than a couple of minutes since Strider left the room, but that’s nothing new. I know the business of an MC prez can be complicated and take up a lot of his time. It’s one of the things I use to add detail to my books—the man at the top needs to be dedicated to protecting the club, which often involves sacrificing his private life. He runs businesses, both legal and those that probably cross the line, and is the backstop for all the problems his brothers might have. We’ve often been interrupted by a phone call or knock on the door.

I sit, my body tense, feeling uncomfortable, as my eyes flick toward Anna as though constantly checking she’s still alive. I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t consumed with compassion for her and such a waste of a life. I can’t tell how old she is, but if shewas at school with Strider, then she’s the same age, making her ten years my senior, barely middle-aged.

“Colt’s a good man.” Startled, having been lost in my thoughts, I glance up. The nurse has returned and she’s carrying a tray. On it is perched a cup with the aroma of coffee and some creamer and sugar. She places it in front of me and gives me a wane smile.

“I half think I should be offering you something stronger,” she starts, then at my raised brow adds, “I take it you didn’t know about her? Or at least her condition.”

Eyeing the bounty put in front of me, I realise that she’s probably right. I’m in need of some stimulant, but coffee will have to do for now. As I doctor the brew to my satisfaction, I answer her. “I didn’t even know he was married.” It must have been the way I all but spat out the words that caused her to give an exaggerated eye roll. It’s clear she thinks I’m his bit on the side, so I hastily explain, “It has always been casual between us. Strider never made any promises or led me on.”

She studies me, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. Does she think I’m a whore, just a bed warmer? Well, then she’d be right. But rather than offering criticism, she checks on her charge, then returns to me, taking a seat on the armchair opposite. Rather than sitting back, she leans her elbows on her knees, places her chin on her hands and continues to make her visual assessment.

The silence starts making me feel awkward until, at last, her mouth opens to let words come out. “You’re part of Colt’s club?”

How do I answer? I give a shrug. “Kind of. I live and… work there.” I hope she won’t notice my slight hesitation, but if she probes, I can rightly say I’m a bartender for the most part. Considering the last few months, that’s not a lie.

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