Page 12 of Redeeming Rabbit

Spinning around, I zeroed in on my bike. My heart hammered against my ribs, feeling too tight for my chest. Blood surged through my veins, stealing my breath and blurring the edges of my vision, trying to swallow me whole. If I could just make it back to the fire station, I’d be safe. All the destruction, all the shit I’d left behind, couldn’t find me there. My brothers would shield me.

I needed to gethome.

“Unbelievable.” Mom’s derision reverberated through my bones. “You’re not even gonna wait for her, are you?”

Her words should mean something to me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what. It was taking every ounce of my focus to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I wanted to run—to drop all bullshit pretenses and sprint for the bike that would drive me to safety—but that could draw their attention. Stealth, not speed, would save me.

“Of course, you’re not. Why would Rose depend on you? You’re just like your goddamn father. Whenever shit gets tough, you run. Good to know some things will never change. I told her not to expect more from you. I fucking told her you’d only let her down!”

The words pierced my skin like bullets, driving deep into my flesh and bones, shredding all the walls I’d built to hide behind.

But there was no escaping the truth.

6

Rabbit

“Rabbit. Come out from under there, brother,” said a familiar gruff voice. Its owner had quit his two-pack-a-day habit six months ago, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the man’s name. I should. He wasn’t blood, but he was fucking family. I’d bet my left testicle on it. Why couldn’t I remember his name? “We have that engine rebuild on Mrs. Oleson’s caddy today, remember? Goddammit, you’re the one who told her we’d bend over and take it up the ass on labor. You better get out here because I’m not the only one working for free today.”

His words punctured the noise in my brain, but sure as shit didn’t compute.

Out from under where? What caddy? Who is Mrs. Oleson?

My head went silent, and then an image of an elderly widow with kind eyes popped into my head. She had a grandson who died in the service last year, leaving no one else to take care of her.

Fuck, yes, we’re fixing her engine for free. Just as soon as I can figure out what’s going on.

The iconic riff of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” played in the background, fading out before a boisterous DJ came on to announce a giveaway for tickets to an upcoming Aerosmith concert. I breathed in through my nose, inhaling the familiar dark aroma of coffee, oil, rubber, gasoline, and exhaust. The sounds and odors were all familiar and calming, grounding me.

I opened my eyes.

I was sitting on a hard cement floor with my hands wrapped around my legs and my head resting against my knees. Under the breakroom table at Formation Auto Repair, the club’s auto shop, was where I worked Monday through Friday and every other Saturday. Not because long hours were a requirement but because I had nothing else to do. Besides, work kept me out of trouble. Mostly.

How the fuck did I get here?

Fractured memories pieced together in my mind, and I recalled that there had been something different about this morning.

What was it?

Footsteps approached from the left.

“What’s going on?” a second voice asked. Wasp. His name came to me instantly. No surprise, considering the debt I owed to the man. Despite my past and my psych eval, he’d given me a job. I’d been promoted three times, and panic squeezed my chest as I realized I must have had another goddamn episode.

And someone had found me under the breakroom table and reported it to the boss.

Fucking awesome.

Knowing I was a fuckup didn’t make dealing with the consequences of my actions any easier. Goddammit, this was why I rarely left the club properties. Stress was a trigger, and the rest of the world could be a stressful place. I limited my exposure, and as a result, my episodes were rare and manageable.

“It’s Rabbit. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he won’t respond,” the first guy answered. My scattered thoughts pieced together an image. Shaved head, nose ring, and skin so pale I would have sworn he was albino had it not been for his dark eyes... Zombie.

“Go get Sage,” Wasp ordered.

“Yessir.”

Boots pounded against the concrete, retreating. The Z-man had to be anxious as fuck to get away from this shitshow. I couldn’t blame him. I was ready to bolt myself. It had been about six months since my last freak-out. That time, I’d woken up in my closet, brain in a fog, and muscles stiff and sore. But at least there’d been no witnesses. This time, shit would be different.

Knowing I couldn’t avoid facing Wasp any longer, I sucked in a bolstering breath and stretched out my legs, wincing at the stiffness. How long had I been under the table? I’d have pulled out my phone to check the time, but it was dead. Other fragmented memories stitched themselves together, and I swore at the image they created.

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