Page 12 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

How many people need to be in a therapist’s office at once?

“Ethan?”

It’s hard to lose the alertness I’ve built up over my life. I can’t stop thinking about the footsteps and the hushed voices outside. We should be alone here. I watched this place for a few weeks before coming in, and she rarely takes afternoon appointments.I don’t want to be seen.I just know that I need this.

“Do you have other appointments after this?” I ask her.

Amanda shifts in her chair. Her thighs look delicious. I want to unglue them and slide my…

“That’s confidential,” she says, covering her thighs with her clipboard. “Can we get back to your feelings?”

Three knocks pound against her door. She gives me a sympathetic look.

“Forgive me Ethan,” she says. And to the door. “I have an appointment! Please wait in the lobby, I’ll be with you when I’m done.”

A heavy Boston accent on the other side.

“Open the door, bitch.”

I’m guessing this isn’t a client.

Amanda freezes. She looks scared out of her mind. She’s not expecting this.

“Who’s at the door?” I ask her in a hushed tone.

But I’m never relaxed enough to be unprepared for a moment like this. I pull my pistol out of my jacket and she freaks the fuck out, even if it’s the smallest one I have.

“YOU HAVE A GUN!” She screeches.

Liberals…

She yelps even louder, like all of Cambridge didn’t hear her the first time, “YOU HAVE A GUN!”

Her screeching really isn’t helping the situation.

The bastard on the other side of the door kicks the door in. I slide my body in front of Dr. Yancey’s and shoot twice. She screams her fucking head off but her instincts are good, because she covers her ears. I don’t have the luxury of protecting my hearing.

“WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”

I glance down at the man I shot. Instinct. I did it on instinct, but I was very much right to do this. I recognize the tattoos all over his face. You have to be a real crazy motherfucker to run around with Neo-Nazi tattoos on your face in Massachusetts.

“WHAT IS GOING ON!” She shrieks. “I’m calling the police!”

I grab her arm. She looks scared. But it doesn’t matter.We need to get the fuck out of here.

“You aren’t calling the police. You’re coming with me.”

“HELP! HELP!”

I cover her mouth with one hand and throw her body against mine, silencing my therapist as she struggles against my body, fighting for her life.I’m fucked out of my mind.Once I drag her down the hallway, I hear more motorcycle engines outside. I would never be so stupid as to park the truck too close to the office. My heart races. If I go out the front, I’ll have to face whoever the fuck is out there — and most likely after me — but if I go out the back… I’ll have to drag this woman fighting for her life down a fire escape.

Or I could leave her to get shot in the goddamn head.

Not a chance.

I might be a piece of shit, but I’m no Ruger Blackwood.

Blood and sweat mix together when my feet finally touch the ground outside the therapist’s office. I have to run… I race into traffic, throwing the backdoor open to the Volvo XC60 sitting at the red light. I take my pistol out of my jacket and press it against the driver’s torso.

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