Page 16 of Misery and Ecstasy

I haven’t seen Draven—or any of the men—as much since then.

His hair is shorter now than it was back then, allowing his chiseled chin and sharp cheekbones more visibility than before. It makes him appear more striking than I’ve ever seen him, even with the harsh wrinkles around his eyes.

I wonder how old he is—something I would know if he were a regular patient who fills out patient intake forms. In my anxiety of the situation I’ve found myself in, I jumped straight into this appointment instead of having him go through the steps all my other patients do.

He’s likely younger than he looks. His premature age lines were probably caused by sun exposure from being on his bike so often. Or from massive stress and anxiety, which would be possible from the years he spent caring for his dying mother. Even before that, when he had to take over as man of the house after his father died. That’s a tremendous responsibility for a sixteen-year-old kid. The heavy burden he laid on himself back then is enough to stress even a grown individual flung into a situation they aren’t prepared for.

The lines on his face are further impacted by how much he admitted to drinking recently. And the fact that he’s a smoker. Both factors eat away at a person’s appearance overtime, not to mention what they do to you internally.

Leaving his side, I sit at my desk and pull out a copy of the report from his run-in with the cops last night. Something I would normally do before sitting down with a patient for the first time. But this morning has been nothing short of chaotic. This little impromptu nap of his works to my benefit.

With the report is a timeline of events that occurred last night, including all the calls that were placed complaining of Draven’s erratic, and at times, dangerous behavior. The officer at the station was hesitant to give me a copy, but I told him if I was expected to treat him to the best of my ability, I needed to know exactly what happened. Which is the truth, but there’s also a part of me that craves to know more about him. His moves, his intentions, his background.

I quickly look at the call log.

5:34 P.M. - Complaint called in about a visibly intoxicated suspect, later identified to be Mac “Draven” Hoffman, in the Mount Wine and Spirits store at 4587 State Road 358. Call made from payphone outside of the store. Caller claims suspect is part of the Royal Bastards MC, so they didn’t want to give their name for fear of retribution.

His name is Mac?

Same as my initials. McKinsey Ann Caraway. MAC.

It’s an interesting coincidence I decide to file away for later…

5:42 P.M. - Liquor store owner, Brad Cory, called back to let police know he had sold the suspect alcohol out of fear for his life, even though he could lose his license.

The poor guy would rather risk his livelihood than his life. I suppose I can’t fault him for that, but he shouldn’t have been put in that position in the first place.

5:45 P.M. – Officers Lincoln and Harris arrived at Mount Wine and Spirits, but the suspect was already gone.

6:27 P.M. - Complaint of a visibly intoxicated driver swerving and weaving in and out of traffic on Rt. 15 while drinking an unknown substance from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

6:47 P.M. - Multiple calls received from individuals (see appendix A) at Culp’s Hill, complaining of a belligerent man climbing the outside then hanging from the observation tower.

6:50 P.M. - Park security descend on Culp’s Hill. After approaching the area and attempting to talk to the suspect, he fled the scene on his motorcycle going at a high rate of speed.

6:53 P.M. - Chase ensues down Rt. 30, heading west. Additional Gettysburg Sheriff’s officers join the chase at Hunterstown Rd. Chase reached speeds upwards of ninety miles an hour at times.

7:24 P.M. - Chase concludes when the suspect loses control of his bike along Rt. 116 in Fairfield at the dead end of Jack’s Mountain Road. The suspect’s bike landed on the shoulder, launching him into the grass. Rate of speed at the time of the crash was approximately forty-five miles per hour.

Jesus.

I look over at Draven again, in disbelief of his dumb luck. He could have been killed. He probably would have been if he’d been going faster. My eyes rake down his long body. I can understand a little more clearly now why his clothing is filthy and torn in a few areas.

Why’d you do this, Draven?

Grief does different things to different people.

Did Draven want to die? Probably not if he slowed down as much as he did by the time he was thrown from his bike.

But I don’t feel like this was just him blowing off steam either.

As much as the Bastards scare me, I can’t help the intrigue that gnaws away at me, wanting to know more about club life and what that actually looks like.

What does it take to become one of them?

What does one gain from being a member?

Obviously, if the cops are choosing not to press charges for his little joy ride, there are definite advantages, but to what end?

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