Page 49 of Mercy

There’s no leather-clad bikers rummaging about, no constant threat of danger.

Just the steady stream of caffeine-deprived customers and the rhythmic clinking of ceramic mugs.

A tattooed arm reaches across the counter, startling me from my thoughts.

For a split second, I tense, my mind flashing to the clubhouse.

But it's just a hipster with sleeve tattoos, not a member of the Raiders of Valhalla MC.

"Large cold brew, please," he says, oblivious to my momentary panic.

As I ring up his order, I wonder if I'll ever truly feel at ease again.

Will there always be a part of me looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Nausea hits me like a freight train, sudden and violent.

I barely make it to the employee bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

My hands shake as I grip the cold porcelain, my body heaving even after there's nothing left to bring up.

Jess, one of my coworkers, calls through the door."Meghan? You okay in there?"

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my throat burning. "Yeah, I'm?—"

Another wave of nausea cuts me off, and I retch again.

The door creaks open, and Jess's concerned face appears. "Jesus, girl. You look like hell."

"Thanks," I croak, attempting a weak smile.

She hands me a damp paper towel. "Look, why don't you go see a doctor? This isn't the first time you've been sick this week."

I press the cool towel to my forehead, closing my eyes. "I'm fine, really. It's probably just a bug."

Jess crosses her arms, giving me a look that brooks no argument. "Meghan, go to the clinic. I'll cover for you. Come back when you're feeling better, okay?"

I nod, too exhausted to argue.

As I gather my things, my mind races.

What if it's not just a bug?

What if it's something more... permanent?

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in a sterile exam room at the local clinic, my legs swinging nervously off the edge of the paper-covered table.

The doctor, a kind-faced woman in her fifties, enters with a clipboard.

"Okay, Meghan," she says, smiling. "We're going to run a few tests. Nothing to worry about, just standard procedure."

I nod, my throat tight. "Okay."

Soon enough my blood’s drawn, a urine sample given, and they’ve taken my temperature.

Each test feels like another nail in a coffin I'm not sure I want to open.

When the doctor returns, her face is unreadable. "Well, Meghan, I think I know why you've been feeling under the weather."

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