Page 37 of Heresy
"Don't ever think that meant anything," I spit, my voice a cold, vicious snarl. "You're a convenience. Nothing more."
I turn my back on her, a final, brutal dismissal. I see one of the prospects, the scared kid from her cell, frozen by the doorway to the back hall. I point a single, trembling finger at her, my voice a low command that brooks no argument.
"Get her out of my sight. Back to the cell. Now."
The prospect flinches but nods, immediately moving to do as he's told. I don't watch. I need another focus, an anchor, something to pull me out of the storm of my own making. I need to be the President again.
My gaze lands on the same prospect. "What's the word on Crusher?" I ask, my voice hard, all business, referring to the brother who was carried in earlier.
The kid looks startled by the shift in topic. "Doc's with him, Prez. He's stable."
It's not enough. I need to see it. I need to perform the duties of the man I'm supposed to be, not the animal I just was.
"I'll see for myself," I say, and stalk toward the back room where they're tending to our wounded brother, leaving the prospect to handle the mess I made. I don't look back.
I leave her there, being escorted away by a subordinate, a problem to be filed away. I walk toward the sounds of a brother's pain, seeking refuge in the clean, simple loyalty of my club. Seeking refuge from the ghost I just created at the bar.
I pushthrough a set of swinging saloon-style doors and into the back hallway. The sounds of the main room vanish, replaced by the low hum of a generator and the sharp, antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol trying and failing to cover the scent of blood. This is our infirmary—not a real medical room, but a converted storage space with a stainless-steel table, a few mismatched cabinets, and a single, harsh fluorescent light overhead that buzzes with an annoying, electric persistence.
Crusher, one of our oldest and toughest members, is laid out on the table. His jeans have been cut away, revealing a mangled, bloody mess where his left calf used to be. The wound is a grotesque landscape of torn muscle and shattered bone, a clear picture of what happens when a rival MC decides to use a pickup truck as a battering ram against a motorcycle.
Standing over him is Doc.
Doc isn’t a real doctor—not anymore. He was a combat medic in the army, a surgeon with gifted hands until he lost his license over a disagreement with the hospital board that involved a scalpel and a large quantity of painkillers. Now, he’s ours. He’s a quiet, wiry man in his late fifties, his forearms a roadmap of faded ink and old scars. His face is a mask of intense, professional focus as he works, stitching the ragged edges of Crusher’s flesh back together with a steady, practiced hand. Zero stands in the corner, a silent, grim guardian.
No one looks up when I enter. The air is thick with the sacred, focused silence of a life being saved.
"Talk to me, Doc," I say, my voice a low rumble. I move to the side of the table, my eyes on Crusher’s pale, sweat-sheened face.
Doc doesn't break his rhythm, his needle dipping and rising. "He's lucky," he says, his voice a calm, dry rasp. "The artery is intact. Tibia is shattered in three places. Fibula is a mess. He'll keep the leg, but he's not riding again for a long, long time. If ever."
I look at the mangled leg, at the bloody rags on the floor, at the grim reality of the war Cain has started. This is clean. This is understandable. A body to be fixed. A brother to be saved. A clear, external enemy to be destroyed. It is a simple, honest equation compared to the chaotic, unsolvable one I just left at the bar.
"He conscious?" I ask.
"In and out," Doc says, tying off a stitch. "Gave him enough morphine to tranquilize a horse."
I place a hand on Crusher's shoulder, my grip firm. His eyes flutter open, hazy with pain and drugs. He tries to focus on my face.
"Hex..." he groans, the word a pained whisper.
"I'm here, brother," I say, my voice steady. "You're good. Doc's got you."
He gives a weak, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes sliding shut again. I stand there for a long moment, my hand on his shoulder, performing the role of the President. The concerned leader. The brother. I am a shield, protecting my own from the wolves. Abel's words echo in my head, a bitter, mocking accusation.
This feels real. This feels right. This is the man I am supposed to be.
But the phantom taste of whiskey and blood and her broken sob is still on my tongue, a poison that this clean, honest pain cannot wash away. I am playing a part, and the lie feels thin as paper. I pull my hand back, the touch suddenly feeling like a hypocrisy I can't stand.
"Keep me updated," I say to Doc, my voice flat again.
I turn and walk out of the infirmary, leaving the quiet hum of the generator and the clean scent of antiseptic behind. I walk back into the hallway, back toward the silence of my own office, where my own, more complicated wounds are still bleeding.
I walk backinto my office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, sealing me in with my own hypocrisy. The image of Crusher’s mangled leg is a clean wound, an honorable injury from a war I understand. But it’s a pale ghost next to the vibrant, bloody memory of her face, the phantom taste of her broken sob still on my tongue.
There's a soft knock on the door before it opens. Rook and Zero step inside. They close the door behind them, the three of us now contained in the tense, quiet space.
They saw it all. The claim I made on her, right there on the bar. They didn't just see a lesson being taught; they saw their President lose his fucking mind. They know.
