Page 127 of Property of Necro
There’s a smile in my voice when I reply, “I know.” This isn’t my first rodeo. Or my second. Or my tenth. I’ve ridden plenty of motorcycles in my life, even before I joined the sisterhood.
Rot sounds surprised when he turns his head as far around as he can and asks, “You been on a bike before?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
I tap his hard stomach, hoping he’ll drop it. We don’t have time. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure, it does. Were you fuckin’ him?”
Oh. No. I’m not touching that question with a ten-foot pole. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The men I’ve ridden with, well, most of them, were nice guys. Sure, I fucked a few, but it’s none of his business.
“Let it go, Rot. We need to leave.”
Grumbling a sourpuss, “Fine,” under his breath, Rot fires up the bike. It rumbles violently under my ass as he shoots down the hill and around the corner. A moment later, he parks in front of one of the nicer single stories, puts down his kickstand, and dismounts. I wait to fall over, but nothing happens before he returns with a pair of black leather boots. He forces my foot into one, laces it up, ties it tight, and moves to the next. We’re back on the road in minutes. The wind whips my face and turns my nose and fingers to blocks of ice as we travel for what feels like forever.
Too in my head with worry, I don’t notice we’ve arrived until we pull up a gravel road in the middle of nowhere to a metal barn set deep in the woods next to a small cabin. Mama’s pacing out front. He marches over when Rot shuts down the bike. The burly man plucks me off the back cushion and crushes me to his chest in the biggest bear hug. Barely able to breathe, I wrap my arms around what I can of him and hug him up tight with just as much love.
“He’s gonna be alright.” Mama’s voice cracks with distress.
I’m not sure if he’s saying this to calm me or himself. Either way, it doesn’t work.
We’re not at a hospital.
We’re at a barn.
A flippin’ barn.
Literal chickens are running around the yard.
“Why aren’t we at a hospital?” I mumble into his chest.
“Doc Jones is a surgeon. He’s on retainer for the club.”
Right. That’s some crazy Old MacDonald shit, if I ever did hear it. That still doesn’t answer my question.
“Are the chickens his nurses?” I snark as I release my favorite chef and take up his pacing for myself.
“It’s gonna be okay, Red,” Rot calls over as he speaks to another brother by the barn door.
I flip him the bird. “Fuck off.”
“Sola,” Mama scolds softly, like it kills him to do it.
“He needs a hospital.” Don’t they understand he needs an MRI or CT scan or whatever it is they use to check your wounds? Maybe an X-ray. He may need donor blood. This is a barn. A chicken shit filled barn. No offense to this so-called doctor, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
“He won’t go to a hospital. There are too many people. They’ll ask too many questions. The lights are too bright,” Mama explains.
“But it’s sterile.”
“Doc has done this before. Trust him.”
No.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know this Doc fella. I can’t trust him. Trust is earned.”
Mama dips his head in resignation as if there’s no use in fighting me. I’m not trying to be an asshole.But he could die, and I don’t want that. Neither do they. A hospital with machines and nurses is a safer bet. This isn’t some movie, where the bad guy gets shot up, drives to a garage in the city, where a wrinkly doctor he’s known forever pours vodka over the wounds and pries the bullets out with a pair of ancient-looking tongs. This is real life.
