Page 3 of Spooked
As Nurse Voldemort completes her assessment of my vitals, I swallow down asking about my future ability to pee, as another, more urgent, question bursts out of me. “When am I going to be allowed out of here?”
Instead of answering directly, she consults the tablet she’s holding in her hand. “Mr. Ockenden.” I cringe at my government name. “Now that you’re conscious and your readings are in a good range, I suspect you’ll be released as soon as our PT therapists assess you can use crutches.” She chuckles, but it sounds evil, not full of mirth. “I do see a lot of physical therapy in your future.”
Maybe, but it won’t be by visiting the hospital. No way. As soon as I’m back at the club, I’ll rely on our own resources. Back in the day, Peg got Sophie, Wraith, our old VP’s,present one now, I remind myself,woman, out of a wheelchair and walking again on a prosthetic after she lost her leg. I’d trust him more than any of these hospital quacks any day, even though he’ll be one hell of a taskmaster.
In many ways, I’m glad I spent the last three weeks unconscious. Hell, I’d never heal if I’d been aware of how many times the nurses come in to disturb my sleep. Then, when I finally fall deep enough to find myself some REM, the breakfast tray comes rattling around at an ungodly hour, waking me yet again. Inwardly, I scream,just get me out of here.
I think I could have gone crazy had not a man and a woman walked in wearing different colour scrubs. Apparently, they are my physiotherapists. After waiting for the nurse to get that demeaning catheter removed, I’m given a lesson on crutches and an exam concerning stairs, which I’m determined to pass. AfterI’ve successfully mastered putting my weight on one leg and using the aids to swing my metal-enhanced leg forward, they sign off on some paperwork. And, bonus, I didn’t wet myself.
Whatever magic they’ve conjured, it results in a doctor appearing, giving me the semi-good news that they want to keep me a little longer to monitor the immediate effects my traumatic brain injury might have caused. Like a good boy, I nodded, raised my chin, shook my head side to side, or whatever their explanation warranted. Most of their conversation went right over my head when they talked about possible headaches, fatigue, memory loss, lack of ability to concentrate, or balance problems. Apparently, it was on the cards that I could suffer confusion, difficulties with puzzle solving, or a hundred different things.
Yeah, yeah.I feel fine. Sure, my head hurts, but that’s only the aftereffects of where I cracked my skull on the ground. It’s a case of picking myself up, brushing myself down, and getting myself reestablished as sergeant-at-arms as soon as I can. I’m a man. I can survive a little knock. All the warnings go in one ear and straight out the other.
I behave. I do everything asked of me, frustrated that their fucking monitors don’t lie. It’s only when they’re finally satisfied that my stats have stabilised that they tell me I can go home the next day, subject to any overnight deteriorations in my condition. You better believe that I willed my blood pressure to stay low, and my heartbeat to remain normal.
Having successfully achieved that task, I place a call that summons Razza, one of our prospects. As soon as he appears, I hurry him along to execute my escape before the medics can come up with an excuse to make me stay.
Before I leave, I get him to wheel me along to the room where Wizard is being kept prisoner. Even though I’ve been told of his injuries, I hiss as I see him lying with both legs held in the air,and Amy, his old lady, fussing around him. The sight hits me like a kick to the teeth. Here I’m complaining about going home on crutches, and he’s got no imminent release date. More accepting than I am of the situation, his comment that he’d rather be this way than dead does knock some sense into me. Even more so when he goes on to explain why he’s surprisingly sanguine about Drummer and the other fucking old guys taking over the officer roles in the club, pointing out to me that we all need to heal before we can resume our duties. The fact that he’s so adamant it’s only a matter of time has me feeling easier in my mind, relieved it’s not me letting the side down.
After promises to visit again soon, I get Razza to take me home.
CHAPTER TWO
HOUND
Home. The Satan’s Devils’ compound. Many years back, a wildfire had all but destroyed a vacation resort just outside of Tucson. Spurned by most people, the Satan’s Devils had purchased the property cheap, spending their time, blood, sweat and tears to do it up so it’s the envy of all chapters of our club. Suites for each member, a swimming pool—it originally had three, but one was filled in and the third, was covered over and is now our weapons store, undiscovered despite numerous Fed searches of the club. At the top end of the compound, we’ve extra land extending into the foothills of the Coronado Mountains, where many members, including myself, have built our homes. It’s an ideal location to recover, a bolthole of my own, and a nearby clubhouse where help can always be found.
A strong family vibe hangs over the club. Since first adopting this as their home, the Satan’s Devils have gained old ladies aplenty and numerous kids as a result. Some of the F.O.G.s even have grandchildren. Of course, we still have sweetbutts for the single men, but as we’re few in number now, they have to do other duties outside of performing on their backs.
I sigh with relief as the prospect drives me through the gates, and don’t protest as he continues up to the clubhouse on thetrack, which is normally reserved only for two-wheel transport. After helping me out of the truck and ensuring I’m balanced on my crutches, he swiftly makes a three-point turn and disappears to park alongside the other cages behind our auto shop.
“Hey, Brother! Told you to keep the shiny side up.” Sporting a shit-eating grin, Rock comes over and pulls me into him, unbalancing me as he slaps my back.
“Careful, fucker.” Marvel comes close and, with a hand to my forearm, sets me straight. “Good to see you back on your fee… foot.” His lips curve in a similar way to our brother’s.
Next, it’s Joker, with his arm around Lady’s shoulder, stepping up. “You look like death, Brother.” Well, if I expected anything positive, I’m to be disappointed.
But hope looms for a second as Lady elbows his man. “Nah, he looks the picture of health.” Then, turning to Joker, he adds, soto voce, “Dead man walking.”
“Fuckers,” I snarl.
“Hey, easy on him, Brothers. Man who cheated the grave can’t help how he looks.” Dollar steps forward and, with his hand on my back, gently encourages me in the direction I want to go—toward the bar.
I’m stopped on the way by the faint whirring of a mobility scooter. As I stand back to let our longest serving prospect pass, I note Tommy’s looking healthier than when I’d last seen him. He’s got more colour and his lingering chest infection that had us so worried seems to have, at last, passed.
He stops in front of me and beckons to my leg. “Hound’s got an owie.”
“Sure have, Brother,” I respond. “But it will mend.”
Tommy chuckles and points to his scooter. “You could get one of these.” He's so damn proud of his ride that’s made to resemble a Harley. I can’t snarl or tell him I’d rather be dead first. Instead, I offer a grin and a nod, tilt my head toward thebar, and, taking the hint, the whirr starts again as Tommy moves out of my way.
At last, I’m in touching distance of what I’ve been longing for. Alcohol might not be the best thing, but that’s what I demand, not giving a damn that it might not mix well with my meds. As I awkwardly get my ass on a bar stool, I nod to the man who comes up by my side.
“How you doing, Hawk?”
In response, he winces, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Broken ribs suck,” he informs me. I grimace in sympathy.
“Hi, Hound.” Olivia, Hawk’s old lady, steps in close, eyeing me carefully, then plants a kiss on my cheek, an action that elicits a growl from her man. “It’s good to have you home.” She then whispers something in Hawk’s ear, which has him grinning. Offering me a salute as a goodbye, the pair turns to leave the clubhouse. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s just offered him something he can’t refuse.
