Page 33 of Spooked
Hound thinks it’s his brain playing tricks on him. I think it’s something else. Rather than something to be feared, it could be a portal has opened to him. Or, it was always there, and his damaged synapses have finally let him see it.
“Mouse!” Drummer, standing by the bar, raises his hand and beckons me over. I steer my companion that way. He raises his chin as I draw close. “Was wondering where you got to, Mouse. Coke.” The last, accompanied by a head jerk, is to the prospect behind the bar. Then, to the man accompanying me, “Beer, Hound?” As Hound nods, the prospect has a bottle opened and ready without being asked.
Me with my soda, Hound, now perched on the barstool with his beer, and Drummer sipping sedately at his notorious top-shelf scotch, we drink in comfortable silence for a moment.
“Brothers,” comes a deep voice.
I don’t need to turn to identify the speaker. It’s Peg. As he comes alongside, I see Blade has entered with him.
When Drummer, Peg, Wraith and Blade had stepped down from their officer roles, I’d have been willing to go with them, but while Wizard, our prez, my brother-in-law’s computer skills now exceed mine, I was asked to stay on. Not that I’ve ever been an official officer, but I’ve an important tech role on the team. Likewise, Dollar, our treasurer, wasn’t allowed to retire, as there was no one better to take his role.
But it’s a bit like old times now, us F.O.G.s, as the youngsters call us, sticking together and, while the young‘uns heal, take back the direction of the club.
“Hey, Wraith,” Drummer calls out. “Wondered if you were going to join the party.”
“Not much of a fuckin’ party,” Wraith comments as he draws close, accepting the beer the prospect offers. He glances at me, Peg, Drummer, and then Blade. “Thought we’d at least have some fun while the young ‘uns were getting themselves together. This place has been quiet as the grave.”
Blade flexes his arthritic hands, grimacing as he does so. “Be careful what you wish for,VP.”His mouth quirks. Like the rest of them, Wraith’s only stepping back into this role temporarily.
Hound murmurs something into his beer.
“What was that, Bro?” Peg asks.
“I said you can have your old job back permanently. I won’t be riding as sergeant-at-arms again.” As mouths fall open around him, he pauses, then adds, “If I ride at all.”
“Snap out of it, man,” Drummer barks. “Sure, you’ve got enough metal in your leg to set off a detector at twenty feet, but you’ll heal and will be riding again.”
Peg’s face is going red. “You’ve got a broken leg, Hound. Bad as it might be, at least you’ve got two working lower limbs. You really want to go there when it’s me you’re talking to?”
Uh uh.Peg’s been living and riding with a prosthetic leg for years. Never stopped him from being the best damn sergeant-at-arms in the club.
As Hound raises his hand to his head, I go to preempt whatever he’s going to say with a warning. Moving in close, I hiss at him, “Don’t say a fuckin’ word.” But I know he’s not going to heed me. “Hound,” I growl again.
Drummer’s steely eyes harden as he looks from me to Hound. “What’s going on?”
But at the precise moment Hound opens his mouth to probably lay the extent of what he perceives to be his brain injury in front of them, instead of speaking, his eyes glaze over, his jaw slackens, and as if in slow motion, he slips to the floor. If it wasn’t for Drummer’s quick thinking, he’d have fallen flat on his face. As it is, our temporary prez gently lets him down to the ground.
“Call 911,” Peg barks to the prospect.
“No!” I say sharply.
“No? What the fuck do you mean?” His steely eyes bore into me as he repeats his request. “Call for a bus, Prospect.”
“Put the damn phone down,” I yell at Razza. “Drummer, there are things you don’t know.”
“I fuckin’ know I’ve got an injured man lying unconscious on the floor,” he growls. As he starts to gesture to Razza again, I grab hold of his hand.
He swings me around and has my back against the bar. “You want him to die?”
“Fuck no I don’t want that. But there’s more to this, Drummer.”
“You better start fuckin’ talking, Mouse.” He holds onto the side of my cut and shakes me.
I speak fast. “Hound thinks he’s suffering from a TBI, but that’s not all that’s going on, Prez.” At his raised brow,I continue, “Bullet sent him to visit the Sullivan House, an abandoned mansion in the foot of the hills. He was fine until he went there, and a fuckin’ mess since he came back. There’s something wrong there, Drummer.”
He straightens, sending a look to Peg, then to Wraith and Blade. “What are they doing at that fuckin’ house? Making meth?”
Taking a breath to centre myself, I try to find the words that could possibly help me explain the situation to my brothers in the club. They’re one hundred percent Anglo, brought up differently from me, without the Native blood running in their veins. Had I not been taken to the reservation when I was a teen, I’d have probably been viewing the situation exactly the same as them.
