Page 4 of Spooked
Fuck, I don’t even think I could cope with a blow job right now. Probably make my skull explode.
As Jekyll takes his place, I pre-empt any comment on my appearance, but, having noticed who’s not around, ask, “How’s Throttle doing?”
Jekyll smirks. “He was here earlier, then Gwen pulled him away to nurse him back to health.” From his nudge and wink, I have to assume at least Throttle’s dick is in working order.
One by one, other brothers and their old ladies step up, either to give me shit or offer sympathy relative to their gender. I tap the bar. Butcher, the prospect on duty tonight, places what must be my fourth shot of Jack in front of me without me having to ask.
Whether it’s the alcohol or me being upright for so long in weeks, I soon feel myself fading.
“Whoa, Bro.” Bullet notices I’m about to fall off the stool. “Let’s get you situated so you can get some rest.”
I don’t want to be treated like an invalid, but I have to accept that’s what I am. Despondently, I accept Bullet’s assistance to get my crutches under me, and stagger a little as I try to take my own weight.Maybe the Jack wasn’t such a good idea after all.Knowing I won’t be able to navigate the distance up to my house without help, I don’t complain as Bullet continues to offer aid. The short distance feels like a marathon, and having reached my limits, as my only thought is getting to my bed and crashing, I don’t object when he helps me up the stairs and into my bedroom. Thankfully, he leaves me alone to undress.
Once he’s gone, I collapse onto my bed, utterly worn out from the day’s exertions. It’s not long before I realise the benefit of the catheter I’d so despised, now it’s gone. My bladder is full, but to go to the en suite bathroom, I’ve got to get my crutches under me once again.Fuck my life.I hate this. Hate being disabled. Hate that I can’t be the sergeant-at-arms, can’t prove that I can look out for the club when I can barely look after myself. And that sleep I looked forward to, uninterrupted by visits of nurses? Nowhere to be found. I tossed and turned all night.
The next day dawns, and if anything, my mood becomes worse. I attend the weekly church, having to watch Peg back in the seat that I’d earned, worrying that the old man might get too comfortable there and decide to permanently come out of retirement and stay. It’s not as if the meeting is interesting, being basic business. Our now four-week-old accident was put down as just that, and seemingly forgotten. I’d rather have an enemy I could face and blame for making me as useless as I am. But it appears there’s nothing I can rail against. When I try to come up with a reason they should continue their investigation, every suggestion I make, every lead I suggest, has already been exhausted and dismissed.
Not one for being idle, the next day I take myself laboriously down to the shop where I usually work, but Blade soon shoos me away. Although both of my arms are in working order, my reliance on crutches means I’m a liability rather than a help. My gut clenches at the sight of my bike in pieces, knowing she can be put back together, but hating to see others doing the rebuild that I’m currently unable to do. I hop/limp away and run into Peg in the clubhouse. When I ask him to help me with my physical therapy, he informs me he’s spoken to my doctors, and they’ve advised I’m not to put too much strain on my leg until the bones have fused.
Fuck my life.
I return to my house and watch mindless television, finding nothing that holds my interest for more than a short while. When I attempt to find company, even being at the clubhouse annoys me, brothers going about their business without the handicaps that I suffer. Throttle makes an appearance, along with Hawk. Both of them seem happy their old ladies are coddling them and not looking like they’re missing their commitments one bit. When I find myself envying Tommy’s ease of movement using his mobility scooter to get around, I give up on seeking out company, return to my house, and go to bed early. I feel like a failure, unable to will my body to heal faster than even I know is physically possible.
Sunday passes in much the same vein. When the sun rises on yet another day, I wake, feeling so out of sorts, I realise I can’t go on like this. I’m not used to inactivity, to feeling useless, having nothing to do, and having no purpose. As I assess my options, it occurs to me that while I can’t ride a bike, it’s my left leg that’s immobile, and although I hate the feeling of being trapped in a cage, I can still drive.
The hospital had seemed like a prison to me, and the compound feels constricting as well. I can’t work in the shop,but perhaps I can contribute in one of our other businesses in Tucson? A waiter on crutches would be worth fuck, so the Wheel Inn, our bar and restaurant, is out. There’s never a lack of brothers willing to help out at the Satan’s Angels strip club, and as a bouncer, I’d be shit right now, so I don’t even contemplate that. At our tattoo shop? Fuck no. I’d send business away rather than gain it, which leaves SD Construction. I’m desperate, surely there’s something I could do there. Maybe showing prospective customers around some of the malls we’ve built, or other successful businesses? Hell, even answering phones on reception would be better than the nothing I’m doing now.
It’s more the thought of gaining some independence, rather than optimism that I’d actually be a help to anyone, that gets me into one of the club's SUVs and heading into Tucson. Glancing up at the building as I approach, I can’t help but feel admiration. The offices of SD Construction are impressive, even to my untrained eyes. It’s one of the club’s oldest and main achievements, with a solid reputation and is gaining in respectability since Zane, Drummer’s second son, joined them as a quickly rising, respected architect.
I feel out of place as I push open the glass door and enter the air-conditioned reception. When I approach the desk and give my name, it feels like only seconds before Shooter appears, clasping my hand, pulling me in for a back slap and leading me to the elevator. He presses the button, which takes us to the floor where it’s immediately apparent the main business is done. I follow him into an impressive office, the walls draped with design drawings and photos. Bullet stands, comes toward me, and greets me in the same way Shooter had just done. He pulls back, and as he assesses me, I realise the last time he’d seen me was when he’d put me to bed on Thursday night. His quick nod lets me know he sees an improvement in my condition. Without uttering the tedious enquiries about my health, for which I’meternally grateful, he motions me to a comfortable-looking chair, and assists me by taking my crutches and propping them against the wall.
It's Shooter who speaks first. “Good to see you back on your feet.” He pauses, quickly changing his chuckle into a more polite cough before he corrects, “Foot. To what do we owe this dubious pleasure?”
“Asshole,” I huff into my hand, but make sure it’s loud enough for him to hear me.
Shooter shrugs. “Can’t recall you ever visiting before.”
Bullet barks a laugh. “No need to ask why, Brother. Before, he wasn’t cursed with limited mobility and could do anything he wanted. Riding, fixing bikes and breaking heads is more our sergeant-at-arms’ style.” His shrewd eyes narrow. “I’m betting you’re bored,” he surmises correctly. Then he grins. “Just so happens we have a job that we could use some input on.”
Shooter’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “We have?”
Ignoring him and focusing on his business partner, I make my voice casual. “Yeah?” I try for a disinterested tone, rather than appear to be the overly eager broken man attempting to be useful again.
Bullet’s attention turns to Shooter, who’s still looking perplexed. He utters just two words, which have the effect of Shooter’s face brightening like the sun suddenly reappearing from behind clouds. “Sullivan House.”
Shooter wastes no time leaping to his feet, approaching a filing cabinet, and rifling through it before finally selecting one and tossing the file at me while grinning widely.
Automatically catching the cardboard folder, I make sure no papers fall out. For a moment, I just stare at the documents in my hand. I wanted something to do, but the fact they’ve come up with this so fast makes me suspicious, and Shooter’s gleefulreaction has me wondering just what the hell type of job they could have for a disabled man.
CHAPTER THREE
HOUND
Tentatively opening the file as warily as if I were approaching a nervous dog, I slide out the papers. I spare a glance at Shooter, then Bullet, both men who’ve been far longer in the club than I have, and in the construction business for twenty years or more. Both men’s expressions are now blank and guarded, and neither gives me comfort this isn’t some kind of hazing. It makes me doubt why I bothered to come here. If I’m useless as a mechanic, what the fuck did I think I could offer to the club’s construction business, of which I know nothing except for the dollars it adds to our bottom line?
While not retired officers, Bullet and Shooter have been Devils since well before my time. They’re F.O.G.s in everything but name and, like the others, fucking with younger brothers is often their game.They wouldn’t do that to an injured comrade, would they?
I don’t fucking know. But mentally preparing myself for the worst while having absolutely no idea what might have landed in my hands, I steel myself to look down, inwardly relieved when I note the first page is an innocent picture. It’s just a house. I sigh with relief, then examine it some more. The word “house” barely describes it. It’s a goddamn mansion—colonial style, withcolumns, not that common around here, more akin to the East Coast. Studying it closer, it appears to have been abandoned for years. Overgrown creepers cover the front and block light from some of the windows. As for the grounds, I suspect they were once expansive and manicured, but now nature’s taken over, and what’s left of any previous glamour has all disappeared.
