Page 6 of Jasper
He rushes by asking, “Tell me everything you can remember.”
I think for a second before answering him. “They didn’t ride like newbies, that’s for damn sure. They rode in tight formation and seemed both coordinated and disciplined. One of them was carryin’ a P90.”
Rock’s brow lifts. “Military grade.”
“Yeah. It made me think they might be ex-military or have a history with the cartels.”
Stitch wipes away the blood and gives a low whistle.
“What’s the verdict? I feel like I lost a lot of blood.”
“It’s a clean tear. It’s close to your femoral artery. That means you’re gonna have to stay off your bike after I stitch this up and let it heal. If you tear open the femoral artery, you’ll bleed out in around three minutes flat.”
“I’m not stayin’ off my bike, shithead,” I grind out, hissing when he starts disinfecting the wound.
“Yes, you damn well are,” my old man snarls, clearly upset I just name-called one of my own club brothers. “Your bike will need repairs after a crash like this.”
I open my mouth to object, but he cuts me off. “Not another word, son.”
“Hold still,” Stitch mutters.
I grumble back, “Try havin’ someone dig next to your nuts with a fuckin’ needle and we’ll see how quiet you are.” I’m upset because literally nothing is going my way today.
My old man’s mouth twitches. “Got jabbed too close to the family jewels, did ya?”
“Hell, the fuck no, I did not,” I tell him indignantly. “It was a good two inches away.”
“Damn close call if you ask me,” he replies. “You should be more careful in the future. Your ma’s got her heart set on getting grandkids outta you and I know you don’t want to disappoint Queenie.”
“Fuckin’ hell, that’s the last thing I want.”
“Then today is your lucky day,” Stitch quips, as he begins gathering up his medical trash and pulling off his rubber gloves.“Your family jewels are just fine and as long as you stay off that leg for a week or two, you’ll be golden.”
He grabs his bag and comes to his feet to leave, with a bottle in his hands. Take two pills every eight hours for pain, but only if you need it. I’ll come back and check that wound in a few days. In the meanwhile, change out your bandages every day and if it looks like it’s getting infected shoot me a text.
I immediately throw two pills in my mouth, standing there in my old man’s office with my pants still down around my ankles. As he turns to walk away, I say, “Sorry for callin’ you a shithead, when you are in fact one the smartest brothers I know.”
He gives me a good natured grin. “Pain can humble even the biggest and strongest of us.”
“Them are fighting words,” I tease, as I pull my jeans up and snap them into place.
He chuckles, “Lie to yourself if you like, but I know better.”
The moment the door closes behind him, I turn to my old man, “We need to get after these fuckers. Root them out before they have a chance to get comfortable in our town.”
“Agreed. As the club’s VP, you can get right on that by getting your brothers into the war room, right goddam now.”
I immediately pull out my phone and send them all a group alert to come right away. My old man and I head back to wait on them. I’m limping along behind him every step of the way. I normally limp a little from an old war wound, so having a fresh would means that limp is even more pronounced. I hate limping because I think it makes me look weak.
Slate, our Sergeant-at-Arms and my second-oldest brother arrives first. He’s built like a truck and is the only one of us with a fuckin’ buzz cut. If it weren’t for that he’d still be noticeable because of the permanent scowl he wears all day long, every day. Slate still thinks his fists can solve all his problems. Diplomatic, he is not.
Mica, the second youngest, shows up next. He crunches numbers in his head, like the rest of us do on a calculator. That’s why our old man made him the club’s treasurer. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, I sit up and pay attention. He’s the one with the poker face that even I can’t read.
Onyx arrives last. We’re used to him bringing up the rear. He’s the youngest and our club secretary, still sharp as glass despite looking like he rolled out of a tattoo shop and into a knife fight.
No one talks as they take their seats around the long, beat-to-hell table in the back of the war room. It’s a small conference room behind our main meeting room that we use when the club officers want to talk privately. Everyone knows when a sit-down gets called like this, it’s not over beer and bullshit.
Rock doesn’t sit. He stands at the head of the table silent and strong. His gaze moves over each of us before landing back on me.
