APOLLO:

Rehab was a son of a bitch.

It was punishment pure and simple, from detox to regaining the motion in your arm after being shot.  Nobody could convince me otherwise.

It was worth it but it hurt like a bitch. An asshole was about to kill my Guardian brother and his lady. Shit, it wasn't anything for me to put him down. I’d killed before, during my time in the army and after I’d been discharged. Mostly self-defense shit but the one that haunted me was Turo. He was my bunkmate when we were in stationed in Afghanistan. Our operation was compromised and by the time I caught up with him, his legs had been blown to bits, there was a hole in his stomach and his left eye was not there. The man begged me to end it for him. He said there was no more life in him, and he wasn’t going to make it. Some would have called it a mercy killing but I recall it as a torture for me.

That ordeal kept me up most nights, which is why I never minded working surveillance at night. The evenings have a certain calm which provide a pleasant relief while in the darkness. There was no need to be 'on' or even on display; it allowed someone like me to just be. I could fit in like everyone else and avoid the hassles that came with daylight. The clarity and brightness of daylight enjoyed by others can be all consuming anguish for a man struggling with his own darkness. The majority of my life was dark, at least until the Guardians, more specifically Razor.

Mom and pop had died in a car accident when I was seventeen. A tractor trailer had crushed them and both caskets were kept closed at the funeral. The only family I had left were my cousins who lived a few towns over. Once I graduated high school, I was at the nearest recruiter’s office because my anger was about to get me in some major shit, even though I’d wanted to right the wrongs of the world. I also wanted to right the wrongs in my world, which I couldn’t. Being a part of a team was great for me but after a while, burn out started to peek through in various forms of mental disorders including obsessive disorders, depression and antisocial behavior. 

Once I was off active duty, I found another group to join up with, the Guardians, but they weren’t half the team as the guys I served with. Well, not until Razor took over. I was a Guardian in the Manor chapter before he got there but I wasn't really doing shit. Barely came to any meetings but stayed for the parties. Never really said much to anyone which allowed me to fly under the radar with my personal issues. After Razor took over the club, he met with every single member with a list of documented accomplishments or infractions, and talked about where he wanted to take the club. Our meeting was brief but always had a lasting effect because it seemed he knew more about me than he let on.

Razor started to invite me out to various events; meetings with other clubs, introductions and shit. He brought me along with him when he first traveled and visited the local businesses and other non-profit establishments. One night, after a few beers and pills, I asked him what the fuck he was doing dragging me all over the place.

He looked at me with those piercing grey eyes and said, "Waiting for that leader to show up."

Then Razor walked away from me and joined the rest of the guys in the back of our broke-down bar, at the time called The Spot. His words continued to haunt me every time I thought about our leader talking about waiting for another leader to show up. At first, I was pissed because I was offended but later I was intrigued; not enough to clean my shit up but enough to sober up and hide my addiction better.

At least I thought I was.

After missing one of Razor's meet and greets because I was sleeping off a combination of shit, he broke down my door in the compound early one morning. The look on his face said it all and he said the words that would have either ended my tenure with the Guardians or forced me to do something besides just hang out there.

"Apollo, you want to be a real Guardian? It seems you want to enjoy the perks but you don't want to commit. Where I'm trying to take this group, I need a full commitment and if you're unwilling to give that, then I don't need you here. I need men that are skilled, trained and fucking alert."

He saw the pills spilled out on my desk and on the floor. Fire seemed to come from his eyes. In standard behavior for any addict, I donned a look of innocent confusion and started to explain.

"Those are for my injury from war. I only ..."

Razor started to rise from his seated position and sneered, "Don't you dare fucking lie to me. Not you of all the fucking people I know. Not you."

Therefore I shut up, because he was right. I’ve never lied to him before. I didn't say much but if my opinion was asked, I said how I felt, always. Bronx and I shared that quality. 

Razor stood up and sighed. "I'm trying to do something with this club. I could use your help, but not like this." He shook his head. "You want to be a part of that change? You go away, get your shit together and then come find me. I won't leave another option out there because if you can go and serve your country, serve these men and fight like the devil gone mad; I know you can clean out. This shit," he pointed to the desk, “is for weak people. You, my brother, are anything but that."

Then he was gone.

The very next day, I was in a different sort of rehab. Not a standard rehab facility but with my bible-toting cousins who had the patience of Job. With me screaming, yelling and being nasty for over a month, they prayed for my soul, wouldn't let me leave and I cleaned out. I had no woman who cared for me to help, no friends who bothered and a President who left me no other real choice. I'd always respected Razor for his line in the sand that day.

Even when I came back, almost two months later, I tried to bring it up and thank him. Razor wouldn’t let me. All he said was, "That's what real families do. What brothers do."

My president pulled me in for a hug.

That was nine years ago and I've had his back since then. Always will. Anyone step out of line about him, I put them in their place. Anyone act like they had problems, I was there to end whatever they thought about starting. I knew Razor could hold his own. He also had Bronx, who was an ex-MMA fighter; so the Pres was always protected. Razor probably had some grand plan all along about making me the Sergeant at Arms, because that meant I was the protector of not just him but all my brothers as well as the enforcer. None of this was a problem for me and that was one thing about Razor that no President had ever done before. He put people in the best place for them. Not just have a warm body but one that was skilled, equipped and ready for their duty. This made him an extraordinary leader. Though the club was divided when Shark left because he wasn't the new president, people followed Razor and were loyal because Pres or not, he cared, he led, and he sacrificed.

*****

"FUCK," I YELLED OUT loud. "What the fuck are you trying to do? Break my arm?"

Donna had my sore arm bent and tilted slightly above my head.  It wouldn't extend anymore and she seemed to be leaning on.

"I'm sorry, honey." She placed it back down and said, "It would help if you took the pain killers. I promise."

Fuck that.

"Listen, I done told you already. I ain't takin’ that shit," I sneered.

Her face lowered as she kissed my shoulder then trailed up to my ear as she murmured, "That's right. I'm sorry. I'll make it all better."

Then her hand moved to my crotch and that shut up any protest that even wandered into my mind.

Once she finished making it all better, she left and I stayed in my room where I'd been holing up lately. I couldn't really go out on the missions, and I was in pain half of the time so there was no need to try to even be silent company.

However, brothers were brothers and I couldn't get any rest. They were constantly knocking on my door, bringing food and shit. They even had their women, especially Shay, coming to bring breakfast.  She just wanted to test her nursing skills on me. The more I got to know her, the more I liked her. Razor had always liked her but he was someone who kept independent thinkers around him; especially the vocal ones. She fit that bill to a tee. Bronx had been in love with her for years and they had finally gotten together and were to be married soon. 

I kept trying to tell Shay that she didn't owe me for killing the guy who was about to kill my brother, Bronx. She said she wasn't coming by because of that but I knew it had to be the only reason. She didn't bother me because she talked a lot which meant I didn't have to, and she said the craziest shit.

"You fucking that nurse?" Shay asked one day.

"Yeah," I replied.

"She don't strike me as your type." She kept flipping through the channels.

"Don't have a type." I watched the stations fly by with one blank screen after another.

"Doubt that. Every man has a type, even if they don't know it yet." I saw her head turn towards me. "But she looks a little loose."

"I ain't marrying her Shay."

"Okay, okay." She started flipping again. "Just saying, I ain't feeling her and I know you don't really give a fuck but I don't give one that you don't."

I burst out laughing. "What did you just say?"

"Just saying," she laughed. "I don't care that you don't care, I'm just telling ya."

"Point taken, Shay."

"Good, now what the fuck do you want to watch. My finger is starting to hurt."

I shook my head and probably had one side of my mouth tilted up to keep from laughing. The woman was a handful but she was Bronx's handful and he loved every goddamn bit of her. I never envied he and Razor for finding love. The Pres fell hard for Kylie, who happens to be best friends with Shay. She is a singer, a damn good one at that. However, after her mom fell ill, she came off the road to take care of her. Then she had some trouble so the Guardians were called in and their story started. They were married earlier this year. Anyone who meets them knows they’re in love. I never envied them.  But, sitting in my fucking room injured with no woman but the nurse who was paid to take care of me, who'd fuck me and then leave; well, that would get any man thinking about his future. If not that then the fact that when all the cards have been dealt, it's nice to have someone there just to shoot the shit with you. Someone that would stay. Someone that would be my handful.