I’ve been a religious person since the time I can recall...well, being a fucking person. A human. Or the core meaning of being one. Some say it’s because of my mother and the strong Catholic upbringing she had growing up in France and then passed down to me. Some say it’s because of Christ himself and the plan he has for me. While others would say it was from the trials and tests I’ve withstood and the number of times Death’s been at my doorstep. And I’ve walked away. Every damn time.
But, if I had to guess, I’d say it was a paradox of all three.
And yes—you read that correctly. I said, “But if I had to guess.” Meaning I don’t know. Because I couldn’t fucking tell you. I don’t remember. A side effect of one's skull connecting with...oak? I’m trying to remember if that’s the type of tree they said I hit?
I do know that the human body isn’t supposed to stay lodged between a motorcycle and an old oak tree for over forty minutes. I also know that motorcycles aren’t generally used as tourniquets for that long, either. And, when these things happen, there are usually consequences for them. Then again...that’s probably why you’re here. My guess is you’re here for the rest of the story. Well, I’m sorry. You’re not gonna like this one little bit, but when a man is left the hand I was, you make do.
And, apparently, I did. But that’s the part of the story I can’t tell you about. Because I don’t know. Memory loss, remember?
Allegedly, on top of the trauma and the surgeries after the accident, I was also out for forty-five days. In a coma. Yeah, forty-five. Do you know how much muscle atrophy occurs in one week? Now, multiply that shit by six. And you’re still probably not visually able to conjure up how bad I look. How withered away I am. It’s almost sickening.
And what did I hear in those forty-five days? What did I see?
Absolutely nothing. Besides blackness. Complete and utter darkness. I don’t even remember seeing the backs of my own damn eyelids. I just remember a set of dark-brown eyes filtering into my even darker thoughts every now and then. And a prayer. I also remember a prayer being muttered—constantly. And over and over again.
The migraine that’s been splitting its way through my every waking thought this morning isn’t making this shit any easier, either. So sue me if, when the nurse walks in asking if I’m in pain, I tell her yes. That shit’s a ten too. And it is, just not in the general area she’s referring to. But I see no need to tell her my pain radiates from the chest area, not where my stitches are at across my abdomen and back.
I feel the warmth as soon as the IV pain med is pushed, and a few seconds later, the nurse’s little cool hand pats my cheek. I smile before nuzzling my face against it. And, when the warm and fuzzy feeling begins unfurling itself inside my belly, I peek my eyelids open and grin even more when a new, familiar face enters my hospital room.
Because there aren’t many these days. Unfortunately. Roxy—though she’s older and has aged quite a bit more than I last remember—is still familiar to me for some reason. Some made the cut; some didn’t. And the docs can’t explain why.
“Hey you.” My voice comes out more garbled than I intended and wince. “Sorry.” I cough to clear my throat and scoot up in my hospital bed using the heels of my hands.
I haven’t seen Roxy yet. I’ve seen some of the older brothers. Most of them came in the first night I woke up a couple of days ago. And, though they tell me that I’ve only been out of it for two months, I know I’ve been out of it for longer. Or my mind has completely decided to leave me. And we’re still waiting on those fucking test results.
I know these facts: I don’t remember losing Pops. I kinda know Dreads. But not as fondly as he remembers me—or he weighs a friendship much differently than I do. I don’t know the girl who’s gone missing, the kid of King O’Malley’s everyone is looking for. But I do know her sister died and was apparently found and buried, and the authorities are getting nervous because there’ve been no leads. And I only know those last few facts because of what I’ve heard the nurses and docs saying in report as they circle my hospital room.
But all of these facts are nothing more than information I’ve accumulated while listening to the MC brothers talk amongst themselves or when they speak directly to me. At first, I had no idea what the hell they were talking about. And the migraines I’m suffering aren’t make shit any easier. Have you ever had a fucking migraine? You can’t even see! How the fuck is a guy supposed to think? Much less answer questions and shit.
So I was absolutely no help to the authorities when the girl’s mother woke up demanding answers. From me of all fucking people!
And then, from what the authorities suggest, the girl’s best friend, a guy named Ty, says that she was with me the last time he saw her. But I’m not lying when I fucking tell you I don’t know shit. Aside from what my MC brothers have told me, I don’t know anything about any girl named Eve O’Malley.
“I can’t believe you’re awake.”
Roxy’s voice cuts into my rambling thoughts, and I narrow my eyes back on hers. Really, I’m unable to fucking trust anyone at this point. Because I don’t seem to remember the last ten. But when real tears fall down her face, my defenses start lowering towards her.
“Shh,” I whisper across the room and pat my hospital bed. “Come here, Rox. It’s okay. Don’t cry. You know I hate that shit.” I’m forced to cough again around the rough feeling left in my throat from the tube that kept me breathing for the last two months. “How’s the club doing? Besides what the guys say about King and his guys taking up shop or the damn girl who’s missing, I haven’t heard anything else. How are things?” I fucking hate myself, but if I can’t be real with Roxy, I don’t know who I can be real with. Not right now. Not when I’m this helpless without my memory, and not when I’m left in this defenseless, weakened physical state. “How’s things—since Pops?” I cough, and this time, it has nothing to do with having been previously intubated.
“What?” Her tone is whispered, a hint of hope in her voice. “Since Pops?” Her weight settles next to me on the hospital bed, and her hands frame my face at the same time her dark-blue eyes land on mine before searching. Fervently searching. For something. “What the fuck do you mean, Jacques? Since Pops?”
I realize that my brothers haven’t had the heart to tell her. At least not yet. They’re probably being respectful. And waiting on the results of the MRIs and CTs.
“I don’t—I can’t.” I shake my head around another migraine resurfacing before I’m ready for it to. “Dammit. The bitch nurse must’ve gipped me on my dose.” I stab my call bell with my pointer finger and shove Roxy away.
I suddenly feel like she’s suffocating me. Like I can’t breathe. And that shit doesn’t kosher very well with the lump lodged in my already raw throat.
“Just back the fuck up,” I say. “Okay? I can’t breathe.”
The weight against my chest releases its hold when she stands and steps away from the hospital bed. And it seems to get better the closer she gets to the chair across the room.
“Thanks. Sorry.” I shake my head again before allowing it to fall back into my hands.
When the nurse finally answers her freaking call bell, I ask for some pain meds. Again. But I’m notified that it’ll be another two hours before I can have anything else.
“Fuck,” I mutter in the quiet room. After a few beats of silence, I explain. Or fucking try to. “I have headaches. Bad. Sever, headaches. That I can’t even see through, much less breathe or think.” When I look back up at Roxy, I smirk before winking at her. “I don’t mean to be such a dick, sweetheart. I really don’t. I’ve got a splitting fucking headache and a sneaky suspicion that it has something to do with a fuck-ton of memory loss I seem to have acquired in my accident. I don’t really even recall my last memory. I just remember Pops was there. That’s all I fucking remember too, because I’m not getting past the fact that he’s not here now.”
The room is so quiet that I barely can make out her breathing. She keeps looking down, and if it weren’t for the tears that keep trying to fall over her lashes, I’d think she was trying to hide something from me.
“I thought I’d lost you, Jacques. I’ve been beside myself. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat…”
I scan down her body, and for the first time, I note how much weight she’s lost. But I can’t afford her any pleasantries like a shoulder to cry on. Not right now. Not with the excruciating headache taking up residence in my frontal cortex, and not with the anxiety crawling its way up my throat when she moves nearer to me. I need to figure some shit out. A lot of shit. And that anxiety? It ain’t what you think it is. I mean, yes—I’m under a fuck-ton of stress. But anxiety like this doesn’t affect me. Never. That’s one fact I don’t have to remember or be retaught. I just know it. Like I know I’m a religious man. Just as I know I’m human. And that I have parents. And a club of brothers behind me. Always there. Supporting me. Gathering around me, rallying behind me. And that may be the reason why, but anxiety like this—I know that it doesn’t bother me—nor has it ever. Or gotten under my skin.
And I don’t have to relearn that shit. I just know it.
So no—this isn’t about anxiety or stress. This is just an old-fashioned gut feeling. And I also know I always fucking follow my instinct. Pops and Ma taught me that shit.
“You didn’t lose me, Rox. I’m here. I just don’t remember a lot of shit.” I wink at her, mostly to flirt and make sure she’s still in my pocket, but also in an effort to gauge whether or not we’re still an on-again-off-again thing. I don’t recall that in the vague spotty parts of my memory. But I do still know Rox. And I know when she’s lying. “But I remember enough. That’s for fuck’s sure.” I chuckle. “So the club—what can you tell me about it?” Now, I’m blatantly digging for information. I don’t have time, and I’m certain of that because it’s been almost four hours since Dreads was here. And that stubborn bastard never lets more than four hours go by. He’s clockwork, that one.
Rox stands before moving her chair closer to the side of my bed. When she gets it close enough, and thankfully not too close, she settles back into it and reaches for my hands. I have to stop myself from pulling away from her and trying to stand. Possibly try my new legs out at pacing even though I just started standing yesterday—with assistance. But hell, there’s always a starting point. Instead, I clench my jaw and revert my gaze to the linoleum floor as she searches my face again.
“You don’t remember? Like...since your pops? You don’t remember?”
My anger swells. My anger at the situation. My anger at having woken up two days ago unable to remember shit. And my anger at Pops for leaving. But mostly at Unc for having started all this bullshit. And Ben. Ohhhh...Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Am I pissed at Ben? I allow that anger to swell and have no issues when it snaps and its her head that gets taken off with it.
“No. Nor do I remember where the hell Ben’s at. So, if you could start squawking answers instead of flapping your gums and spitting out bullshit in between, that’d be great.” I hover my finger over the call bell. “I’ve called security on the candy-striper kid who keeps coming in here, trying to look up my gown. Don’t think I won’t ask them to be called on my own family. Now, act like the sister your father raised you to be. I’m asking you as a brother, Rox. I’m asking because I don’t know who the fuck I can trust. Are you following me?” I pierce her eyes with mine. “Please tell me I can still count on your loyalty, Rox.”
I just need someone I know to be someone I can trust.
When Dreads knocks twice before walking in it abruptly interrupts our conversation, and I almost lose my shit right there.
“Hey, bro.” He smiles towards me. Then he glances at Rox before narrowing his eyes on her. “You!” His finger stabs through the air. “Get the fuck out. I need to talk to him and I don’t need you or any of your bullshit anywhere around. Especially right now. I still haven’t figured out how you play into this. Or how much of the shit you told your pops is concordant with the truth. And, until then, it’s close quarters with him. I say who comes and goes from this point on. Not you. This club’s already been burned by one member. You need to tell him something? Tell your pops. He can hear it from Clutch just as good as he can hear it from you. Now, get the fuck out, Roxy. I don’t wanna see your goddamn face until he remembers the last phone conversation between the two of you!”
It takes a lot. Like...a hole through my tongue. And the duration of time I’m forced to stare between the two of them, trying to assess who’s really here on my behalf. Who's more loyal? Why is Dreads so damn pissed at her? And which one of them is here for fully selfish reasons alone? I’m trying to read between the words that aren’t being said in front me, all while a splitting headache surges through the dilating vessels of my frontal cortex. And I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced it before, but it’s a lot. And I suffer through it quietly.
In the end, when Rox is the one who tucks her tail and silently makes her way from my hospital room before closing the door behind her, I’m left staring through my bloodshot eyes at Dreads.
“Good. The answers’ll do just fine from you too, then.” I remain focused and center my attention on him. “We don’t need her present for this. What’s up with the club? Cut the bullshit, Daniel. What happened to Pops? Why is he gone? No one will even tell me what happened. It’s like they’re scared to know how much I fucking don’t. And you keep showing back up like fucking clockwork. So you want the burden of truth? You’ll have it.” I kick the chair Roxy was sitting in. “Sit. I hope you don’t have much in the way of plans, because I do. And they all involve answers. From you. Now, let’s fucking chat.”
I like this guy already. I can tell because he wears his emotions on his sleeve. He’s pissed. And flustered. And obviously here to talk about something else. But he has enough respect for me that it’s second nature enough for him to only huff before doing as I said.
“I’m sorry, bro. My fucking fuse is shorter than shit, man.” He shakes his head then settles his light-brown eyes on me. “Your pops...died damn near ten years ago. So, how’s the club since then? It’s fucking shit. But it was much, much worse two months ago. The shit with Chase and Ben. And the No Colors. Then the shit with Vagabond…”
His words trail off, but my thoughts don’t. Mainly because I didn’t know we we’re fucking talking about ten goddamn years until just now! And that gives me a lot less of something I already didn’t have. Not when I just lost that many damn years of it!
“Fucking ten?! And who’s a vagabond?” I ask. “Ben is? I thought we’d worked that shit out? I thought he’d stopped his nomadic ways. Where’s his pops at? Where’s Chase?” I squeeze my eyes shut, which doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the tears caused by the ache. I do it to help dampen the pain. Then I breathe around my rising blood pressure. “Daniel!” I bark at the prospect when he doesn’t answer. My anger spikes further when his procrastinating along with my patience begin to wane. “The fuck? You procrastinating, prospect?”
When he bolts from the chair, it slides back a good two feet. “Dreads!” He hollers as he points to the patch on his cut. The one in the upper left corner.
It’s got some wear on the edges. Meaning it’s probably been ten damn years at least since it was sewn on.
“I’m not a fucking prospect anymore. Respect. Show me some while I show you the damn answers you want so badly. You want to know what I do? You want some help? Quit biting my head off every time I try and talk to you!” After he adjusts his chair, he takes the seat again. Only now four feet away from my hospital bed. “It’s not good. I don’t know shit about Ben, and we can’t trust Rox as far as we can throw her. Not even that far. Half that far. She packed up or said something along those lines to you. I know Eve felt pretty strongly that you wouldn’t just up and leave her for Rox that night. I also know Roxy spouted some shit to some of the other brothers’ old ladies. As far as we know, she’s on Ben’s side. So don’t listen to shit she says. As for the shit with your vagabond—”
I go to stand, mainly because I need him to slow down. But also because I need him to stop him. Right fucking there. But, when my knees buckle under my weight, I’m forced to sit my ass directly back down. Damn the luck, and this being the first time I’ve attempted to stand without my nurse. Or my physical therapist.
“Shit,” I mutter, cursing for many, many different reasons. But the top contender? My physical weakness. And my mental. Okay, all of my weaknesses are pissing me off. “Who the fuck is this vagabond you keep speaking of? And why does it feel like you have some stock in who they are?” I accuse. “Because I can’t recall a ‘vagabond.’” I make air quotes around the last word as if it’s offensive. “And why won’t you answer me about my damned uncle?!”
“Vagabond is King O’Malley’s kid daughter, Eve. The girl that’s missing—Ilsa’s kid? The one the authorities keep coming and trying to question you about.” He blankly stares at me, and I wonder where the emotions that were just on his sleeve went.
“Okay? And?!” I motion for him to continue. “How the fuck do we know her? And why are you calling her ‘Vagabond’?” I ask before remembering the important question. “And where the fuck is my unc?”
A knock on the door interrupts us, and I swear to mother Mary herself I’m going to be doing Hail Marys for next damn twelve years if I can’t get some consecutive constructive answers from this goddamn conversation.
That or I’ll start strangling people when I get my strength back. But, first, I’ll have to work on my strength. Fuck!
“That’s why I need to fucking find Ben. He’s the key here, bro. That’s what I keep trying to tell you. Your unc was found shot in the face. And it could be No Colors behind it. I like that assumption more than it being Ben who killed his own flesh and blood. Either way, he was found in O’Malley’s back yard. King, not the girl. And I’m not the motherfucker calling her Vagabond. Or Pipsqueak. I never have been. Those are your damn pet names for her. Not mine. I’m just as fucking lost here as you. All I’m doing is trying to relay information the best way I can. Don’t kill the messenger, bro.”
When the doctor steps in, he smiles first towards Daniel ‘Dreads’ Burgh, the only person besides Ben I guess I can trust at this point. I mentally stop my thoughts and glance back at the prospect and only other brother who’ll respectfully talk to me about the shit that’s going on instead of talking around me. Then I look him up and down. From his pale-blond dreadlocks to his light-brown eyes and his pale complexion in between.
“Thank you, Dreads. For your loyalty. Stick around. I’ll have Doc come and find you when he’s done looking at my stitches and scanning over my chart. This conversation isn’t over as far as I’m concerned,” I tell the younger man, who looks the age I feel. “How fucking old am I?” I chuckle asking him.
But my doctor speaks up, answering for him. “You’ll be thirty-seven. Next month.” The old man smiles, but I can’t. Because he may as well have just kicked me in the gut.
“Thirty-what?” I ask before swallowing the now-larger lump lodged in my throat.