It’s after two in the morning when I finally pack up my shit and get ready to head home. It’s been a great night, but long as hell. I’m hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before I have to go to moms to relieve Stacey.

Walking out the back door, I mutter a curse, or a few, when I see the wet parking lot. I knew they were calling for rain, but it wasn’t supposed to start until in the morning. If I had known that it would start already, I would’ve drove my truck instead of my bike.

Luckily, I only live five miles from the club, so it’ll be fine. It’s not raining at the moment, and even if it does, a little water never hurt anybody.

As I walk over to my bike, I pass Rocco as he is walking back into the club. “If you don’t want to ride your bike, I can give you a ride home, after Betty gets the club locked up.”

Shaking my head at his offer, I say, “I appreciate the offer Rocco, but there’s no way that I’m leaving my bike parked here all night. It’s bad enough when I’m here, but I’m not leaving my baby here by herself. It’s not far, I’ve got my leather coat and my helmet, I’ll be fine.”

Rocco gives me one of his very few grins, and replies, “I understand, brother, be safe.”

I nod my head, as I continue walking to my bike, throwing on my coat and helmet as I go. I have it fastened, before I even step up to the bike. As soon as I throw my leg over to get on, a crack of thunder rumbles overhead. Not wasting any more time, I start my bike, and pull out of the parking lot.

Of course, with my luck I get stopped by the first two stop lights. While waiting at the second, it starts drizzling rain.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ve only got two miles left. You couldn’t wait that damn long to start raining.”

Another rumble of thunder is my answer to my complaints, and I decide it’s better to keep my mouth shut and keep going before it becomes a downpour.

I feel my luck turning up, when the next two lights are green. One more then I’m almost home.

The rain starts coming down harder, and I don’t even slow down when I see that the last stop light up ahead is green.

I see the car coming from the left, but know that his light is red, so I don’t worry about it. I just keep going. I’m ready to get home.

I realize, when it’s too late, that he’s not even attempting to stop. There’s no time for me to stop now, no matter how much I wish that I could. I’m afraid if I even slow down, I’ll definitely get hit. My only hope is to make it through the light before he does.

I speed up, and zip past him, but I’m not fast enough. His bumper just barely grazes my back tire, but it’s enough of an impact to cause my bike to skid.

There’s nothing I can do, as my bike tumbles to the pavement. My only thought is how glad I am that I put on my jacket and helmet.

I have been in this hospital for three days and I’m ready to get the fuck out of here. No one is telling me what I want to hear, so it’s time to go.

Thank fuck that I’ve got good friends that have been helping with my mom while I’ve been stuck here. Not to mention, a nurse that keeps hoping for round two with Big D, and has been working overtime to stay with her. If it wasn’t for their help I’d be up shit creek. I’m sure mom isn’t enjoying it too much, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

The nurse walks in and sits my breakfast tray on the table. “How are you doing this morning Mr. Winston?”

She uncovers the tray and slides the table over to the bed. I glance at the food and barely refrain from snarling up my nose at the nasty shit they call food. “I feel fine, just ready to go home.”

She nods her head in agreement. “I can understand that. The doctor should be making rounds soon, maybe he’ll have some good news for you today. Do you have someone at home that can help you when you do get released?”

I don’t want to sound rude. I know that she’s only trying to be helpful, because what I’d like to say is, that I’m a grown ass man that doesn’t need any damn help. I sigh before looking at her, already annoyed. “Yeah, I do,” I manage to say through gritted teeth.

She doesn’t have time to respond, as the good doctor finally walks into the room. “Mr. Winston, how are we doing today?”

I glare at him for a minute. Look at this asshole, coming in here, asking stupid ass questions. How the fuck does he think I’m doing? “Well I don’t know how you’re doing, but I’m as good as I can be. Ready to get the hell out of here and ready to go home.”

“I know you are ready to go Mr. Winston, but we need to examine you again, and make sure you have everything for when you’re at home. We need to get you scheduled for physical therapy, for after you’re released. I know you had therapy yesterday, but it’s very important that you continue those sessions to help speed up your healing.” He glances to the nurse, “before his discharge, make sure his bandages are changed.” She gives him a nod in return, before walking out of the room.

I may have been lucky from having my leather and helmet on, but that didn’t do anything to help my leg. My boots worked for my feet, but my leg had no protection at all, besides my jeans, when the bike hit the pavement. Actually, knowing how much of my jeans was buried into my leg, and that they had to scrub it out of my skin from the road rash, I’m not sure how much they did help. It was better than nothing at all though. I wasn’t awake for all of that, thank goodness. They did all of that, while I was knocked out for surgery.

I had a killer headache for the first day, I’ve got some cuts on my left hand, road rash on my left leg, and also had a broken femur. I say had, like it isn’t still that way, but it now has pins in it to fuse the bones back together.

“How long do I have to do therapy, and when can I go back to work?” I ask the doctor yet again. I want a direct answer and a specific time dammit. There’s no way that I can be off work for very long.

“We will know more after the pins have been in for a while. There’s no way to know the progress until after you have put in some work for a while. I would like to say that it will be an easy recovery, but it won’t. Luckily, you were in good shape before the accident so I don’t see you having any complications.”

He types his notes into his iPad for a bit before continuing. “As for work, we will see. I know that you are a dancer, depending on your therapy and your healing, I’d like to say that you should be good as new in four to six months. There’s no way to know for sure at this time. I normally tell patients to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. It’s possible that you may never be able to dance like you use too. I feel you will have full mobility, but some of the things you do, just may not be possible. The important thing right now, is to rest, and only put minimal pressure on your leg, at least until it heals more. For the most part, and just for the time being, you’ll need to use crutches. I think you would only need the bandages for a few more days, then you won’t have to worry about them anymore, but you need to keep them clean, while you still have them, to prevent infections.”

What the actual fuck. As if it’s not bad enough that I have to put up with all this shit and therapy, but it’s possible that I’ll never dance again. He has got to be kidding me.

What the fuck will I do if it comes to that. Not just for me, but for my mother. We depend on me working at the club. It’s going to be hard enough, without me working for the next couple of months. Dancing is all that I know, it’s what I do. Where in the fuck would I be without it?