Apollo took a deep breath and held steady while Dr. Hirsch cut away the dead skin of a popped blister. The nerves at that spot, his right shoulder blade, still felt frayed and singed, three weeks after the fact. He gripped the mattress in both hands and shoved the pain away.

Goddamn, he was tired of hurting. He was also tired of having to lie naked and face-down while people poked at him and felt him up. He was tired of not being able to wear real clothes. He was tired of not being able to work or ride or do much of anything.

The spot Hirsch was working on now was the worst on his body. This was the third blister that had risen up there and eventually popped, and it hurt like there was still fire on it. Most of his burns had healed to pink, soft, tender-as-fuck new skin, but his right shoulder blade did not want to heal.

“Ow, fuck,” he muttered as Hirsch hit an especially painful spot.

“Sorry. That’s it, though.” Hirsch stood back. “The skin looks better now. Still red, but it’s fairly smooth and firm, finally. That’ll be a scar, Apollo, and my guess is that there’s permanent nerve damage there, but I think you’re through most of the healing now. Since the broken blister is so fresh, I want to keep it treated and covered for another week, and then we’ll see.”

He wasn’t too bent about the scarring, he guessed. He’d only looked a few times; he preferred not to think about it. He had a few other scars, but they were of the ‘sexy’ variety, or so he’d been told. Women had been calling his body perfect as long as they’d been looking at it, but those days were over. The skin on his back half was mostly pinkish and smooth, but there was a sizable dark patch on his right ass cheek and another on his right calf that had developed a slightly melted look. The back edge of his biggest tattoo, a piece covering his right shoulder and pec, was lost, eaten up by the Blister That Wouldn’t Die. But all in all, he’d gotten off easy. Jury was still out on the right shoulder blade, of course.

Apollo felt the now familiar hot-cool of antibiotic ointment on damaged skin and fried nerves, and then the painful but weirdly soothing press of a burn bandage being applied.

With that done, Hirsch’s gloved hands moved lightly over his back, his legs, his ass. Apollo was used to that invasion by now; he knew the doctor was checking the state of his skin. Most of his body had healed enough that this inspection was no longer uncomfortable, except for the guy’s hands all over him.

“You’re getting some hair regrowth on your legs, that’s excellent.” he said. “Any itching from that?”

“Some. The lotion helps.” The past week or so, once he’d been up and around again and real healing had started, his body had been beset by a maddening itch like a million invisible biting insects. It had kept him sleepless and agitated for days on end; the mild itch of leg hair growing back in patches was nothing in comparison. Hirsch had given him a medicated lotion for the itch, which had reduced the insect feeling but not eliminated it. What he’d really wanted was more morphine.

He would have taken booze, too, but nobody would let him have any booze. Too dangerous, apparently. Even at home, when he might have been able to sneak some liquid relief, Jacinda had been fucking militant about following Hirsch’s instructions.

Never in his life had he needed to get drunk more than when they’d weaned him off his dope drip and left him with half his body growing new skin, and all he’d gotten was a little Vicodin and some lotion. That was almost crueler than the fire.

No, it wasn’t.

His mind had been helpfully working to erase the memory of those interminable minutes hanging over open flame like a pig on a spit, and it was happening; the memory had gained the soft-focus overlay of a dream. He could almost believe it had been a dream, except for the itch, and the fried nerves, and the continuing inability to live his life normally.

And when he slept, he dreamt of fire and pain.

“Okay. You can get dressed.” Hirsch stepped back and pulled off his gloves. Apollo eased his way to his feet. He couldn’t seem to break the new habit of expecting every movement to hurt; he moved through space now like the air was full of blades and broken glass.

As Apollo slid into sweatpants and a t-shirt, Hirsch pulled a few sample boxes from his medical bag. “One more week on the oral antibiotics. Just to make sure about your shoulder. And you can wear whatever you like for pants now, whatever’s comfortable. Be careful about waistbands, nothing too binding until the skin feels normal to you. Keep to soft cotton up top until your shoulder’s healed, though.”

“When can I ride, Doc?”

Hirsch shook his head. “Not yet. I want full healing before you’re out on a bike. You’re too exposed, the ride’s too rough. It’s too much risk. Let’s revisit that question in another month. But you can drive now, if you’re careful with your shoulder.”

“And work?”

“You mean at the station?”

Apollo nodded. He wasn’t asking the doctor for permission to go on a fucking gun run.

“I don’t want you under a hood or under a lift until that shoulder is healed. If you can do something else, desk work or cashier or something like that, it’s fine.”

At this point, having anything to do would be a godsend. “Work the pumps?”

“Sure. Keep your body protected from the sun, but yeah, you can pump gas.” He closed his bag. “Apollo, you need to understand how lucky you are. Second degree burns over almost fifty percent of your body. That’s a very serious injury, and among the most painful traumas the human body can experience. It’s going to take some time to come back from that, and it’s only been three weeks. You’re healing well, overall, with minimal scarring. You’re going to get your life back. Let it happen the right way.”

“At least let me have beer while I’m waiting. Come on, man. Have a heart.”

Hirsch lifted his eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Mixing booze with antibiotics can scramble your stomach.”

Apollo laughed. “That a medical term?”

“You know what I mean. We’ve talked about this. But my bigger concern is you hurting yourself if you’re drunk. You’re off the Vicodin? Entirely?”

“Yes, sir. Two days clean. Willa won’t give me more.”

“Smart woman. Okay, you can have a beer. Two, even. But do not get drunk. And don’t come crying to me if you get the shits—and yes, that’s another medical term.”

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

Apollo saw the doctor out of the clubhouse, and immediately turned to the party room and the bar. The place was deserted, but he didn’t mind drinking alone. He had an hour or so to kill before Jacinda came by to pick him up—and he was going fucking drive home, yes he was. He went behind the bar and opened the cooler, expecting to strike out and have to go to the big kitchen fridge. It was the middle of a weekday afternoon, and no one had restocked for the evening yet, but there was a Budweiser floating in what was mostly cold water. Good enough. He twisted off the cap and had the best beer of his life. His eyes rolled back in his head.

“You clear for that?” Delaney asked, coming up from his office. The whole club had been like fucking babysitters, after him to behave. Like they weren’t the ones who’d cooked his ass. Literally.

He didn’t blame them. Enduring that hell had been his choice, because the alternative had been worse. And Delaney was right—he’d acted in Jacinda’s interest over the club’s, and that wasn’t how the Bulls rolled. Club first, then family. Always. Trust the club. Always.

There had been days in the aftermath, when they’d backed the morphine down and the pain had been so outrageous he’d thought he was still in the fire, that he’d hated Delaney and all the others, who’d voted to do that to him, who’d stood and watched while he’d suffered. He’d even hated Jacinda, standing there letting it happen. He’d hated himself for choosing it, thinking he could withstand it.

But when the pain eased and his mind cleared, he understood. He was even glad. No one mistrusted him. There was no reserve toward him among his brothers, no askance glances, no doubt. The choice he’d made, the agony he’d taken on rather than give them up, had proved his loyalty beyond any doubt.

And more: the club was different since they’d burned him. In the circle of brotherhood that had made the vote, that had stood with him as he’d taken that punishment, that watched over him as he recovered, they’d made themselves stronger. It was like he’d suspected: he’d been the club scapegoat. He’d taken on everybody’s guilt. On his flesh, they’d burned out the infection.

The scars he’d always carry for that weighed heavy, but if it meant that the Bulls were who they should be again, it was worth it.

As Delaney sat at the bar, Apollo grinned and poured him a bourbon. “Yep. I’m clear.” He’d skip over the part about the two-beer limit. “Can drive, too. And go back to work—at the pumps, anyway.”

Delaney took his glass. “Ride yet?”

He sighed. Damn, he missed feeling his Glide between his legs. “Another month for that, I guess.”

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Hirsch thinks it’s done being a shit and’ll finish healing now.”

“Good, good.” He took a swallow and stared at the inside of his glass for a minute. Apollo had a feeling he meant to get heavy on him, but all he said was, “You’re a tough motherfucker, kid. You did good.”

Apollo went around the bar and sat beside his president. He knew Delaney would never apologize, nor would any of his brothers. It wasn’t something that deserved an apology. He’d owed a debt, and he’d paid it. More than that, he’d taken one for them all. But Delaney’s acknowledgement and admiration was better than an apology.

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

Jacinda brought him a glass of water and four ibuprofen and sat at his side on the sectional while he chugged them back. “You want me to call Josh?”

Apollo kind of hated the way she called Hirsch by his first name, like they’d gotten all chummy while he was doped up. There wasn’t anything to it, he had no doubt on that score, but he’d have been happier if she just called him Dr. Hirsch, or just Hirsch.

It turned out he had a pretty wide jealous streak, heretofore undiscovered.

He shook his head and set the empty glass on the floor. “Nah. It’s my own fault, and you said it doesn’t look damaged.”

He’d had four beers waiting for her to pick him up, and when she’d arrived, he’d slammed his bad shoulder into a support beam when he’d tried to cross the room to her. That had sobered him right the hell up.

Now tiny knives stabbed the poor nerves in his shoulder, his head ached, and he’d puked three times. Once in Jacinda’s Pathfinder on the way home. Four measly beers had about turned him inside out.

She brushed the backs of his fingers softly over his cheek. “No, it looks okay to me, considering, but I still want to call him. Just to be sure.”

“I said don’t call the fucking doc!” He didn’t want a lecture for drinking too much. He’d gotten his lesson already.

“Don’t snap at me, Apollo.” She stood and picked up his empty glass. Before she could walk away, he reached out, hissing at the pull on his shoulder blade, and caught her hand.

“I’m sorry, J. Just sick and tired of this and pissed off at myself.”

She squeezed his fingers. “It’s okay. I get it. You want me to make you something to eat? You should probably get something easy and greasy in your belly. Grilled cheese?”

Her grilled cheese sandwiches could make a man see God. She put butter and oregano in the skillet, and grilled slices of thick white bread filled with bacon and three or four different cheeses to golden perfection.

Since he’d been hurt, she’d all but moved in with him. She went to her apartment every day, at least to pick up her mail and spend some quality time with her cat, but she spent every night here, and had been doing only a few hours a week at the office, too. He’d rarely been alone in more than three weeks.

Back in the day, when the idea of sharing his life had been an abstract notion, he’d been sure he’d miss his privacy, but he didn’t. At all. Gunner had talked about it once, drunk at the clubhouse—how much peace there was in coming home to someone, knowing there was always at least one person who was waiting for you to come back to them, a person who saw you at your most unguarded and still wanted to be with you.

Well, Jacinda had certainly seen him at his most unguarded, and here she was, still taking care of him, loving him even when he was a shit.

She wasn’t pregnant; she’d had her period on schedule. They’d taken that news without much discussion. Apollo had still been in a lot of pain at the time, and he’d had trouble getting his head around how he felt about the potential kid not being potential anymore. When the question had been most timely, he hadn’t had the capacity to confront it.

Now that his body was giving up its war on itself, he was coming to understand that it was time. What he’d never thought he wanted—wife, kids, picket fence—he now wanted badly. The dangers of his life didn’t matter. He needed the grounding of a family. He needed to be a husband and a father as well as a Bull. He needed to be the man Jacinda saw when she looked at him.

Could he say it yet? They said, and meant, ‘I love you’ every day, but after the events of the past few weeks, he felt unsteady with her. She loved him, she showed him every day how much, but he wasn’t sure she should. He wasn’t sure he was the man she should love.

The Bulls had taken her hostage and tied her to a chair. They’d beaten her father and threatened to kill him. She’d watched him burn in an act of club justice. She had seen every worst side of the Brazen Bulls MC. Apollo had made a choice to stay in this dangerous world he lived in, but he wasn’t sure he could ask her to make the same choice, not forever. And to raise a family in it.

He hadn’t realized it at the time, but maybe he’d been choosing between more than the club and his own physical pain when he’d chosen to keep his patch.

Maybe he’d been choosing between the club and Jacinda, too.

She gave his hand a gentle shake. “Hey, where’d you go?”

“Sorry. Tired. Can I get a rain check on the grilled cheese? I just want to crash.”

“Sure, hon. You want to get into bed or just crash here in front of the TV?”

“TV.” He toed off his sneakers and stretched out on his left side. Jacinda picked up a couple of the throw pillows she’d added to his living room décor and helped him tuck one under his head and the other between his knees. She turned on the television and handed him the remote. She went down the hall and came back with a light blanket from the bed, then leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll set you up with a sweet tea and some cookies, then I think I’ll run over and hang with Zo for a while. You want me to pick up anything while I’m out?”

What he wanted was for her to pack up her cat and move here. Just be here. Live with him. Marry him. Make babies with him. Love him forever. But did he deserve her? Was his life worthy of her?

He reached for her hand and slid his fingers between hers, looking at her bare ring finger.

“No.”

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

“Apollo?”

He’d thought she’d been asleep for a while. On the other hand, sleep was, as usual, far away for him. Since the brazing, he got better rest when a nap simply happened, like this afternoon, when he’d drifted off watching Wheel of Fortune. He’d been deep and dreamless when Jacinda had returned from her daily apartment visit. But at night, in bed, when dreams of fire and pain and the acrid smell of charcoal filled his head, he mostly just held her and waited for light. She didn’t know that, of course.

He kissed the back of her head. “Yeah?”

“Talk to me.”

“About what?”

She turned in his arms, rolling to her back. “The thing that’s on your mind. You’ve been quiet and distracted since I picked you up this afternoon. What’s spinning in there?” She laid her hand on the side of his head and brushed her palm over his super-short hair.

He’d never kept his hair especially long, but the ends of what he’d had had been singed in the brazing. The back of his scalp had only had a light burn like a sunburn, so, as soon as he was able, he’d had Jacinda run a #2 trimmer all over his head. Then he hadn’t liked the thickness of his beard with the short hair, so he was wearing stubble now, too.

Jacinda seemed to like it this way. She definitely liked to rub her palm over his Velcro head.

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Nothing, baby. Just sick of not being full speed.”

“Apollo. We don’t lie to each other, right? I can see that it’s more than that. All night, your mind’s been sailing off into space, and when it does, your whole face draws in. You look sad as hell. What happened?”

He kissed her hand again, wondering if he could tell her what was on his mind, and how he would do it.

She closed her fingers around his thumb. “If you won’t or can’t say, then tell me that. Don’t tell me it’s nothing, though. I can see that it is. If you need to keep a secret, I understand. But not a lie.”

There was so much love in her voice and understanding in her words that Apollo simply responded, without another thought. “I want to marry you.”

Her expression tried to be a smile and frown both at once and achieved a look of perfect confusion. “And that makes you sad?”

“Not being good enough for you makes me sad.”

He’d expected a gentle response, maybe even encouragement. Instead, she yanked her hand from his and jumped out of bed. The room was dark, but she didn’t turn on a light. She was a shadow storming back and forth the length of the bed.

“J?” He sat up.

“Are you dumping me?”

He was honestly shocked. “What? No!”

“Isn’t that the cliché? It’s not you, it’s me, you’re too good for me, I don’t deserve you, blah blah blah. That’s what guys say, right? I mean, I don’t know. I’ve been out of the relationship scene for a while, but that’s what I’ve heard. My last guy offered me up to drug dealers for a gang bang, so he really didn’t deserve me.”

Apollo stood up, too, and faced her across the bed. “Jacinda, stop. I don’t want to break up. I just said I want to marry you.”

“Then why are you so fucking sad about it? And don’t you fucking dare say you’re not good enough for me.”

“I don’t want to tie you down so that you can’t get out when you figure out that my life is beneath you. That the world I live in is too ugly. That I’m too ugly.”

He wasn’t talking about his looks, or even his new scars, and she knew it. She was only a silent, dim shape across the room, but he knew she knew what he meant.

“Apollo...”

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll keep you as long as I can have you. I just wish—”

“No! Shut up, you moron. Listen. That night, after it happened, when I was sitting in that old recliner by your bed, watching you sleep, so relieved that your pain was gone for a while, so horrified by what had happened, I had nothing to do but think. And I thought about it all. The horror, the ugliness, the barbarity of what your own people had done to you. I thought about what they’d done to me, and to my dad. I thought about everything I knew about you and the Bulls and what it all meant. You think I don’t see you for who you are right now? Or that I don’t see the Bulls? I got a good, hard look that day. I saw what you’re all capable of. I stood in the station that night and looked right into the soul of the club. And what I saw of you? You were tied up naked, and I saw everything about you. And here’s what I saw: you are a man who would willingly stand in fire to save what you love. Don’t talk about being good enough. You are the best man I’ve ever known in my life. So if you want to marry me, ask the fucking question, idiot.”

He laughed around the lump in his throat. With that diatribe, she’d eased these new worries and doubts. He believed her wholeheartedly—and more than that, she’d stood him behind her zoom lens and given him the same deep look into his world. She had seen the soul of the club. Delaney had allowed her to go that deep, to be part of something that was among the most private and solemn, the most intimate, acts of the club: the discipline of a member. On the same day that the potential of her threat had erupted, Delaney had brought her into their heart, and the Bulls had welcomed her there.

There could be no clearer sign that she was trusted by the club, that she’d been accepted into their family.

That he had proved his worth.

He could sense her looking at him in the dark, seeing him, waiting for his response. He went around the bed and pulled her into his arms. “Will you marry me?”

She shoved lightly at his chest. “Yes, asshole!”