Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC

Chapter 3

God fucking damnit! Why did it have to happen today?

My episodes which caused my medical discharge continue to be the bane of my life. The easy explanation, post-traumatic stress disorder, the harder, what actually goes on in my brain. If there was some trigger to avoid, some way to predict when they’d occur, I could deal with them more easily. Sometimes, like today, I get subtle warnings, other times, I do not. I could be having a normal conversation with somebody and then, lights out. The frequency is erratic as well, adding to the complications of dealing with them.

It”s not easy to get over them either. The episodes leave me feeling weak and drained, barely aware of where I am or what I’m doing. I huff to myself. I doubt I’d have been able to answer their questions rationally, even if I was prepared to start talking.

But what kind of people am I dealing with here? They didn’t show an ounce of sympathy that I’d collapsed. Sure, they’d offered to call for a medic, but didn’t argue when I refused their help. Then, with no regard nor seemingly any care as to whether I’d live or die, the bikers had thrown me in a pit, chained me up and left me alone.

Grinning, I muse medical assistance wouldn’t have helped anyway. There’s no cure for what ails me. As for my prison, it’s not so bad. I’ve been detained in far worse situations. I even chuckle at the thought of their faces if they only knew, instead of being frightened and alone, I welcome the space to get myself back together. It takes far more than this to make me afraid. I’ve faced much worse enemies and survived. Well, kind of, I correct myself.

Ignoring the bruises from the blows that my worthy opponent had landed, I close my eyes, relax and allow my heart rate to return to its normal pre-episode rhythm, neither too slow nor too fast. From experience, I know that my recovery time is quicker if I don’t fight it and give my body time to find its equilibrium again.

But as the aftereffects of my episode fade, I begin to remember the details of what happened before my panic attack. I don’t waste time feeling mortified and embarrassed, this is my new normal. Instead, as I become more alert, I start to scan my surroundings, or what I can make out as they’ve left me in the dark. As my bound hands fumble for anything I can use, I snort at the idea they thought leaving me chained and alone would have any effect on me. They have no idea what I’ve already been through, and getting out of this is going to be child’s play.

It’s a mechanics pit. It would be exceptional not to be able to find a piece of wire or something down here, and indeed it’s only moments before I find one. Having my wrists zip-tied together is only a slight drawback, as I tackle the padlock on the chain that’s fastened me to the hydraulics. It’s a matter of moments before I’m free. I stand, shaking my head to rid it of the vestiges of the fogginess that had assailed me, then feel the walls until…

Yes.Steel rungs provide an easy way out of my prison. Relying on balance, I climb without the use of my hands. Once I’m standing in the auto shop itself, I don’t even bother laughing. Getting free was so easy, it’s not worth congratulating myself. Next step is to find something to undo the zip ties binding my wrists. It’s not long before I come across a handy box cutter, and then only a matter of seconds until I’m free.

Shaking my hands out, for a moment I toy with the idea of stealing one of the bikes that are obviously awaiting collection, but firstly, it would be far too dangerous given my condition, and, secondly, I would rather not give the Soulz any more reason to come after my hide.

Frowning, I realise they’ve taken my backpack which means I’ve lost the small tablet that doubles as my phone and only means of communication. Luckily, my wallet and keys will still be hidden where I left them outside as I would never make the rookie error of entering somewhere I shouldn’t carrying identification. The sides of my mouth change direction as they turn up. I’ll be departing here tonight, leaving the MC no clues on how to catch up with me. Which gives me a thought. As they’ve no idea who I am and no way to find out, I might as well get what I came for, and a bit more besides. It’s a damn shame, but now my route has been discovered, I won’t be coming back to this place again.

Not wanting to put on a light, and having lost the flashlight I came with, it takes slightly longer than previously to find a few items by touch, and from memory of where they’ll be located. No longer having my backpack, I wrap my treasures in a discarded rag. Setting my ill-gotten gains securely under my arm, I then slip through the main door and out into the street, carefully making sure that I avoid the cameras that might detect my escape.

Sparing a smile at the thought of the looks on the bikers’ faces when they return the next day to find me missing, I sidle around the side of the lot to retrieve my belongings from their hiding place, then start walking with a spring in my step. One foot in front of the next, rinse and repeat, gradually increasing my speed until I settle into a steady jog.

I’ve got five miles to go, but that’s nothing to someone of my training. In the dead of night when the road is all but deserted, it’s enjoyable. As I settle into my stride, my lungs steadily taking in air, my heart pumping in a steady rhythm, I allow myself to take scorn on the bikers for underestimating me. Then I berate myself. I hadn’t been prepared to be discovered tonight and had got blasé about being cautious. What I’ve taken should keep me going for a while, but soon I’ll have to find some other way of getting spare parts.

Of course, I shouldn’t have been stealing from an MC or anyone in the first place, and the woman I was before wouldn’t be able to understand the lengths I now must go to in order to keep a roof over my head. I’ve already discovered I’m not a fan of living on the streets. Yeah, I’ve been there, done that. And, with my particular issues, it proved to be very unwise. One passing-out episode and I’d lost the few meagre possessions I’d gathered together and was lucky to escape with my life. I don’t blame those who stole from me—it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.

Five miles under my belt and I reach the out-of-the-way ramshackle ranch house. I slow my pace and walk on tiptoe as I skirt around the main building to the barn at the back and take the steps up to the loft. If I accidentally wake Harold, well, that would just be the icing on tonight’s particular cake. He’s cantankerous at the best of times. I don’t want to think about how he’d be if I disturbed him.

My accommodation isn’t much, an old bed frame, sagging mattress, chest of drawers and a box that doubles as my table. On the plus side, it’s dry and I have my own facilities. As I enter the tiny curtained-off bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. The reddened skin over my slightly swollen jaw shows me I’ll probably have a nice bruise tomorrow, and my half-closed eye will almost certainly be black. But nothing worse than I’ve had before. What concerns me most is how I’ll answer Harold’s questioning.

Doing just the necessities before I get into bed, I take a couple of painkillers, then, finally relax. Closing my eyes, I deepen my breathing and hope for a dreamless sleep.

But I should have known that wasn’t to be. I wake only a couple of hours later with the sheet twisted around my body and rivulets of sweat running over my skin. My heart is thumping, still in the throes of my dream. It takes more than a moment to convince myself I’m back in the United States, and that the men who tortured me are all dead. For a while, I sit, shivering and shaking, hating myself for being so weak. They’re dead, I repeat as a mantra.

There’s light coming in through the window, signalling dawn is breaking. Knowing I won’t be able to go back to sleep, I give up on getting some rest and start my day.

Yawning widely and checking the time, I take a much-needed shower, then dress in my normal uniform of jeans and a tee. Dragging a brush through my short hair, I leave it to dry naturally. As I reverse last night’s journey, now descending the rickety stairs, a scent wafting over from the house reveals Harold is awake, and suggests going over there now might be to my advantage.

Hearing my footsteps as I enter the kitchen, the sixty-year-old man turns. What passes for his welcoming smile fades immediately as his eyes land on me and widen. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Shrugging, I walk over to the kitchen counter, pinching a piece of toast as I pass, and getting my hand batted with a spatula on the way.

His eyes now narrow. “If you want some breakfast, you’re going to have to pay.”

I shake my head. “Board and lodging.” I remind him of our agreement, pointing my now half-eaten toast his way. “That was the arrangement.”

“Must have been out of my fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles under his breath. Despite his words, he piles a heap of bacon and eggs on a second plate, and scoots it over the table in my direction.

“You’re getting a good bargain. Mmm. This is good.” The bacon, as normal, is delicious.

He attacks his own meal, and only when the plate is empty does he question me again, waving a hand at my face. “What were you up to last night?”

“Just out.” I raise and lower my shoulders again, unable to admit where I really was. “Someone jumped me.”

Obviously having made an assessment and deciding no real damage had been done, he snorts. “I take it they look worse?”

“Oh yeah,” I respond, giving the requisite grin. Or, at least, I hope he does. I know I got in a few good licks to the MC prez, but he’d got the better of me when he stopped fighting fair. Not that he knew getting a hard-on while on top of me would trigger my panic attack. If his reaction hadn’t sent me spiralling into my past, I would have gotten out of his hold easily.

None of this I say out loud, and after another sharp look, Harold seems to lose interest in my nocturnal adventures, and turns to his normal topic of conversation. “So how long before you’re finished?”

“You want to get rid of me, old man?” This time it’s a genuine grin as I crease my eyes and consider my answer. “A few good weeks. And that’s if I can source all the parts.” Which will be all the more difficult as I won’t be able to go back to the bikers’ shop to obtain them.

“Weeks?” Harold’s eyebrows rise. “Christ, woman, it’s going to take you months at the rate you’re going. Are you taking advantage of me?”

It was him who’d given me a heap of broken parts and expected me to put them back together. He knows it’s a mammoth, nigh on impossible task. So I ignore his grumbling, and finish eating instead. Then I get up to make myself a cup of coffee, refreshing his as well.

Me and Harold coming together was a stroke of serendipity. I desperately needed a place to stay, somewhere off the radar to regroup. He wanted his son’s crashed motorcycle restored but hadn’t the money to pay for it, and it just so happens I’m an amazing mechanic. But when I was first confronted with little more than a twisted frame and a heap of broken parts, I was dismayed. I wasn’t surprised the professionals had quoted him extortionate amounts to put it back together—honestly, the best thing would be to count his losses and purchase a replacement instead.

His story, though, broke my heart, and is what drives me to do the impossible. Turns out Harold’s son was knocked off his bike when an eighteen-wheeler lost control a couple of years back. He ended up as damaged as his beloved bike, hanging on to life by a thread. For two years, he’s remained in a coma. Harold has nothing but hope to repair his son, so he’s intent on repairing his motorcycle, as if that’s the charm to bring him back to life. Who am I, or anyone, to be qualified to tell him his thinking is ridiculous?

Harold feeds me and houses me in exchange for my work, and however much he gripes at me, I think he’s glad of the company. On my part, I’ve become fond of the prickly older man, and enjoy our sniping repartee.

His son’s medical bills have wiped him out, so he’s got no spare cash for parts. He thinks I source them out of my own funds, but as I’ve no access to money, I have to get creative. It’s not just that it suits me to continue living at this sanctuary that keeps me safe, although I doubt my mission has much chance of success, I respect Harold, and fully intend to do my utmost best to get this bike up and running. And maybe, like him, I, too, am invested in the hope that its restoration does have magical properties.

Harold’s staring at me, his brows drawn down in a V. “I’m seriously worried you’re never going to leave.”

I grunt. “In your dreams, old man. Why would anyone want to stay with a grumpy grandpa like you?”

He bangs his fist on the table. “Less of the fuckin’ old. And I’ve not got enough years to be your fuckin’ grandpa.” His eyes shutter, then open suspiciously. “Have I?”

Laughing, I wave him off. “Not unless both you and your dad procreated before you were each sixteen.”

A grin comes to his face. “Not that I know of.” He tries to attempt a lecherous wink but just makes me laugh again. He pulls my empty plate toward him and places it on top of his, then points a finger my way. “I cooked. You clean up.” He waits a beat for me to incline my head in agreement, then he gives a rueful shake of his. “Next time I bring me home a woman, I’ll settle for one who can cook and keep house.”

“Keep your complaints to yourself, old man,” I retort. “Where else would you find a mechanic who’d work on your mess of a bike?”

He stands and offers a parting shot. “I’m off. One of us has got to work.”

I smile at his back. Harold, like me, tries to live off the grid. He grows a variety of fruits and vegetables and has a small holding raising his own chickens, pigs and cattle. It’s a ranch, but not one that stretches for hundreds of acres. If you can call having the time of his life work, then he toils damn hard. But he loves what he’s doing. The fact he keeps himself to himself and doesn’t often venture out gives me an additional sense of safety. It’s unlikely that anyone will find where I am from him.

Apart from the sorry story of his son, I know he’s known loss. While there are no pictures around the house, I found an old tin box in the barn. Having nosed through, I found photos of him with a younger man looking so much like him he had to be his son, and more photos of the son with a woman and a young child. A yellowed newspaper clipping explained the car accident where his wife and daughter had met their demise involving an Arizonian monsoon and an out-of-state and ill-prepared driver.

Harold never mentioned the loss of the rest of his family. And like he hasn’t asked me for my back story, I’ve never queried his. Of anyone, I know the right to keep secrets.

Finished with my chores, I collect my overalls and head down to the barn where the bike is kept. On the way, I find I’m reminiscing about how I met Harold. He’d been in town for supplies he couldn’t provide for himself, and I’d had one of my episodes right outside the store.

People can have many reactions when I’m incapacitated. Some walk away in disgust or embarrassment, thinking I’m drunk. Others may try to help but have no idea how. I forget how often an ambulance has been called, only for me to dismiss them when they arrive. Harold was different. He chased away the deviants who’d decided it was a good time to steal my backpack and instinctively knew what to do by staying by my side until I returned to my senses. Then after I answered in the negative when he’d asked if there was someone to call, or someplace he could take me, he’d ushered me into his truck and had given me a ride. We’d come straight back to his ranch.

I instinctively trusted him. Somehow, we both recognised each other’s demons. I didn’t need to hear his screaming nightmares to know he was a fellow PTSD sufferer, but what trauma he or I hid, we kept to ourselves.

I never had family, but if I had anything to compare him with, I’d say he’s acted the role of a grandfather. A lonely man, I think he was pleased when he found an excuse to keep me around, despite how much he protests to the contrary.

We both know here isn’t where I’ll spend the rest of my life, but I’m so thankful and grateful to him for now. It’s why I’m doing the best I can on the almost impossible task of restoring his son’s bike to factory condition, and doing it as cheaply as possible.

Of course, pilfering what I can is not only exercising my warped sense of helping out, but also keeping my skills intact.

My conscience? Well, you can’t really steal from criminals, can you?