Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
STRIDER
A nna might still be breathing, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ve long passed the point of denial, of disbelief that there was no cure, no hope, and nothing but a death sentence. What I had with Anna is now in the past. I still hold great affection for her. Even with my current doubts, it could still be called love. It’s been a very long time since it was the heart-racing, blood-pounding emotion that I once felt for her. She’s no longer able to wear her wedding band, her fingers too shrivelled. It’s been years since I wore mine, having taken it off when I thought divorce was what I wanted. Even when I knew that it was the illness that had taken the woman I married from me, I couldn’t regain sufficient feeling to show any visible claim that I was hers. The symbol of our vows, which we’d meant every word of when said at the time, are now a mockery. To death ‘til we fucking part. In sickness and health.
The death part? Well, I’d always thought that were more likely to be mine. That I’d be the one to go first. I ride a motorcycle for a start, the risk compounded by being a high-ranking member of a notorious club. The sickness part? I was sure we had years, decades before we’d need to worry about that. We were young, and healthy. It would be a long time before we would be stricken by old age. And if something like cancer hit us, we’d be able to do everything to fight. Treatments were improving all the time.
But fucking Picks Disease. How could we tackle that? It hadn’t just taken her life. In some ways, that would have been kinder. It had taken her from me, and from her? The ability to enjoy anything she once loved, including our marriage.
Before she’d become the complete shell of the person she is now, sometimes, in the night, her hand would reach for mine, squeezing my fingers. I allowed myself to believe in those moments that she was still in there, fighting to come out the other side. Maybe she had been, but even those small signs faded with time.
It’s been so long since she showed any signs of recognising me.
There’s no way back and only one way this can end. I’m just punishing myself for wanting to leave her.
It guts me now that Jasmine might have offered me a future, but my guilt chased her off. I fucked up and sent the wrong messages when I’d taken her home and introduced her to my wife. I suppose I’d gotten so used to Jasmine just being there that I didn’t expect her to take such a drastic action. Probably, I, in a very male way, thought she would stay at the club because life held nothing else for her. Even if I’d known about it, I probably wouldn’t have considered her writing to be anything other than a cute hobby. Of course, I’m proud as fuck to know she’s got a way to support herself, but selfishly can’t help but wish her books hadn’t proved a success because then she wouldn’t have been able to run.
Two weeks pass, and it’s absolutely killing me not knowing where she is and what’s happening to her. I’d have been a wreck even without my fears about her past and whether it might catch up with her.
I have to force myself to stop ranting at Data as he’s looking for the equivalent of a needle in a haystack and clearly doing his best, but it’s hard to keep my temper when he’s getting absolutely no results.
I’m working in my office trying to listen while Shotgun takes me through the finances of our businesses, finding it hard to work out from all the figures thrown at me whether they’re healthy or not, as he’s only got half of my attention.
Where is Jasmine, and is she safe? I’d felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach when I realised that unless we found her, I’d never know if she was dead or alive—unless her demise was newsworthy enough to be reported. And fuck knows, I’d hate it to be anything as bad as that. But that’s the harsh reality of it. It appears Jasmine had successfully pulled off a disappearing trick once before, and if she doesn’t want to be found, I may have seen the last of her.
With my hands clenched beneath the desk, while my head gives the occasional nod up and down to reassure Shotgun he’s not wasting his time, I can’t stop worrying about her. I realise as days go past, I probably haven’t lost this chance with her, but any chance I ever had. I’d never be able to tell her the depth of my feelings nor have an opportunity to put things right.
Shotgun clears his throat. As if I’ve been paying close attention, I gesture at the tablet he’s holding. “Carry on.”
His eyes widen slightly, then his expression is shuttered. I think he knows I probably haven’t digested one word he’s said and that I’m just going through the motions.
My phone rings. Glancing down at the caller, I hold up my hand, stopping him mid-flow. “Gotta take this.” His chin jerks toward the door, but there’s not going to be anything secret about this. “I’ll only be a moment.” I’ve recognised my home number. One or the other of Anna’s nurses, who’s on duty at the time, has often called me, usually when we’re running out of something she needs or if they think she needs to be seen by a doctor. The latter is unfortunately happening more and more, and my answer is always, of fucking course.
“Yeah?” I ask questioningly into the phone.
“Colt. I’m sorry, but Anna’s got a very high temperature. I didn’t want to wait, so I called the doctor out. She’s on oxygen, but it’s not helping much. She’s developed pneumonia. The doctor wants to take her to the hospital, but I wanted to check with you about that.”
Inwardly, I know we’ve come to the end. My breath shudders as I breathe in. However much you think you’ve prepared yourself, it seems you never have. “Can she be treated at home?”
I hear muffled voices at the other end of the line, and then a masculine voice I recognise comes on the phone. “Mr. Harman? It’s Doctor Barker. I’m afraid your wife is very poorly.”
“It’s time?” I know the medic. He’s been treating Anna for a while now. I’ve paid a fortune for him to make house calls instead of her being moved from the environment she’s happy in.
He doesn’t try to sugarcoat it for me. “I’m afraid she’s not strong enough to recover. Let me take her in and make her comfortable.”
Closing my eyes for a second and then giving a sigh, I offer an emphatic, “No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to explain my answer. “What can you do in the hospital that I can’t do at home?”
For a moment, the doctor doesn’t answer. Medical staff, in my experience, like to be in charge of who lives or dies. But there’s nothing he can say that will persuade me it’s best to let Anna spend what little time she has left in some sterile hospital room without anything familiar around her, even though she may not be conscious of them at all.
When he does speak, he talks about monitoring, intravenous medication and tube feeding, all of which she’s had at home for a while. But even he is half-hearted about the benefits hospitalisation can offer. I’ve had this discussion with him before. Without the enrichment of her home situation, Anna wouldn’t have lasted as long as she has. The only thing he can do in a hospital better than the nurses at home is if her heart stops beating and she needs resuscitation. But as nothing exists of Anna now, to extend her life artificially would be cruel and of no benefit to anyone.
After her diagnosis, I’d spent weeks, months, even years hoping the doctors had gotten her prognosis wrong or that some miracle cure would suddenly emerge. Even though the medical profession is developing more understanding of the causes of types of frontal lobe dementia and has discovered the cause of Picks Disease is a faulty gene, any developing gene therapy would come too late to reverse Anna’s condition.
And, if I suspected that the accident on the bike had implications more serious than anyone had thought at the time, this long after, there was no injury that could be repaired.
I’ve known this was coming for a very long time. So why does Anna’s impending death hit me like a twenty-ton truck travelling toward me at sixty down the highway? Again, I think selfishly that I’d have liked to have Jasmine to lean on, but she’s gone, and I have to face it’s unlikely I’ll see her again. Maybe it’s the double whammy of losing both women in a short period of time, but I feel like something inside me has broken.
After only a little more discussion that I don’t pay much attention to, I end the call with the doctor, him not having convinced me and reluctantly agreeing Anna will stay where she is.
“Go home, Prez. Be with your wife.” I’d almost forgotten Shotgun had borne witness to the conversation. As I open my mouth, he continues, “I’m your VP, Prez. I can handle things for a while.”
I grimace, both hands pushing back my hair and holding it for a second before letting it flop back around my shoulders. “I don’t know how long this will take.” There can only be one outcome, but whether it be hours, days or weeks, it’s impossible to tell.
“Whatever.” He shrugs. “You need to be with Anna now. If we need you, we know how to get hold of you.”
He’s right. I’ve been on this journey every terrible step of the way with Anna, and I need to see it through. Though she won’t know that I’m beside her, I couldn’t live with my conscience not to be there with her.
Abruptly standing, I take my bike key out of my pocket, bouncing it in my hand. “Tell the others.” It’s a stupid instruction. Shotgun will do what needs to be done. “And…” I pause, wondering whether, under the circumstances, it’s right to add my next words, then decide I don’t give a damn one way or another. “If there’s anything, any news about Jasmine,” good or bad, I think in my head, “I want to be informed immediately.”
There’s no judgement in his eyes when he raises his chin.
As I ride out of the compound, leaving my brothers in my rearview, I’m unable to analyse my own frame of mind.
It’s not unusual for a biker to live both a club and civilian life, and never the twain shall meet. When I first joined the club, they knew I had a wife but respected I wanted to keep my private life apart. Whether they knew or suspected she didn’t approve of the biker life didn’t matter. The bro code rules. Whatever happened in the club stayed in the club, and if I was fucking around while married, no one gave a shit. It was only my closest brothers who knew about Anna’s decline and devastating diagnosis. I wanted no pity given, no accomodations made.
My woman hadn’t wanted to be a part of the club, hadn’t wanted to ride up behind me, and never supported me as a biker. Her being ill made no difference to that.
It had meant no one noticed she hadn’t been around. And, apart from Buzz, Shotgun and Tequila who’d always been my best friends and who’d stepped up as my trusted officers when I was elected prez, I suspect most thought Anna and I had separated long back.
I went home to my wife, leaving my brothers to explain my absence. I sat beside her as she struggled for breath. Her laboured inhalations belying a strength that was no longer hers. It didn’t take long. Gradually, her body shut down, and it was only two days later that I saw her chest move for the last time.
It was a few hours before I moved from her side. In the silence, I’d reflected on our life. Nearly twenty years of marriage, the last ten spent watching her decline. How could I regret staying with her? If I hadn’t been there, no one would have watched over her, seen to her comfort, and made sure she had every chance at some sort of life. I can’t help but ask myself, would things have been different if we had had a child? Would having someone depending on her have stopped her going downhill so fast, or would there just now be a son or daughter who’d grown up living with but unable to know who their mother really was, who she’d been when we’d first fallen in love?
Eventually, I reached for my phone and updated Shotgun.
It was then it was brought home to me, if I’d needed confirmation, that bikers are a family. Shotgun and Tequila had quickly arrived, and over the next few days, it was them who’d arranged the funeral and for Anna’s medical equipment to be removed from the house. Even though I wasn’t sure whether I’d want to continue to live in this now-empty residence, they’d commandeered the prospects and club girls to transform the rooms, which had more resembled a hospital ward for the last few years, into a comfortable home.
Although to many of my brothers it came as a surprise that I’d still been with my wife, once apprised of the situation, they ignored her feelings about the club and, for me, stepped up and treated her passing with all the respect that should be given to a president’s old lady.
While her family had gone, and mine had long ago disowned me, her funeral service was packed, with a motorcycle entourage that encompassed not only the Texas charter but representation from Wretched Soulz far and wide. Even Slugger turned up, the shadow head of the entire MC. For once, he stayed in the background, waiting until her body was laid in the ground, and only then approaching to lay his hand on my shoulder and offer condolences, which I had no doubt were sincere.
I’d always regretted how Anna had never embraced my MC family, but never as much as I did now. In death, it had shown how much, if she’d allowed them to, they would have taken her to their hearts.
After Slugger took his leave, I’d stood by her grave, my brothers allowing me the solitary moment to consider the might have beens. But however much I wanted to summon up a rosy picture that if she hadn’t been ill, she’d have eventually come around to my way of life and have been proud of me gaining the president’s patch, I had to admit it was unlikely. Knowing Anna, nothing would have brought her around.
Now, she was gone.
Jasmine was still, hopefully breathing.
Not for the first time, I mentally kicked myself for the fool that I’d been.
Jasmine never asked me for anything. It was me who’d commandeered her loyalty, and she’d never questioned it. She’d given me everything I asked for. Even though, from her writing, it was clear she wanted more, she’d never pushed or demanded. I’d taken so much from her, including our baby. I’d made her sacrifice everything.
And what for? A misguided allegiance to a woman who, if she hadn’t become ill, I couldn’t see myself spending my life with.
I’ve been a fucking idiot.
The slight possibility that I’d caused Anna’s illness had filled me with guilt. I could have just made it up to her by doing what I did, caring for her when she was ill. I didn’t have to sacrifice my happiness for her, but that’s what I did.
I can only hope Jasmine won’t suffer because of my choices.
Out of respect for me, the brothers held a wake for Anna back at the clubhouse, but due to her distancing herself from the major part of my life, there were no fond anecdotes or stories to tell. It was a strange affair, really just another party night, were it not for the number of times my back was slapped and sympathies given as though I was dealing with a sudden hole in my life.
To be honest, my mourning had been done years ago, once I finally accepted her prognosis and the first time she’d looked at me with no real recognition in her eyes.
While they hadn’t known her, my brothers gave me opportunities to regale them with tales about her, but I hadn’t anything to share. My memories of her were too tied up in her medical issues, and all I could feel was a relief she was no longer suffering.
While it seems wrong to admit it, the weight of Anna had been lifted from me. After the funeral and the wake, my shoulders felt lighter than they had for years. Pastors would tell me Anna was in a better place. I might not be able to subscribe to that, but better must equate to the living hell she’d been in.
I no longer needed to worry about Anna, and that’s something I hadn’t been able to say for a very long time.
When I’d married Anna, we were young, starry-eyed, and thought everything was in front of us. Then I found my future, the club, and Anna rebelled. It was then I realised her dreams weren’t mine. I could never become a nine-to-five office worker. I was a rebel, a biker at heart. I’d tried to make things work, tried to keep our lives separate, fuck knows there were enough examples around us, bikers with a civilian wife who they kept on the outside. Admittedly so they could enjoy the sweet butts and sex with no one turning an eye. That wasn’t my reason. I didn’t fool around on Anna, or not until she was unable to give me what I needed anymore.
Had I been an idiot to think if she wasn’t ill, she’d still be mine? What would that look like? If someone had poured a bucket of cold water over me, I couldn’t have been more shocked to find my thoughts had evolved. Anna and I could never have made it long term. If she hadn’t become ill, there was no way in heaven or hell that we’d be together now. The club, to me, was everything.
Clarity suddenly hit. My guilt that I’d forsaken her due to the illness she couldn’t control evaporated at the realisation I’d given her everything I could—a supportive husband and a comfortable life when hers went so rapidly downhill. I hadn’t washed my hands of her, had tried to enrich her existence, had given her every comfort I could. Even if the cause of her illness had been my fault, it was over now, any debt to her repaid.
With that gone, I was consumed with thoughts about Jasmine. However much I tried to get her out of my mind, it killed me to think I’d pushed her away. I couldn’t take comfort in the thought that if I couldn’t find her, then no one else could. I was unable to listen to the sensible voice that tried to convince me the anonymity that stopped me from finding her would mean she was safe from anyone else. That book played on my mind. If what she’d written was true, she was in deep trouble, though she might not realise it.
I’d move heaven and earth to help her.
The brothers gave me space, but they couldn’t tell it wasn’t grief I was feeling but despondency and helplessness.
Avoiding the house, I took up residence in the club, feeling Jasmine’s ghost everywhere. I wanted her so much. I thought I was going out of my mind. Someone can’t just disappear, can they? Instead of accepting the inevitable that I wouldn’t find Jasmine if she didn’t want to be found, I sank deeper and deeper into despair.
It was two more days before Data burst into my office.
I sit up fast, reading the expression on his face. “You’ve got news?”
He sinks down into the chair opposite my desk. “We’ve all been fuckin’ idiots. You included.” At his accusation, I clench my fist.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
His eyes roll. “We don’t know where she is now, but we do know where she’ll be in three weeks.”
My brain’s gone blank. I don’t have a fucking clue what he’s suggesting. “Spit it out, Brother.” I’m losing patience.
Data grins, his cheeks pulling back, his lips curling, showing his teeth. “At the book signing. Motorcycles, Mobsters and Mayhem.”
My brow rises.
“I left my search of J Frobisher going and came up with gold. Jasmine’s on the list of attending authors.”
I’ve heard of that event before. “Isn’t that the signing where StoryTeller’s woman picked up a book that started their relationship? The one that saved her from a bullet?”
“Sure was.” Data agrees. “It’s a big signing. Must be a big deal for Jasmine to be invited to it.”
Jasmine. My Jasmine. I knew she was talented from reading just that one book. For a moment, I allow myself to feel pride at how successful she is. But then, I consider the more important issue. This might be the break we were waiting for, but I refuse to get my hopes up. “How do you know she’s still going?”
Data’s grin widens impossibly. He thumps his hand down on my desk. “Because she’s fucking asked StoryTeller’s woman to go with her to help. And StoryTeller will be there because he’s not going to let his eight-month pregnant ol’ lady be anywhere without him.”
My eyes widen. “You’re telling me that…” I pause, casting my mind back, trying to remember the name of StoryTeller’s girl. “Sheri, isn’t it?” At Data’s up and down movement of his head, I carry on, “That Sheri knows where she is?”
He holds up his hand. “Whoa there, Prez. I spoke with StoryTeller. His ol’ lady doesn’t have an address?—”
In exasperation, I shake my head. “A number then. She must be in touch with her somehow.”
“She has her number but doesn’t want to betray a confidence.”
My fist bangs down on the desk. “StoryTeller should get her under control and beat it out of her. I need that number. It’s fuckin’ bro code, not hos.” I punctuate my words by repeating the action of my hand hitting wood.
Data rolls his eyes. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you were married.”
“Low fuckin’ blow and too fuckin’ soon,” I snarl at him. But he does make me think. Yeah, in the early days, I picked battles carefully with my wife, soon learning like any husband, you didn’t demand. You asked. Marriage was about give and take. But fuck it, StoryTeller should know where his loyalty lies.
Data lifts and lowers one shoulder. “Sorry, Prez.” He doesn’t sound particularly contrite. “Look, it’s not an immediate matter of life or death. If I can’t find her, it’s a good bet that no one else can. If there is a risk, then it will be when she comes out of hiding to go to that book event.”
It’s not what I want to hear. I’m not a patient man. While I trust Data, I can’t prevent the doubt curling inside me, souring my stomach that he might be wrong. What if that fucking husband of hers knows more than we think he does? What if we’re sitting here twiddling our thumbs, waiting for her to turn up at the signing, but she never comes?
A large part of me wants to go to Arizona and shake the details out of StoryTeller’s wife. She couldn’t blame her husband if I was the one to do it, could she? On the other hand, that would get me a well-earned beatdown from her man, and maybe even Chaz, the prez of that club.
I finally settle for the one thing I can do. “Get back in touch with ST,” I demand. “Tell him to make sure Sheri keeps in touch with Jasmine. The second she thinks something’s not right, all bets are off.”
Sensing the meeting is over, Data stands, a flick of his hand letting me know he’s going to comply.