Chapter 17
Skye
I have to help them stop Bill. But how can I do this without hurting my mom or revealing who I really am?
“How do we stop them?” I ask, hoping my men have the answer.
“I say we kill Bill Anderson,” Angel snarls.
I’m alarmed by this suggestion. As much as I hate Bill and what he’s done, I can’t condone outright murder, and I know that it would hurt my mom immensely. I couldn’t do that to her. It’s going to kill her as it is once she finds out what Bill’s done.
“Murder is a capital offense in Texas, and even if you didn’t get the death penalty none of you are going to jail for life for that scumbag,” I snap. “There’s no way you could kill him and get away with it.”
“She’s right,” Buzz agrees.
“I could do it, jail isn’t so bad. Three square meals a day, time alone, a warm bed, daily exercise,” Gunner says, his tone casual enough that I wonder if he’s actually being serious.
“Yeah, until someone touches you and you freak the fuck out and get put in solitary,” Drifter chips in. Clearly, he likes this plan as little as I do.
We continue back and forth like this for hours, anxiously awaiting news. Angel finally agrees to send other men out in search of information about the Demon Riders and Bill while we wait. At one point, we have lunch, soggy sandwiches from the hospital café that none of us can stomach.
Eventually, a doctor comes in, his face somber. We all stop talking, abruptly standing up and looking at him anxiously awaiting the news he’s come with.
“Is he out of surgery?” Buzz asks.
“Is he going to live?” Drifter adds.
“You might want to sit back down,” the doctor replies, his tone sympathetic yet calm and authoritative.
“We’re fine standing,” Angel replies bluntly.
“There’s no way to sugarcoat this,” the doctor says, “I’m afraid the bleeding on his brain was too severe. I’m sorry, we did everything we could, but Mr. Nelson died in theater.”
We all stare at him in silent horror as his words sink in.
“If you like, you can go and say your goodbyes,” he finishes.
“He’s dead?” I ask, choking up as my eyes well with tears.
“I’m afraid so. Does he have any family?”
“We’re the only family he’s got,” Angel says, then adds, “We were the only family.”
“Do you know what Mr. Nelson’s wishes were?” the doctor asks.
“He was dying, and he knew he didn’t have long. I don’t know about stuff like organ donation, he never spoke about it,” Drifter adds.
“Take us to him,” Angel says, his voice level but I can tell inside he’s hurting.
The doctor nods and leads the way, I hesitate, unsure of what to do but Drifter reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it tightly and pulling me along with them.
Inside the hospital room, Brewer looks smaller yet peaceful. His face slack and his eyes closed.
“I’ll give you a moment,” the doctor says, leaving and closing the door quietly behind him.
We all know Brewer can’t hear us, that he’s already gone, but we say our goodbyes anyway. The guys don’t say much, all of them are too upset and don’t want to show their emotions, so they keep things brief.
“Goodbye, old friend,” Angel says, speaking first, “We’ll make them pay for this.”
“We’ll miss you, Brewer,” Buzz adds.
“Enjoy riding and fucking hot chicks in hell, we’ll see you there someday,” Drifter says, as always hiding his emotions with humor.
We look to Gunner, but he just shakes his head.
They look expectantly at me, so I decide to say something too. “I didn’t know you very well, Brewer. I wish I had more time with you, you were an amazing guy and I’m sorry this happened. We won’t forget you. Say hi to my dad when you see him.”
We stand in silence for a moment before Angel speaks, “I’ll go get the doctor,” he says with a sniff before striding out, perhaps not wanting us to see his heartbreak.
Drifter has seemed on edge the whole time we’ve been here, they all have. But he’s kept it together until now.
“Fuck! I can’t do this!” he exclaims, his voice panicked, and his breathing becomes faster as he struggles to catch his breath. “I have to go.”
He strides out of the room and, after exchanging a look with Gunner and Buzz, I chase after him. When I finally catch up to him, he’s hyperventilating outside in the parking lot.
“Breathe, just breathe, it’s okay, I’m here. It’s just a panic attack,” I say soothingly, stroking his arm in comfort.
Slowly, he regains his composure, and his breathing settles a little. “I have to get out of here,” he says as he puts on his helmet, “I just need to ride,” he explains.
“Okay, but I’m coming with you.”
He looks as though he’s about to argue against it, but I insist. “I’m not letting you ride off alone.”
He nods and we get on the bike, riding away from the hospital. We ride around for a long time in silence with no destination in mind. The open road and concentrating on nothing but riding soothes us both. When we eventually head for the clubhouse, it’s already getting dark. After the long ride, some of the tension is gone from his shoulders. We head inside through the side door, avoiding the now busy bar, neither of us wants to see anyone right now. Drifter heads straight to the office and I hesitate at the door, not sure if he wants to be alone right now or not. The others are still out, and I don’t know what to do.
“You can come in,” he says, pouring us both a large glass of whiskey before handing one to me and sitting down on the couch, wearily putting his face in his hands.
I sit next to him, gently placing a hand on his back, unsure of what to say.
“I fucking hate hospitals,” he says, his voice almost childlike as he takes a big gulp of his whiskey.
“I know, it’s horrible, having to see Brewer like that,” I reply sadly.
“No, it’s not that. I mean, obviously, that fucking sucks, but…” Drifter says, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing, “I spent a lot of time in the hospital when I was younger, and going there reminds me of that.”
“Were you sick?” I ask.
He shakes his head, “You’ve probably noticed my scars, even under the tattoo you can see them.”
“The phoenix?”
He nods, “Yep. I didn’t get it just to cover my scars, I got it because those scars are burns. I knew I’d always have them, and I wanted a reminder that like a phoenix, I can rise from the flames.”
“What happened?” I ask gently.
“I was twelve. My parents were both junkies, Heroin. Each time I’d get taken into care or run away, they’d clean up their act and I’d be sent back. But they always started using again,” he says, his face sad as he recalls his childhood. “One night, I’d gone to bed and they’d stayed up getting high and smoking. I woke up in agonizing pain, everything was on fire, including me. It was the worst pain you could ever imagine, I could feel my skin melting, and see the flames engulfing my room, there was nothing I could do except wait to die.” He pauses for a moment, his face twisted in pain at the memory.
“I woke up again weeks later in the hospital. Firefighters managed to rescue me. It turned out that my mom and dad had woken up when the fire started and got out, but they were so high they forgot about me. They didn’t even call the fire department. It was a neighbor who did, and who told them I was still inside, so they’d come in to rescue me,” he says bitterly. “I was in hospital for months recovering. When I was released, they put me into care. My foster parents were sadists who got off on bullying kids. I ran away not long after that and traveled south. I was homeless for a long time. A lot of other people on the streets got into drugs but I never did. Eventually, I ended up in Texas and met the Angels of Havoc. They took me in and for the first time, I finally had a real home, a family.”
“Drifter, I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for him.
“It’s in the past,” he says, “But every time I go near a hospital it all comes flooding back. I tried to keep it together to be there for Brewer, but it all got to be too much.”
“You were there for him. He knows that wherever he is now,” I reply.
He pulls me into an embrace so I’m sitting on his lap with my legs to one side, hugging me tightly.
“Don’t hurt us, Skye,” he says, his voice small.
“I won’t,” I reply but I know that’s a lie, that if they find out Bill is my stepfather they will be.
I want to tell him everything, but I can’t. Not now. So instead, I push down my guilt and shame and do the one thing I know will make us both forget everything. I kiss him.