Property of Doc (Kings of Anarchy MC: West Texas #4)

Prologue

Gretchen, age fifteen

“Of course, it would be raining today,” I grumbled as I made my way out to the starting line for the meet.

The slippery tarmac would make running a lot harder, although part of the cross-country course was in the woods.

Still, slick leaves and mud meant falling was a possibility.

I was grateful I had new cleats, broken in enough to run, of course, because I knew I was giving myself the best opportunity to stay upright since the spikes were still relatively new.

When the air gun went off, I started running, now focused on my race. Not the rain, or the other runners surrounding me. I wasn’t being vain, I knew I was good and if I placed well today, not only would it help my team, but also put me on target to go to state to represent my school.

At first, it wasn’t too bad because the fine, drizzly mist kept me cool.

Thankfully, having my hair in braids kept it from falling in my face.

I just had to keep the rest of me from falling.

Not because I would get muddy, which was not a big deal, but because there was always the chance of hurting myself.

My coach yelled out my time after the first circuit of the course, and I smiled through my measured breaths.

I had been systematically passing other runners, completely zoned in on the pack of four who were in front of me.

Just two more laps to go and I’d be done and at the speed I was currently running, I’d probably get a personal record and place in the top three.

“You can do this,” I muttered as I ran into the woods again, now in third position since one of the other runners had slipped and fallen. “Just stay in the middle of the path and watch out for standing puddles.”

It happened when I was closing in on the finish line, solidly in first place. I felt a pop in my knee then searing pain that sent me falling into a slick, muddy pile right in front of me. “Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered through the agony coursing through my body. “Get up, Gretch, you can do it.”

I got up, the pain causing me to cry out and started to hobble toward the finish line.

I would finish this race! I had worked too hard not to do so.

Back down I went but I kept trying, my tears now hidden beneath the mud and muck.

As I stepped across the finish line, barely ahead of my competitors, the world went black.

“She’s got a torn ACL as well as a severe meniscus strain.

It’s actually pretty close to a tear as well, and we won’t know if she suffered a tibia break until the swelling goes down,” the man in the white coat said to my parents.

He was the doctor treating me, but I was so overwhelmed and overstimulated that I didn’t hear his name.

“We’re scheduling her for surgery in the morning. ”

“Can she… can she have anything for pain?” my mom asked, wringing her hands together. “She’s been crying almost hysterically since we got her here. She says it feels like knives are stabbing her.”

“I’ll put some orders in for some pain relief,” the doctor advised. “One of the nurses is also going to come in and help get her showered since she’s covered head to toe in mud.”

“I can help her,” my mom insisted.

“They’ll probably need your assistance, ma’am.”

Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

There was no more pain, no more throbbing, no more stabbing. Whatever the nurse put in my IV was phenomenal. I felt like I could get up and race again!

“That’s just the drugs talking,” the nurse said, which let me know I had spoken out loud.

“So, no racing for me, huh?” I questioned, grinning at her. I felt all swirly and floaty and my leg didn’t hurt at all.

“Nope,” she replied as she went about checking my vitals and straightening my blankets. “Now, you’re NPO after midnight, which simply means that you can’t have anything to eat or drink when the clock strikes twelve.”

“Why not?” This was the first time I ever had surgery, so I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

“Because you’ll be given anesthesia, which will put you to sleep, and we don’t want you to aspirate due to having food or liquid in your stomach,” she explained.

“That makes sense, I don’t think I’d want to be sick while I was asleep,” I murmured.

My mom and a nurse’s aide came in and helped me shower once I woke up again. Another aide changed my sheets since they were covered in mud, sticks, and detritus from constantly falling.

The pain was back, and I cried out as they helped me back into bed. “Mom, it hurts,” I sobbed as she started brushing out my hair.

“I know, baby, hold on, I’m sure the nurse will get you some more pain medication. I’m going to braid your hair again so it’s easier for you to deal with after surgery,” she replied, looking at the nurse.

“I think it’s about time she had some more,” the nurse advised. “I’ll go check her chart and be back in a few minutes.”

The throbbing was back, along with those knives that felt like they were shearing the skin and muscles from my bones.

By the time the nurse returned, I was sobbing hysterically.

She injected something into my IV and within a few seconds, I felt a cooling sensation hit my arm and slowly, the pain receded once again.

At least my hair is braided, I thought to myself as I slipped beneath the drug-induced haze that was wrapping itself around me.

Gretchen, age seventeen

My descent into addiction was slow and insidious.

I was someone who only took a daily multivitamin and the occasional Tylenol.

Suddenly, I was given strong pain medication to deal with my injuries, and after having three surgeries total for the torn ACL, I had become an old pro at how to get what I wanted—the good stuff.

I was on my latest physical therapy rotation and today’s session had been brutal as my therapist had gone through another assessment to see where my progress was at.

Newsflash, it was better but not where she wanted it to be.

“It hurts, Mom,” I snapped as I hobbled with my crutches toward my bedroom. “You know how physical therapy makes it worse!”

“But, Gretchen, the doctor said you shouldn’t need anything more than Tylenol by now. Maybe there’s something else going on,” Mom replied, wringing her hands. “I’ll go call his office.”

“You do that,” I grumbled as I made my way into my room.

Once I was on my bed, I grabbed one of my pillows and slid it under my knee.

So, maybe sometimes I wasn’t in as much pain as I alluded to, but the blissful feeling was addictive.

The problem was, my knee specialist wasn’t prescribing ‘the good stuff’ any longer, just Tylenol with codeine.

In order to make sure I still had some of the better meds, occasionally I would lie about my pain levels.

Ten minutes later, Mom came into my room, a worried frown on her face. “He’s ordering some more imaging tests, Gretchen, to see what’s going on,” she said.

“What do I do until that appointment?” I snarled, because today, unfortunately, I was in pain.

“He’s going to call in some Oxycontin and wants you to take Advil as well for the inflammation,” she replied. “Let me get it for you.”

“Fine,” I said, tears springing to my eyes.

She sighed then softly stated, “Let me see if we have anything left from one of the surgeries. I’ve already texted your dad to swing by the pharmacy to pick up your prescription on his way home from work.”

I perked up slightly but not too much, of course, then said, “I guess that’ll have to do, Mom. I should’ve never run that race.”

She nodded. “You and those other girls who got hurt are all still having issues.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Gretchen, age eighteen

“Clear!”

I was floating above my body, watching somewhat dispassionately as several paramedics worked on me. I had just seen my body jump after paddles had been placed against my chest and a button was pushed.

“Anything?” my mom asked as she stood off to the side. “God, Gretchen, what did you do?”

“I’ve got a pulse, quick now, we need to get her to the hospital,” one of the paramedics said.

I came to in the ambulance. Things were still a bit fuzzy, and when I tried to pull the mask off my face to ask what was going on, I found that my hands were restrained.

What on earth is going on? I wondered. I mean, all I had done when I got home from school was take a couple of pills to get me through the day.

I had tried to parcel out what I was given after my surgeries, and made them last a long time, but I eventually ran out.

Thankfully, my mom never threw anything out and I found a bottle of hydrocodone in her medicine cabinet.

Since it took more to get that blissful, euphoric feeling, I took three of them, not paying attention to the dose.

Apparently, it was more than I was supposed to take.

“Your daughter has become addicted to pain pills,” the doctor told my parents. “How long has she been taking them?”

“Nearly three years, on and off,” Mom replied. “But only when she had to have surgery,” she quickly added. “And I always monitored when she took them.”

I barely resisted rolling my eyes. She did that the first few days, but after that, the bottle was on my nightstand ‘within easy reach’ because she was tired of getting up in the middle of the night.

Don’t get me wrong, she was a good mom, but when she was sleep-deprived, that was a different story.

“Our suggestion is that she go to rehab,” the doctor advised.

And just like that, I was off to Starlight Recovery Center to start my medically supervised detox, before I went into the residential side for further treatment.