Chapter 8 Lyric
LYRIC
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jenkins. We did everything we could.”
I stare at the blood-soaked floor under the hospital bed in my dad’s room, unable to look at his still form. My brain tries to refute the doctor’s words despite the evidence right in front of me.
Rowdy’s gone.
My fucking dad is dead.
Suddenly, my knees buckle, and I drop to the floor, ignoring the pain as I hit the hard surface. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional agony threatening to consume me.
“Mr. Jenkins, let me help you.”
I shake off the nurse's hand, and she stumbles from the force, but I don’t have it in me to be sorry or to care. Stupidly, I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
It just got so much fucking worse.
I woke up yesterday morning thinking it would be the best day of my life. How the fuck did I go from that to this in just twenty-four hours?
“Is there anyone I can call for you?” the nurse who I practically pushed away from me asks.
Mellie’s name is on the tip of my tongue, which only amplifies the ache in my chest.
How am I supposed to tell her about this?
She might not remember Rowdy, but she loved him immensely, and this will break her when her memory returns.
“Sir?” the nurse prods.
“They’re all downstairs,” I say numbly.
“Ah, that crowd belongs to you?” I nod. “Well, is there anyone in particular I can go ask to come join you here?”
I shake my head. “Just, uh…” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Can you just send them to my fiancée’s room?”
“And who’s your fiancée?”
“Mellie Kensington. She’s in room—”
“Ah, yes, I know where she is. She’s our amnesia patient,” she states. “I’ll let them know that two of them can join you there. They’ll have to take turns as we don’t want to overstimulate her.”
“Good to know hospital gossip is alive and well,” I mutter.
The nurse tsks at me before turning and vacating my dad’s room. Shaking off my ire at her, I rise to my feet and face the doctor who remains.
“How did he die?” I ask, my voice rough.
“As I said before, we were taking him off the ventilator.” At my look of confusion, he explains. “We were extubating him, and he began vomiting blood. He aspirated, which filled his lungs with fluid. I’m certain an autopsy ca—”
“No autopsy,” I snap. “No one is fucking cutting him up.”
“It’s hospital policy when a patient dies, and the—”
Grabbing him by the lapels of his white coat, hauling him to his tiptoes. “I don’t give a shit if God himself orders it. If anyone cuts him open, I’ll do the same to them. Understand?”
“Y-yes.”
I shove him away. “Good. Someone will be by to collect his body. I assume he’ll be moved to the morgue shortly?” I ask, pulling my cell from my pocket.
He nods, and I shoot off a quick text to Undertaker, a brother who runs Death’s Door, the club owned funeral home.
Me: Body pick up at the hospital morgue
Almost immediately, three dots bounce on the screen, so I watch for the reply.
Undertaker: On my way… anything I should know?
Me: It’s Rowdy
Undertaker: Fuck
I return my cell to my pocket and glare at the doctor. “He better be in the morgue within the hour, unless you want my guy to carry his corpse out of here over his shoulder.”
With that, I spare my dad one last glance before storming out of the room and down the hall to the bank of elevators. My emotions are all over the place, and I know I need to get myself in check before returning to Mellie’s room, so I press the button for the first floor.
Heading outside, I walk across the parking lot to where my Harley is parked and hop on. I shoot off a quick text to Zombie to let him know that I’m taking a short ride to clear my head and order him to remain with my fiancée.
Without waiting for a reply, I rev the engine and tear out of the lot like a man possessed.