Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Slayer
Splicer is here unbinding me since my ribs are less achy than they’ve been through the week and I’m able to move without moaning and groaning.
The medic moves with clinical efficiency, his face a mask of concentration as he unwinds the heavy-duty athletic tape that has been my secondary skin for the last seven days.
Every tug of the adhesive against my bruised flesh is a biting reminder of the price I paid for my lapse in judgment.
I grind my teeth, refusing to let so much as a grunt escape, even as the air finally hits the yellowing and purple wreckage of my torso.
“You’re lucky nothing snapped,” Splicer mutters, his fingers probing the tender area along my lower ribcage.
“A few more degrees of force from Icer and you'd be looking at a punctured lung instead of just a hell of a lot of hematomas.” I look away, focusing on the drab walls of the clubhouse infirmary, the weight of the silence outside the door pressing in on me.
LoneStar told me Jersey called, sounding like she was at the end of her rope, and the guilt of that is heavier than the physical damage Splicer is currently prodding.
I wanted to shield them from the reality of what I suffered, but in doing so, I’ve left them in a different kind of hell.
As the last of the tape falls away, I take my first full breath in days—it’s shallow and hitches with a dull throb, but it’s progress.
I need to get back on my feet. I need to prove to my brother that his Bubba is still standing, and I need to see if the woman who shared my morning on the porch is still waiting for the man beneath the bruises.
I wouldn’t necessarily call this lucky, but I’m not in the mood to lay down my poor me act at Splicer’s feet. “And that’s the silver-lining,” I harrumph. “Gotta go, unless you need me for something else.”
“Nah, you’re good. From my understanding, you’ve got a helluva lot to answer for,” he says, smirking at me.
“That I do,” I muse, not looking forward to paying a different sort of penance with Jersey and Boston.
I ease my shirt over my head with calculated care, the fabric snagging against the patches of skin where the tape once clung.
Each motion feels like a high-stakes gamble against the white-hot agony radiating from my ribs.
I toss a final nod toward Splicer as he begins the methodical ritual of cleaning his gear.
We both know the score, the physical remnant is a cake walk compared to the debris I’ve likely littered Jersey’s trailer with.
Leaving the sick bay, the stagnant air of the hallway hits my sensitive skin like a physical strike.
I brace myself against the wood for a heartbeat, eyes squeezed shut as I force my lungs to find a steady rhythm.
I refuse to walk through Jersey’s door looking like a man one breath away from death.
I have to find that steel resolve again—be the VP, the Bubba, the man they’re all relying on, even if I’m currently held together by nothing but grit and spit.
LoneStar’s warning about Jersey’s frantic voice is a relentless drumbeat in my skull, a reminder that the silence I used as a shield to protect them from what I agreed to, to the price I paid for going against my own rules, has been hard on her for the last seven days.
“Shut your wallowing, Slayer,” I berate myself. “You sound like a broken record with all of your whining. Man the fuck up.”
The trek to the clubhouse exit feels like it stretches for miles, longer than the throttle-heavy ride I took to get to Boston.
Riptide is loitering near the bar, his gaze tracking me with a lethal mix of grim satisfaction and localized concern.
No words are needed, the air is finally clear, the ledger balanced in blood—mine.
I shove the heavy doors open and step into the blinding afternoon sun, the heat reflecting off the gravel.
Across the lot, Jersey’s trailer stares at me, calling me.
I suck in a deep, agonizing breath, lock my knees, and begin the walk toward the woman who’s come to mean a lot to me.
It takes me longer to reach her porch, and I use the siding of her house to help balance me as I lift my feet. “Jesus fuck,” I hiss as I reach the top and wrap my arm around my torso. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Boston must’ve heard me struggling and bitching because the door flies open and he leaps into my arms. The sudden weight is a shock to my system, a brutal collision of love and agony that nearly sends me over the railing.
I stagger, my teeth gritted so hard I’m surprised they don’t shatter, but I catch him, planting my feet as he buries his face in my neck.
“Bubba! You’re alright?” he cries, his voice thick with the fear he’s been carrying from my absence.
I catch his weight and pull him in, completely ignoring the searing fire that erupts through my torso as my mangled ribs howl in agony at the impact.
He carries the scent of Jersey’s house, fresh laundry, a grounding mix that finally settles the static in my head.
Looking past him, I see Jersey framed by the doorway, her small stature bathed in the trailer’s soft light.
Her face is a mess of relief and a mounting fury that tells me my reckoning with her is only just beginning.
“I’m good, Bubs,” I murmur, lying through my teeth while I hold him tight, the physical wreck of my body a cheap cost for the calm finally settling over him. I can feel the frantic thud of his heart against my battered chest, making me feel like an utter asshole.
A woman’s voice, sharp with sassy attitude, slices through the yard. “Where the hell have you been, Slayer?”
I lift my head slow, catching her eyes with a look that’s probably too heavy with the affection I’m still trying to find a place for. “Hey there, Jersey girl,” I rasp, my tone sounding like I've been swallowing gravel.
“Don’t you dare ‘hey there’ me, Slayer,” she snaps, her voice vibrating with unshed anger.
“I want an answer.” A tired but real grin tugs at my mouth when I see her standing there, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed to slits, refusing to give an inch.
I’m not sure where she dug up this fire, this need to call me on my shit, but I’m damn glad she found it.
When I open my mouth, she holds out her hand and warns, “Do not tell me it’s club business.
We should’ve at least been told that you weren’t found lying in a ditch… dead!”
“Not dead,” I mumble, though the way my ribs are screaming at me, I’m not entirely sure that’s a state I’ll be maintaining for long.
“I can see that for myself, asshole.” My eyes widen in shock at her.
I can’t believe she called me that, she never uses words in vain when it comes to another person, unless it’s her folks.
I’ve heard her call them some unsavory things when she and Britton get going, but to have that aimed at me? It’s unexpected.
She’s vibrating with a righteous fury that makes her look twice her size.
Her hands are curled into fists at her sides, and the dawning trust I saw on the porch that morning has been replaced by a wall of hurt.
Behind her, Carolina is hovering, her eyes wide and lips trembling as she watches the confrontation.
I’ve managed to do the one thing I promised I wouldn’t—I’ve brought the instability of my world into the one safe place they had.
“I had to handle it, Jersey,” I say, trying to find a voice that doesn’t sound like I’m one breath away from collapsing.
Every word feels like it’s scraping against broken glass in my throat.
I shift my weight, and the movement is a mistake; a fresh wave of agony rolls through me, making the world tilt on its axis.
My vision swims, the edges turning a fuzzy gray as I clutch the porch railing with a white-knuckled grip just to keep myself upright.
“You’re hurt,” she gasps, her hands flying to her face and covering her mouth, her previous fury evaporating into a cloud of unadulterated terror. She moves toward me, her eyes frantically scanning the way I’m hunched over, tracking the stiffness in my movements that I can’t quite hide.
“Been better, but it’s not too bad,” I state, forcing the lie through clenched teeth even as my ribs scream in protest. I slowly release Boston, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before ushering him toward Carolina.
The two of them watch us with wide, worried eyes.
I make my way closer to Jersey, every step agonizing, but she needs me as much as I need her.
“I’ve been recovering, baby. It’s the only reason I haven’t been in touch. I didn’t want you seeing me like this.”
“What happened?” she asks, her voice trembling as she reaches out for me.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead gently wrapping her arms around my waist as she walks me through the door.
She guides me over to her recliner, her small hands providing a surprising amount of leverage, and helps me slowly lower myself into the cushions.
The relief of sitting is nearly enough to make me pass out, but I keep my eyes on her, knowing that the physical pain is nothing compared to the explanation due to her.
“Can’t talk about it, but know it was necessary,” I inform her as I settle in.
“Necessary,” she whispers, tears forming in her eyes. She scoffs and pivots on her feet, marching into the kitchen, mumbling about ‘club business’ and ‘neanderthals’ underneath her breath. “Have you taken anything for the pain?”
I can hear the cabinets slamming in the kitchen, sounding like small explosions in the quiet trailer.
Boston and Carolina are huddled on the sofa, their eyes darting between me and the kitchen, clearly unsettled by the storm brewing between us.
I offer them a weak, reassuring thumbs up, but my focus remains on Jersey’s anger, I can see it in the way her shoulders are hunched and her movements are too deliberate that her feelings far exceed that emotion.
She’s terrified for me, and the fact that I can’t, or won’t, tell her exactly what happened is just adding fuel to the fire.
“Yes,” I answer, even though it was over the counter and is barely touching the pain. Nevertheless, I did take something and am not due for another dose for another two and a half hours from now.