Chapter 7 Whiz
WHIZ
“You need to go home.”
Pastor’s voice startles me, and I whirl around to see him standing a few feet away, a somber expression on his face. As the club chaplain, he has a quiet way about him, and at the moment, I hate him for it.
“I’ll go home when he goes home,” I snap, nodding to the cooler where Undertaker’s body has been for a week now.
“Everyone’s worried about you,” he says, his gaze dropping to the half-empty bottle of liquor in my hand. “You haven’t set foot outside this place since we got back from the run.”
That’s not entirely true. I had to leave the day after we returned to get more booze.
Fortunately, I thought ahead and bought a case of Jack Daniels as well as four bottles of a locally made whiskey that Undertaker favored.
Granted, I haven’t left since then, but it’s not like telling him that will make anyone worry any less.
“I’m fine,” I finally say before taking a long swig of the amber liquid.
Pastor closes the distance between us and rests a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not fine. None of us are, which is why you should be at the clubhouse. We all need to be together.”
White-hot rage burns me from the inside out. “Together? We were all together when Undertaker died, and it didn’t make a fucking bit of difference, did it?”
He sighs, dropping his arm. “No, it didn’t, but it can make a difference now.”
“Will me coming home bring him back? Will it turn back the clock?”
“No,” he admits. “But neither will staying here.”
“Maybe not, but at least he’s not alone.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I finish off the bottle before tossing it into the trash where it clinks with the other empties. “You can go.”
“I can’t. I’ve got orders to bring you back to the clubhouse one way or another.” Pastor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a syringe. “Don’t make me use this.”
I scoff. “I’d like to see you try.” I’ve got a few inches and pounds on my brother, and there’s no way I’m letting him get that thing anywhere near me.
With lightning-quick speed, he reaches out to wrap an arm around my neck and puts me in a headlock. I struggle, but my movements are sluggish and uncoordinated.
Fucking booze.
My head spins, and my stomach rolls, but I continue to try and get free.
Pastor removes the cap with his teeth and spits it out and then he stabs the needle into my arm.
He depresses the plunger, and cold spreads through my veins.
Only seconds pass before my legs give out, and he slowly lowers me to the floor.
“Sorry, Whiz,” he whispers as I fight consciousness. “Had to be done.”
“What the fuck did you give me?”
My voice is raw as I come to, and the lingering fog in my head makes everything feel a few seconds off, like there’s a permanent echo surrounding me. I open my eyes fully, and the clubhouse ceiling comes into focus above me. It’s familiar but… wrong.
I bolt upright, and the room tilts, but I push through to find my equilibrium.
“Take it easy,” Sawbone says as he tries to push me back down.
“Don’t fucking tell me to take it easy,” I snap, glaring at him. “Answer the goddamn question.”
“Sedative,” Pastor replies from somewhere beyond Sawbone.
“You’ll be fine,” the club doc says calmly. “You’re already pushing through it.”
Pastor pushes past Sawbone and stares down at me. “He’s right, you’ll be fine. But you wouldn’t have been if you’d been allowed to remain at Death’s Door.”
Anger, sharp and insistent cuts through the haze of the lingering sedative. “You drugged me.”
“Yeah,” he says without any hint of apology. “You refused to leave Undertaker the easy way….” Pastor shrugs as he lets his words trail off.
My jaw tightens, as does my chest with the reminder of our fallen brother. “I didn’t need to leave.”
“For a week?” Zombie cuts in, stepping up next to Pastor, and his voice is rougher than usual, like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
“You’ve been standing vigil over him, refusing to sleep or eat anything worth a damn, all while drowning yourself in booze.
Fucking hell, you looked like it wouldn’t take more than a feather to make you snap. ”
“I was fine,” I retort, the lie tasting like acid on my tongue.
“No, you weren’t,” Quake says flatly as he pushes his way through the others to get closer, his arms crossed over his bulky chest. “You were parked in that room like your presence would change things.”
“Nothing is going to bring Undertaker back,” Pastor adds, and he speaks so softly that I almost don’t hear him.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, shoving to my feet and silently praying I keep my balance. “You don’t get to tell me how to deal with…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat and blink back tears. “With losing my brother.”
“No,” Lyric says from the doorway, and I turn to face him. “But I do, especially when the way you’re dealing is affecting the club.”
That shuts me up, and I collapse back onto the couch.
Lyric crosses the room, eyes locked on me as the others give him space without having been asked. “You’ve been out of commission for a week,” he continues. “And that’s on me. I let it ride because I thought it would help you, I thought you just needed time. But time’s up.”
I huff out a breath, dragging a hand down my face, the last of the sedation wearing off as the pressure builds in my chest. “So you have Pastor drug me and haul me back here?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I’ll remind you that you had another option. You chose not to take it.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I ask, glancing around at the other brothers in the room.
Each of them meet my gaze as they remain silent. I want to yell at them, spew my rage until there’s nothing left. I want to demand that they leave me alone, that they would be handling Undertaker’s death the same way I am if they’d been…
Fuck. If they’d been responsible for it.
“We’ve got bigger problems,” Lyric says, his tone demanding my focus return to him. “That ambush wasn’t random. Whoever was behind it knew the route. Their timing was too perfect.”
“The timing was perfect, but the execution sucked ass,” Quake adds. “Which means they either underestimated us or are lacking in experience.”
“Or both,” Zombie mutters. “Not that it matters. They still took one of ours.”
His words are like a punch to the solar plexus, landing heavily with a weight I can’t shake.
“They’ll show themselves,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “People like that always do.”
“And when they do, we need to be ready,” Pastor adds.
A few seconds pass before Lyric speaks, his eyes trained on me. “Death’s Door reopens tomorrow when Undertaker’s replacement starts.”
Every inch of me freezes, even my heart for a couple of beats. “You’re replacing him?”
Not that he can ever be replaced.
“I had to,” he says. “We can’t leave Death’s Door sitting.”
I exhale slowly, trying to wrap my head around that. Someone new stepping into that place. Into his space. “And you’re sure they can handle it?”
“She said she could,” Lyric replies with a shrug. “That’s good enough for now.”
“She?” I ask, sure I heard him wrong.
“Yes, she,” Zombie confirms. “Which means you need to get your shit together.”
I shoot him a look, but he only holds my stare, silently daring me to argue.
Joke’s on him. I don’t have it in me to argue. This is all too much.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more: them or me.
“You’re not,” he replies quietly. “But you will be. Starting now.”
“Church is in an hour,” Lyric says, driving the conversation in a different direction.
I scowl. “I’m going back to Death’s Door.”
“No, you’re not.” His gaze locks on mine, not giving an inch. “You’re staying here.”
“I’m goi—”
“You’re staying,” he barks, his tone final.
“We’re going to have church so we can go over the ambush and decide how to move forward.
You’re not only a patched member, but you’re also an officer, which means you will be in that room.
” His expression softens but only a tiny bit.
“If you want to go back to Death’s Door, you can go with me tomorrow when I meet the new chick. ”
Silence stretches between us. Lyric isn’t asking, he’s ordering, and I know better than to push him on this despite every inch of my being wants to.
“Fine,” I say grudgingly.
Lyric nods once, already turning away. “Good. One hour.”
He strides out of the room, and the rest of them follow. I’m left standing in the quiet with nothing but the voice in my head reminding me that I’m the one to blame.
Undertaker died on my watch.
The world lost a good man on my watch.
My brothers are grieving because of what happened on my watch.
The world got a lot darker…
… on my fucking watch.