Chapter 8
WREN
Slow breaths.
One in. One out.
That’s all I can do as I listen to these bikers fight.
“You ever wonder what King will do if anything happens to Wren?” Grudge shouts. “He was clear that somewhere between him and Saint and Spark that they’d fucking ex-communicate us all. Permanently.”
And there it is. His fear isn’t for me, for what I might be going through. It’s purely selfish.
“What the fuck is going to happen here, two weeks before Christmas, in the one part of the state that doesn’t get snow plowed unless we do it?” Catfish asks. There’s a real shift in his demeanor. I’ve only really seen the laid-back, slightly irritating version of him.
At first, Catfish seemed a little indifferent to Atom’s warning. He led us back to the stables, helping me off Blaze, then handed Blaze off to a stable hand that Atom had assigned to take care of his horse.
On the way over here, he was even telling me bits and pieces about the ranch, Atom’s family, and how Catfish came to own Blaze. Apparently, he’d been the first horse born after Catfish had become a patched-in member, and Catfish had paid his entire first paycheck as a down payment.
He seemed utterly unconcerned with what would follow once we got inside, like it would be of no consequence.
But I can see other bikers muttering to each other and casting looks my way, none of which are supportive. At best, they might be suspicious. At worst, they see me as a problem. One that could get them in trouble with King.
Catfish, on the other hand, has… God, I don’t even know how to describe it. He’s gone from a puppy to a lion. Suddenly, he’s lost the louche stance and looks at least four inches taller.
His shoulders have lost the subtle curve, pulled back in a way that shows me I underestimated his real size.
Like Clark Kent becoming Superman, he’s gone from someone I would tease and irritate to someone I wouldn’t want to fuck with.
Now, in the clubhouse, with the heavy scent of an open wood-burning fire that’s too hot and too smokey, and an escalated level of shouting that’s taken my heart rate back to a faster pace than Blaze’s strides, I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
Again.
My palms are clammy, and I wipe them on the side of my jeans. The coffee I tried to drink earlier is acrid as it settles in my belly. My breath is coming fast, and the world starts to flicker a little.
Grudge steps into Catfish’s space. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. We have to think about what King is—”
“No,” Catfish says, and there’s a level of menace in his tone I haven’t heard before. “Wren’s a fucking person. We can’t keep them locked up above the bakery.”
I’m watching a car wreck in slow motion. They’re two juggernauts that are going to collide. I can sense the shift of energy in the air.
“We’ll do whatever we have to do to keep them safe,” Grudge says. “And earn our money. Nothing can put that at risk. For the good of the club.”
“I already found two thirds of your money,” I say, but Grudge ignores me.
“The good of the club is fucking trusting one another to do the right thing,” Catfish says. “The good of the club is uniting us so we’re all on the same team to make enough coin that we need no one—not even the national president—to survive.”
Grudge steps even closer, and his hand goes up. I don’t know what makes me jump from my seat, land between them, and shove Grudge away as hard as I can, but I can feel the leather of his cut beneath my palms before I can process what I’m doing.
Which turns out to be not much given he’s twice my size in every way. He barely moves.
“Keep your hands off him,” I yell. My voice ricochets around the clubhouse in the brutal silence that follows.
Sweat gathers beneath my binder, running down my chest. I can’t catch my breath.
Grudge looks furious. Catfish stunned.
People I don’t know are staring at me like I just committed the most cardinal of sins.
I just attacked the president of the Iron Outlaws. He’s so much taller than me. Bigger even than Catfish, which is saying something.
“Fuck me. I wasn’t going to hit him, Wren,” Grudge says.
Tears sting my eyes, and I hate it. To me, crying represents fragility.
“It’s okay,” Catfish reassures, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing it gently.
I shake his hand off. Not because I don’t want it there, but I don’t need him acknowledging my weakness.
Stars begin to sparkle in the corners of my vision, and a weirdly metallic taste coats my tongue.
“Catfish—” I reach out my hand. To him, for the stool, I don’t know.
And it’s the last thought I have before I hit the ground.
“We need to get this off them so they can breathe,” a feminine voice says as the world comes back online.
“Wait.” The voice is Catfish.
I flutter my eyes open, and I’m in bed.
A strange one.
And I have no concept of how long I’ve been out. The woman standing over me has white-blonde hair in a fishtail braid that hangs over her shoulder. She looks older than me and is focused on Catfish.
There’s a warm sensation by my knee, and I can see Catfish is squeezing it. “Welcome back, Wren.”
That is enough to motivate me to try to sit. But as soon as I go to take the weight in my arms, they collapse, and I end up on my back again.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“My room at the clubhouse,” Catfish says.
I suck in a breath. Then another. The pressure on my chest feels as though a truck is sitting on it.
“Wren, I’m Greer. I’m Butcher’s old lady, and I’m also a qualified doctor. I use she/her pronouns.”
I glance up at her and try to quell the shakes that are convulsing through my body. But finding myself at the mercy of a medical practitioner only makes it worse.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to scramble away and failing.
Greer takes a step back from me. “Is me being here uncomfortable for you?”
“Yes,” I say, the word shooting from my mouth.
“Would you be okay articulating why?” Greer asks. “If there’s something I can do to make this easier for you, I’ll do it.”
There’s worry in the lines on Catfish’s forehead, and a buzz of anger that a doctor looked at me while I was unable to consent. “I don’t have a good history with doctors.”
Greer’s shoulders drop. “Medical negligence?”
I nod.
“Then I understand why my presence must be very stressful and difficult for you.”
She takes a quiet breath, instead of launching into a tirade to defend herself, which catches me off guard. I’m ready to fight and argue.
“If it helps, I can vouch for Greer,” Catfish says. “She’s looked after most of us at some point.”
“I’m here because Catfish clearly cares about making sure that you’re okay.” Her voice is soft, but professional. “I run a small, mobile clinic with outreach to vulnerable communities. Let me help you. Please.”
For reasons I can’t explain, I find myself capitulating. Maybe it’s the outreach she does, or the fact she’s not connected to some fancy doctor’s office with fancier prices.
“Fine,” I say.
“I feel like we should take this chest binder off so you can catch your breath, but I know that can cause dysphoria. Do I have your permission to help you remove it?”
I place my hand over my chest. “It’s not causing…this.”
Greer nods. “I know. But it is restrictive. And given how you feel right now, less pressure on your chest might be helpful.”
She’s probably right.
I glance to Catfish, uncertain how I feel about him seeing me without it.
“I’ll give you two a minute.” Catfish releases my knee and moves to a large dresser to the right of the door. He opens the third drawer and pulls out a clean black hoodie, neatly folded. “Put this on so you feel more comfortable. Tell me when I can come back in, Doc.”
“I will, if Wren decides that’s what they want.”
In spite of all the panic I feel right now, my heart rebels at the idea I might choose to not have him near me.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly. The words are still a little breathless. “For the ride. For seeing Blaze.” I gesture in a circle around my head and body. “Contrary to all this, I really enjoyed it.”
The worry and tension in the lines of his face relent, for a moment. “I’m glad. I’ll be outside.”
Greer waits until Catfish closes the door behind him.
“I need to sit up,” I say.
“Okay.” Greer leans in and helps me sit, then move my legs to the edge of the bed. It’s then I notice she has a small baby bump that she rubs gently. “Do you feel up to telling me what happened?”
“Probably just a panic attack,” I say as the two of us wrestle my binder off. Quickly, I tug the hoodie over my head. It’s soft. Warm. And smells just like Catfish does when he’s showered.
“High compression?” Greer asks.
I nod. My chest isn’t naturally small. And the high compression is the tightest I can get to flatten it. “But I’ve only had it on for a few hours today.”
I don’t mention that I wore it for nearly double the suggested eight hours every day this week.
“Contrary to popular opinion, panic attacks don’t cause you to pass out. Maybe hyperventilation would. Are you on any new medication?”
I shake my head.
“Do you take testosterone?”
I look at Greer. “That’s kind of personal.”
“In exceptionally rare cases, testosterone injections have been linked to pulmonary oil micro embolism, which can be fatal. And side effects are trouble breathing, sudden chest pain, dizziness. And even fainting.”
The distrust I have for the medical profession overwhelms me. I wrap my arms around myself. “Look, I’ve seen doctors like you. You want to know all the details just to stretch those billable hours, but then you don’t help. So, while I appreciate you coming, I—”
“Wren. You’re safe.”
Those two words again. Safety is more than not being killed. Safe is finding someone to trust with your whole heart. Safe is a place, a home, that carries mostly good memories. Safe is feeling affirmed by friends as you are, with space held for who you need to become.
You’re safe.
Words I wish were true. I saw the way Grudge…
I feel dizzy again. My head is shoved between my knees before I even realize I feel faint again.
“Stay there and listen to me,” Greer says.
“There’s no charge for me being here. Not a cent.
I was in the clubhouse because this was once my soon-to-be-husband’s club.
He was president, before Grudge. I came into this world by choice.
I saw you go down. I’m asking the questions because I have to rule everything out, make sure that it’s nothing more serious.
But, if I was guessing, you just had a panic attack, on top of an anxiety attack. ”
“There’s a difference?” I ask. My words are muffled.
“Anxiety attacks are slower to build. They range from mild to severe. Symptoms become more intense over time because they can last months. And it starts to feel impossible to climb down out of them. Panic attacks come on fast. They’re severe and come without any clear warning.
But the symptoms peak and subside fast.”
When the world stops spinning, I lift my head, and there’s a glass of water being offered to me.
I take it and sip it. “No. I’m not on testosterone.
I think I might want to be on a low dose.
But the doctor I went to see a few years ago refused to write me a script for it.
I think I want top surgery too.” I place my hands over my chest. “But I don’t have the right support structure for recovery. ”
“If you need help with deciding any of that, or funding any of that, come see me. I run a truly not-for-profit medical clinic. You want a serious conversation about testosterone and surgery, I will have it with you and will help you navigate the path to both things happening. And there’s room at my place if you want to come stay with me after you have surgery.
I used to be a surgeon, a fucking good one, so I’d really be able to help after. Not just as a friend, but medically.”
I look up at Greer and realize she’s been nothing but kind, direct, and respectful. There’s a flicker of hope in my chest. It’s unfamiliar. But if Greer is genuine, then maybe she can help make things happen for me. “Thank you.”
“Now, I’m gonna ask some really personal questions.”
The small laugh I offer is packed with sarcasm. “Like the questions you were asking weren’t?”
Greer shakes her head. “Are you being coerced or forced to do anything you don’t want to by the men out there?”
“Is this like the motorcycle club version of Ask Angela?” I ask.
“You know, we could debate whether that response was sarcastic or sardonic all day. But I’m offering you an out. If you don’t want to be here, I will walk you out with me right now, and Butcher will help me make it happen.”
“He won’t go against his men.”
Greer smiles. “For me, for you, he would. Plus, he and King are old friends. We’d figure it out. But if simply being here is causing you so much distress, I—”
“I’m not distressed,” I say. But even as I speak the words, I know there’s a hint of desperation in them. I meet Greer’s measured gaze. “Fine. I’m distressed. But it’s not because of the club. Getting outside, on the horse, it was the first time I’d felt…normal…in a really long time.”
“Then I’ll work on that for you. Leave it with me.”